Years ago I had a speaking engagement at a restaurant near Albany, NY. I had noticed the young waiter had been listening as I spoke. Later, he approached me and asked, "How is it you can stand here and tell your story?" He was very gracious and genuinely sincere.
How could I tell my story? Recently I had read the prologue of Marie Monville's book One Light Still Shines. Mrs. Monville is the former wife of the gentleman who carried out the Nickel Mines Amish school shootings in Pennsylvania in 2006. In her book she writes. "...for the first time I understood that the hunger of those interested in hearing my story was not really about me...it was the experience of loss or pain or mystery in the lives of my listeners. Their lives were also filled with sudden storms and dark places. What they were searching for within my story was the secret to navigating through their own darkness."
I cannot put into words as well as Mrs. Monville for the reason I share my story, and those future, of how I navigated through the darkness in my own life.
One such darkness was Christmas in 1958 - one I shall never forget.
It was around December 12th when my adoptive dad began to act strange. How do I remember the date? It was his birthday. Dad's personality was much like mine (or the other way around). He had a sense of humor and loved to have fun. Dad had been employed at the Art and Bronze in Danville in the early years of my life. He'd bring home those little heavy metal pigs from which he had formed of molten lead, whatever the element. You've seen the kind: piggy banks assembled from two matching sides.
When Dad wasn't working he loved to hunt and fish. He also enjoyed the art of wrapping fishing rods with various brightly colored thread. He had some sort of gadget for which he turned the rod as he held the thread. I remember watching him do this in the living room of our home on Avenue E. Later, with the advent of black and white television, Dad loved to watch what I called "the Friday night fights." From the edge of his chair, I can still hear him shouting at Jersey Joe Walcott or Rocky Marciano: "Give 'em an uppercut!"
At Christmas time, he loved to gather princess and trailing pine on Bald Top Mountain. The farm up there had been our first home and later belonged to my uncle Raym and his family. Dad assembled Christmas wreaths with the greenery and sold them to friends and family. (here I am with Dad on Bald Top, 1943)
Christmas, when I was a pre-schooler, meant that Santa would arrive by airplane at the Riverside Airport. My sister, as I recall, had gotten over the whooping cough in time for Dad and Mom to take us to the airport to see Santa. We came home with a big orange and an oversized coloring book, Twas The Night Before Christmas by Clement Moore, and a box of crayons.
Christmas, when I was a pre-schooler, meant that Santa would arrive by airplane at the Riverside Airport. My sister, as I recall, had gotten over the whooping cough in time for Dad and Mom to take us to the airport to see Santa. We came home with a big orange and an oversized coloring book, Twas The Night Before Christmas by Clement Moore, and a box of crayons.
I have many happy memories of those Christmas's when I was small. However, this particular Christmas in 1958 was not so fun. I could not understand my dad's peculiar behavior.
It all began when, for weeks following that early December in 1958, Dad and Mom would be in the cellar of our home talking for long periods of time. I never knew what the discussion was about, but I knew it had some driving force that caused my dad's irrational behavior.
After some weeks, Dad no longer spent those hours in the cellar, but his mental state worsened. Red-faced, he would rant in nonsensical outbursts then, just as quickly, return to some state of normalcy. Sometimes he verbalized extreme foul language for which, aside from cursing, I'd never heard come from his lips.
As a 17 year old I didn't understand his craziness but I can tell you that our place was a hell-hole. Weeks stretched into months. One day Dad brought a bottle of acid home from work. He threatened to throw it in my mom's face. This went on for a time and we didn't sleep at night. People who lose their minds do not sleep and night times become nightmares. Dad would walk around the house in the dark. Fear was a constant companion and Mom began to sleep with my sister. Needless-to-say, my grades failed my senior year of high school.
For weeks Dad threatened to hang himself and, after a time, he had ropes in the cellar for which he threatened to hang all of us. Those scenes run very vividly in my mind to this day.
One day when I walked into the house after school Mom met me at the door. She yelled, "Your Daddy almost strangled me today. He had me down on the couch. I was able to break free and ran to Mrs. Stahl's." (our neighbor). Most striking as I listened to Mom was the fact that, to the best of my knowledge, she was never in Mrs. Stahl's upstairs. Dad had the cunning ability to turn off his red-faced ill-crazed behavior whenever someone outside of our family entered the picture. Thus, the episode ended at that point. I was devastated as Mom told me what had happened.
Family members were aware of our situation, but they had no idea how insane things really were at our house. They just said, "Call if you need us." Thus, one time during a rampage I ran to Mrs. Stahl's to call an aunt and uncle. They came to the house, but Dad had turned things off and, thus, they left without incident.
In those days, these were "things people didn't talk about" so my friends knew little of our situation. One of them questioned why my dad couldn't pick us up after work and I said simply, "He's sick."
