The Christmas we went into hiding I covered our
tree with four-inch stockings. I can no longer remember how many there were, but
I remember knitting them. And I remember the constant feelings of terror. And
the pain.
That Christmas was a season of threes. For three
months my infant son and I hid in a small apartment from the man bent on killing
us while my husband went to work during the day at his job as an IRS Criminal
Investigator. Our pursuer, a man my husband investigated as part of his job, had
hired two hit men to murder us yet he still walked the streets of Portland a free man. Looking
for us.
I visited three doctors over a three week period
hoping to find out the cause of the intense pain in my back. All three doctors came
to the conclusion that nothing was wrong with me. I sneaked a peek at one chart
when the doctor left the room, "Mrs. Taylor says she's in
pain," he had written, "but she doesn't act like it."
No one believed me. I would get no help.
Nights I slept on the floor with my feet elevated
onto the bed, trying in vain to relieve my intense back pain. The throbbing
pain plus the fear that one of the hit-men would find and kill us kept me
awake.
My husband slept with a loaded gun on the bed
beside him.
Christmas approached. Because we had fled our home five
minutes after becoming aware of the danger, we had nothing. Not even extra
underwear. We had no ornaments for the tree my husband managed to bring in, little money to purchase
decorations, and we had been instructed not to leave the house unless
absolutely necessary.
So most days, I sat on the couch with my toddler
playing at my feet and knitted ornaments while I battled terror and pain.
Then came another onslaught of three. The results
of a medical test informed me I could bear no more children. I sobbed for days.
My fifteen-month-old locked himself in the bathroom
and I fought a new fear while waiting for firemen to rush over. I experienced
momentary comfort when, lights flashing, they managed to extricate him safely. Yet
the terror stayed with me. What would happen next? Would my family survive?
My pain grew unendurable. I made an appointment with
a chiropractor. The next afternoon, feeling sick and dizzy, I drove down an
unfamiliar street in Portland’s
heavy traffic so ill I could barely think. After getting lost once, I located
the doctor’s office, managed to park, and carried my suddenly uncharacteristically-difficult
son inside. I checked in at the receptionist’s desk before dragging Ty with me to
the bathroom. As soon as I sat down, a wave of pain washed over me and I held
onto the sink to keep from passing out.
Cessation of pain came suddenly and unexpectedly,
but as soon as I saw the tiny precious balloon floating in the water grief
twisted my heart. I had miscarried.
Death was stalking us!
It had ripped my unborn child from my womb. Evil
men bent on our destruction searched for us. Would I lose my husband and son?
My own life? Terror paralyzed me.
Finally, I knelt at the couch and cried desperately
for the LORD to give
me reassurance and comfort. I begged for a promise. Too distraught to know what
else to do, I opened my Bible and pointed at random. My finger fell on the
Apostle Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 1:2,3. “For we were so utterly burdened
beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt that we
had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on
ourselves but on God who raises the dead. He delivered us from such a deadly
peril, and he will deliver us” (ESV, italics mine)
My fear evaporated as I read those words and realized
God had spoken directly to me though his Word. Me! Suddenly I could view our
circumstances through God’s eyes. For the first time my son and I could play in front of the tree enjoying the fragrance of pine, the lights and the hand knit stockings. God had saved us miraculously from the first
attempt on our lives and would continue to do so. Even the miscarriage, though
tragic, proved doctors wrong and gave us hope. I could get pregnant again. As a
matter of fact, by the following March I was pregnant with my second child.
In January, the men pursuing us were arrested, both
hit-men testified against the main perpetrator at the trial and he went to
prison. A final satisfying three.
