Perils of a Poultry Princess

 I don’t know if it was Clint or I that saw her first…we were driving in separate vehicles home from Tara and Trevor’s soccer games. Why we were in separate vehicles is something else I don’t know, but we were talking to each other on our cell phones. Clint and Trevor were in his truck in front of Tara and I. I’m sure our cell phone conversation was one of two things. 1) hey, Lichea, I’ll check chickens cause I’ve got to go check the cows anyway OR 2)  hey, Lichea, you need to check chickens cause I’ve got to check the cows. We have this conversation a lot on the weekends.

  She was striding in a purposeful way, this attractive blonde woman about my age along the highway toward our house. Her head was high, her chin was up. It was warm that Saturday in October and her hair was damp with sweat.

  At the same time, Clint and I exclaimed to each other that I needed to check on her, possibly pick her up and get her where she needed to go. I mentioned better me than some man with bad intentions.

  I slowed and pulled up beside her and rolled down the window. “Honey, do you need help?” I asked. “Can I take you somewhere?” She yanked the door open and jumped in the back seat after looking Tara and I over. Tara was about 9 and sat silently in the front seat.

  The lady was crying in great gasps and hitches. She stammered out a story of her abusive husband leaving with the only vehicle and no money and no phone. He had just moved her down to this area and she knew no one. She had left her 11 year old and 8 year old sons at home because she knew where she had to walk…and it was so far. She feared the boys couldn’t make the 10 mile trek to the abusive husband’s parent’s home down the long dirt road. Her face was bruised and her lip was healing from where he had hit her when he had left the 3 days earlier. I watched her in the rear view mirror as I drove, glancing from her to the road…her tears, her bruises, how she was shaking and scared. Tara fished a napkin out of the center console, from a ridiculously cheerful fast food place and handed it to her. She sobbed into it as I drove and told me the name of her inlaws.

   I knew exactly where she needed to go and called Clint and told him where I was taking her and that I’d fill him in on the details later. So we drove toward her inlaw’s house. I asked her what her plan was and it was basically to load up the 2 boys (they were from a previous relationship) and go back to northwest Arkansas where her family was from. She had met her husband at church up there, where he told her of his past drug issues and assured her he was now clean. She fell in love with him, married.. and the first year was fine. Then…he picked up the drugs again one day out of the blue and became an abusive, violent monster.  What’s sad is… I knew her husband…and had thought him a good boy and remember being stunned when I found out he was on drugs right after high school. He got into some trouble, but I had heard he was straightening his life out.

  This story spilled out of her and I let her talk, seeing Tara out of the corner of my eye look toward me in shock. She had never heard anything like this in her life. The hitchhiker told of shame and humiliation in facing her family, who had warned her of his issues. He had moved her down here to get away from her family, like abusive men do….take away the support system for her.

  At some point she said “do you pick up hitchhikers a lot? it’s not safe, you know.” I told her how Clint and I both saw her and both felt God wanted me to pick her up, that there was no danger. I also told her that I worried more about her on that highway than myself, this beautiful, vulnerable woman with no phone and no weapon, that I couldn’t have rested until I knew she was safe.  

  I drove the hitchhiker down the long dirt road. She exclaimed three or four times she hadn’t realized how far down this road they lived. What was she thinking, she said.. leaving her boys at home and trying to walk all this way?

  Before she got out of the car, I turned around and we grasped hands. We were all crying, Tara included. I said “Honey, do you need money?” She smiled. “No, I just need to get home.” I looked her in her eyes. I said “My husband’s name is Clinton Bottoms. It’s in the phone book. Clinton Bottoms. You call me. I will come to you where ever you are and help you. Say it back.” “Clinton Bottoms” she said. “thank you. Tell your husband thank you.” She patted Tara’s arm from the back seat.

  She got out and I waited until someone came to the door. I watched her embrace her husband’s mother. I knew she would be fine and so, backed slowly out.

  Tara and I drove in silence for a moment and then Tara asked a few questions and we talked about abusive, controlling men. How they charm and smile and weasel. How they remove the woman from her family, her friends, her job, making her solely dependent on him. I warned her what drugs or alcohol will do to a person, make them violent and angry and full of hate.  

  When I got home, I told Clint what had happened and over then next few days I’d just blurt out to him “I pray she’s ok.” “Honey, you’ve got to quit worrying about her.” he would say. “you did all you could.”

    Several months later, I was having a very bad day. See…and I don’t know how to say this…but I have people in my life that I have to deal with that…well…apparently…HATE me. I mean HATE me. They tell people that don’t know me that I’m a flirt, that I’m a bad mother…that I’m not a good wife. Even though there is no evidence to any of this, and none of it is based in any reality at all… these few people seem to enjoy causing pain and hurt to other people. I had been dealing with this on a level that had become unbearable. Every day seemed to be another person telling me that these people were saying ugly things about me…even at my church, which should have been my sanctuary. I had cried most of that day and felt at a loss at what to do.

  I went to the post office that cold, wet day and got the mail. I carried it back to the Expedition and went through it.

  A letter addressed to “Clinton Bottoms Family” caught my eye. It was marked all over the front of it, obviously sent to the wrong place and returned to sender…then another address written underneath that. I didn’t recognize the name written in the upper left hand corner.

  I opened it and found a beautiful thank you card. On the inside was written this:

                                 thank you for picking me up and taking me to safety.

                                  I was praying to God He would send me a good Christian

                                  woman to drive me to where I needed to go. I am fine and

                                  so are the boys. Thank you for listening to God.

I read it over and over. I called Clint and said “I just got a thank you note from the hitchhiker!” he knew exactly who I was talking about. My heart sang with the words she wrote. I realized I had been basing my opinion of myself on the very few, very bitter, very angry, very un-Christlike  people who seemed to not get along with anybody INSTEAD  of basing my opinion of myself on God and the people who love me implicitly. How sad! I had allowed these people to separate me from my support system, to make me feel alone with no one to reach out to. They had abused me with words and lies and just when I thought I couldn’t bear it anymore, her card pulled me from the depths.

  I went home and wrote a letter and sent it to the address on the card. I told her I had thought and prayed every day for her and that I would love to see her again.

      I never heard back, but something tells me she’s ok.

What I want to say to her is….maybe I stopped and drove her to safety…maybe Clint and I listened to God and reached out to her…but, really and truly…that day, a blonde was striding away from pain and anger…trusting no one…so much doubt and abuse and fear…and it was SHE  who picked ME up.