Somehow I had sensed that the answer to Dad's problem had something to do with God. But I didn't know much about Jesus, nor how to give Him to my family.
One day I picked up our mail. It was customary for us kids to read the mail as there was never anything personal about any of it. As I walked home from the post office, I read a letter that was addressed to Dad. I didn't know the writer, but he was talking about Jesus and I concluded that this might help my dad. When I got home I was eager to give it to him and said something like "Here Dad, you should read this." But Dad scoffed and turned it away. I was deeply disappointed.
We tried to think of various things that might get help for our family, but none of them were feasible. I said to Mom, "Why don't we call our local policeman?" But Mom said, "No, he'd kill him." And I knew she was right.
One day, while working at my part time job at our local hospital, I saw the brain surgeon in line to get his lunch. I had been in the dining room and saw him. I wanted, in the worse way, to speak with Dr. Hood but at age 17 speaking with a Doctor about one's personal life wasn't something you did. I let the chance go by.
My aunt Mary and uncle David were very close to our home and our lives. One day Aunt Mary visited as she had nearly daily. It always seemed that Dad could hold out only a short time before the pressure burst. My Aunt left, but watched through a window. She witnessed, from our porch, my Dad's dam of emotions erupt. Though she never doubted our claims about Dad's behavior, she now saw it for real. Uncle David succeeded in getting Dad to Doctor Curry's office, but as soon as the Doctor began to examine him, Dad jumped from the table and ran outside.
There were no answers.
Sunday night, April 5th, 1959 I returned from the roller skating rink. As soon as I got in the door, I knew things were bad. In fear, I remember standing on the heat register. I was seeking warmth and security when I suddenly remembered "It's April. The heat isn't on."
The following morning was a bright and beautiful sunny day. My sister and I were in bed and it wasn't yet time for us to get ready for school. But I shall never forget my mom's squalls as she climbed the steps from the cellar. "He hung himself in the cellar, he hung himself in the cellar." I was on my feet before I was awake. I will never forget that moment.
We all screamed as we phoned Aunt Mary and Uncle Dave. I can tell you that amid the screaming a relief swept over me that felt like the most gigantic black cloud one could ever know. The first thing my aunt asked, "Was it just him?" I said, "Yes," and sensed her enormous relief. They were at our door in what seemed like a mere five minutes.
That day I opened The Morning News to read the obituaries. Dad's read: "Joseph F. Stetler, 41, Riverside, Pa."
We were late getting to the funeral home that night of the viewing. I remember Mom let us wear our short furry white coats she had gotten us for Easter. She worried that they were white and, in those days, it was common to wear black. But I loved my white coat so no matter.
As we pulled into a parking space I saw a group of my high school classmates just leaving the funeral home. I was relieved that I didn't have to face them under the circumstances. They couldn't know what our lives had been like those final days of my high school years. Suicide brings such shame. Since no one knows the circumstances, too often, they come up with their own conclusions. It happened in our lives, but we never let it get to us because we knew the story from the beginning to the end and there was never anything for which it was necessary to feel any guilt.
We left home for six months and lived with my uncle David and aunt Mary for a time. It was very hard to know that Mom would eventually have to face the cellar again, and so would my sister and I. In the fall of that year we were living in an apartment adjacent to a bar which had an unkempt garbage area. The rooms on the second floor above my aunt and uncle became available and we rented that part of the upstairs. It seems that a rat had found its way through a hole underneath a kitchen curtain. We had discovered that it was eating potato chips left in a bowl on the kitchen table. In the night we could hear it thudding around and, even though it was only a rodent, we didn't need a rat at that time in our lives. We had left the bedroom to sleep in the living room which had a door.
Then Mom said, "Should we go back home?" We said, "Yes!" Mrs. Stahl was there to greet us with "Oh Grace, I'm so glad you've come back home." It was one of the happiest days of my life.
And I know now that God had sent us a rat!
It all began when, for weeks following that early December in 1958, Dad and Mom would be in the cellar of our home talking for long periods of time. I never knew what the discussion was about, but I knew it had some driving force that caused my dad's irrational behavior.
After some weeks, Dad no longer spent those hours in the cellar, but his mental state worsened. Red-faced, he would rant in nonsensical outbursts then, just as quickly, return to some state of normalcy. Sometimes he verbalized extreme foul language for which, aside from cursing, I'd never heard come from his lips.
As a 17 year old I didn't understand his craziness but I can tell you that our place was a hell-hole. Weeks stretched into months. One day Dad brought a bottle of acid home from work. He threatened to throw it in my mom's face. This went on for a time and we didn't sleep at night. People who lose their minds do not sleep and night times become nightmares. Dad would walk around the house in the dark. Fear was a constant companion and Mom began to sleep with my sister. Needless-to-say, my grades failed my senior year of high school.
For weeks Dad threatened to hang himself and, after a time, he had ropes in the cellar for which he threatened to hang all of us. Those scenes run very vividly in my mind to this day.
One day when I walked into the house after school Mom met me at the door. She yelled, "Your Daddy almost strangled me today. He had me down on the couch. I was able to break free and ran to Mrs. Stahl's." (our neighbor). Most striking as I listened to Mom was the fact that, to the best of my knowledge, she was never in Mrs. Stahl's upstairs. Dad had the cunning ability to turn off his red-faced ill-crazed behavior whenever someone outside of our family entered the picture. Thus, the episode ended at that point. I was devastated as Mom told me what had happened.
Family members were aware of our situation, but they had no idea how insane things really were at our house. They just said, "Call if you need us." Thus, one time during a rampage I ran to Mrs. Stahl's to call an aunt and uncle. They came to the house, but Dad had turned things off and, thus, they left without incident.
In those days, these were "things people didn't talk about" so my friends knew little of our situation. One of them questioned why my dad couldn't pick us up after work and I said simply, "He's sick."
Somehow I had sensed that the answer to Dad's problem had something to do with God. But I didn't know much about Jesus, nor how to give Him to my family.
One day I picked up our mail. It was customary for us kids to read the mail as there was never anything personal about any of it. As I walked home from the post office, I read a letter that was addressed to Dad. I didn't know the writer, but he was talking about Jesus and I concluded that this might help my dad. When I got home I was eager to give it to him and said something like "Here Dad, you should read this." But Dad scoffed and turned it away. I was deeply disappointed.
We tried to think of various things that might get help for our family, but none of them were feasible. I said to Mom, "Why don't we call our local policeman?" But Mom said, "No, he'd kill him." And I knew she was right.
One day, while working at my part time job at our local hospital, I saw the brain surgeon in line to get his lunch. I had been in the dining room and saw him. I wanted, in the worse way, to speak with Dr. Hood but at age 17 speaking with a Doctor about one's personal life wasn't something you did. I let the chance go by.
My aunt Mary and uncle David were very close to our home and our lives. One day Aunt Mary visited as she had nearly daily. It always seemed that Dad could hold out only a short time before the pressure burst. My Aunt left, but watched through a window. She witnessed, from our porch, my Dad's dam of emotions erupt. Though she never doubted our claims about Dad's behavior, she now saw it for real. Uncle David succeeded in getting Dad to Doctor Curry's office, but as soon as the Doctor began to examine him, Dad jumped from the table and ran outside.
There were no answers.
Sunday night, April 5th, 1959 I returned from the roller skating rink. As soon as I got in the door, I knew things were bad. In fear, I remember standing on the heat register. I was seeking warmth and security when I suddenly remembered "It's April. The heat isn't on."
The following morning was a bright and beautiful sunny day. My sister and I were in bed and it wasn't yet time for us to get ready for school. But I shall never forget my mom's squalls as she climbed the steps from the cellar. "He hung himself in the cellar, he hung himself in the cellar." I was on my feet before I was awake. I will never forget that moment.
We all screamed as we phoned Aunt Mary and Uncle Dave. I can tell you that amid the screaming a relief swept over me that felt like the most gigantic black cloud one could ever know. The first thing my aunt asked, "Was it just him?" I said, "Yes," and sensed her enormous relief. They were at our door in what seemed like a mere five minutes.
That day I opened The Morning News to read the obituaries. Dad's read: "Joseph F. Stetler, 41, Riverside, Pa."
We were late getting to the funeral home that night of the viewing. I remember Mom let us wear our short furry white coats she had gotten us for Easter. She worried that they were white and, in those days, it was common to wear black. But I loved my white coat so no matter.
As we pulled into a parking space I saw a group of my high school classmates just leaving the funeral home. I was relieved that I didn't have to face them under the circumstances. They couldn't know what our lives had been like those final days of my high school years. Suicide brings such shame. Since no one knows the circumstances, too often, they come up with their own conclusions. It happened in our lives, but we never let it get to us because we knew the story from the beginning to the end and there was never anything for which it was necessary to feel any guilt.
We left home for six months and lived with my uncle David and aunt Mary for a time. It was very hard to know that Mom would eventually have to face the cellar again, and so would my sister and I. In the fall of that year we were living in an apartment adjacent to a bar which had an unkempt garbage area. The rooms on the second floor above my aunt and uncle became available and we rented that part of the upstairs. It seems that a rat had found its way through a hole underneath a kitchen curtain. We had discovered that it was eating potato chips left in a bowl on the kitchen table. In the night we could hear it thudding around and, even though it was only a rodent, we didn't need a rat at that time in our lives. We had left the bedroom to sleep in the living room which had a door.
Then Mom said, "Should we go back home?" We said, "Yes!" Mrs. Stahl was there to greet us with "Oh Grace, I'm so glad you've come back home." It was one of the happiest days of my life.
And I know now that God had sent us a rat!
