Sample Stories for Women

“ My daughter drove furiously up a mountain freeway
in a rainstorm. Her vehicle hydroplaned and flipped upside down, along with my world as I knew it.
Carl and I inched our way to the hospital, driving through gushing steams of water. I was numbed by the news of Jennifer’s accident. Carl was silent. We knew no details, only that Jennifer had been airlifted to a trauma center twenty miles away.
My heart cried out, Please, Lord, don't let my daughter die with a wall between us.
For the past year, Jen had been on a mad dash from her problems. With her marriage unraveling, her natural spunk turned every family gathering into a sparring match. Outwardly she seemed shockproof, in complete control, but inside Jennifer was still a fragile young girl with broken dreams, aching for the father who had abandoned his family years ago. I tried to mend the wounds in her life with a mother's counsel and correction, but my unwelcome words only made her more defensive.
She hadn't spoken to me in more than two months.
At the hospital, the neurosurgeon grimly said, “Surprisingly, she has only a few broken ribs, but she does have a serious head injury.” She was in "bad shape." His dismayed look said it all. He didn’t think she would make it.
So this is where the rubber meets the road when it comes to faith, Lord?
When we entered the hospital chapel, we found her husband, Steve. “We had a terrible fight last night, and I said some awful things.” He spoke the words--his face filled with pain.
As I sobbed, Romans 8:28 came to mind: "All things work together for good....” How many times had I spouted that verse to someone in crisis? Did I really believe it now?
All things? Even tragic car accidents?
Then it hit me. Fretting would not change the outcome. Panicking would do no good. If I trusted God, as I claimed I did, I must cast all doubts aside. My daughter's life was in God’s hands. My heart breaking, I told God, I trust You, no matter what. I’ll praise You, no matter what. That was the toughest thing I ever promised to do.
Jen lay in a coma, her swollen, shaved head hooked to tubes, wires, and pressure monitors. Machines blipped and beeped while nurses worked frantically to keep her blood pressure stable. If not, death could steal her at any moment. And even if she did survive, brain damage was likely.
God, give me Your perspective on this. My spiritual eyes are too blurry. I looked up and saw Jenny, so peaceful, so beautiful. God seemed to be restoring her soul while she slept.
A voice pulled me from my thoughts. "How's my girl?" a young hospital technician asked.
"I was at the accident scene with this little lady,” Phillip then told me.
He'd been heading down the mountain when he saw a massive crash ahead and a tiny dot catapult from the sun roof of a car; it was Jennifer, whose body crash-landed on the freeway just inches from her mangled vehicle.
"It took me three, four minutes to get there,” Phillip explained. “I was late to work, but something told me I had to stop.” He saw the highway patrol officer cover Jen’s curled, lifeless body with a yellow slicker. Turning to call the coroner, the officer waved Phillip away. “She's not going to make it.” But Phillip shot back, "I won't believe that!"
Trained as a Navy field medic, he went to work on my daughter. Finally, she gasped a breath. But it wouldn’t be enough. Her only hope was in the rescue helicopter that hovered in the sky, unable to land because of the fierce rain and wind that battered the roadway. Just then another car pulled up, an off-duty EMT who had seen the commotion. He just happened to have a respirator in his car.
Minutes later, the storm quieted, and the helicopter landed.
I imagined an image of Jesus darting to catch Jennifer, His body cushioning her against a deadly fall that could have broken her body. I envisioned the Savior prompting Phillip to stop, directing the scene, clearing the raging skies for the circling helicopter.
Then I knew what it meant to have a peace that passes all understanding.
According to the doctor's charts, Jennifer's condition was not a hopeful one. It didn't matter. God works from His own heavenly charts.
Carl and I arrived for church early the next day to update our pastor on Jen’s condition. God reached down and hugged us through the arms of the congregation. When I opened the bulletin I shook my head in disbelief: The title of the sermon was “God’s Purpose for My Problems,” the message being that how we respond to problems reveals what we believe about God.
All we could do was pray and wait. But I had a silent hopefulness that had no earthly explanation, and all my friends asked me, “Are you in shock?”
God was at work, and I was in awe of what He would do next.
A few days later my former husband, whom we hadn't seen in seven years, showed up at the hospital. Taking one look at his Jennifer on a breathing machine, he hung his head. "Can we talk somewhere?"
I sat facing the man who'd ripped my heart out, who'd turned his back on his young children.
"If I hadn't walked out on you," he said, "none of this would have happened. She’s just like me, reckless and immature, running away from herself. I'm sorry I messed up our marriage, Jan. You were a good wife. None of this would be happening if I hadn’t left you. Will you forgive me?”
How I’d dreamt of hearing those very words, but now thinking, his concern comes awfully late. I wanted to launch into a full report, make sure he knew all the details of the struggles we’d had because of his selfish choices, how his daughters were forever scarred, but those words wouldn’t come out. All I could manage to utter was, "I forgave you long ago." and we wept together.
As God's grace poured over me, the last remnants of my own pain melted away
I couldn’t sleep that night; my emotions shifted like a flag tossed in the wind. I’d wanted my daughters to be restored to their father, but now I was troubled by it. Jennifer was just beginning to bond with my husband, Carl. And now her biological dad, had come waltzing in, right in the middle of the crisis, sincere at the moment,
but would he follow through and hurt her again?
As I laid anxious and awake, I felt the Lord tug at my heart, Jan, I’m in control. Leave the results up to Me.
The next day, Jen twitched a foot and began to emerge from the coma. The doctors shook their heads in amazement. Not only was she not paralyzed, she would recover. "A miracle," they said. Ten days later we transferred her to a rehabilitation hospital.
The doctors said they'd never seen such progress after a brain injury. Jen's fighting spirit played in her favor now, kicking in while she pushed to walk, formulate sentences, even chew her food again. The staff had never seen such amazing progress.
There was a refreshing softness to my daughter, one I hadn’t seen since she was a child. One day as I sat by her bed and stroked her half-shaved curls, her words touched my heart: “Mom, I never want to fight with you again. I realize how much you love me and want the best for me. I want to learn how to be a better wife and grow closer to God."
Three months after the accident, Jennifer walked shakily into her own house, back to Steve and two young sons. And now, five years later, she’s made almost a full recovery from a severe brain injury.
I look at my daughter differently now. While Jen’s strength and determination were a past source of conflict for me, I now see they are actually gifts from God, and He intends to use them to do great things in her life. My daughter is a precious stone in the Master's hand that He is crafting for His glory. And He doesn’t need my help. I’ve given up my advice-giving. I’ve stopped trying to fix her.
I seek God’s perspective first. That’s the way to find the purpose in our problems.
People in our small town still talk about “the miracle in the rain,” the rescue, the amazing recovery.
But to me there is still yet another miracle—having my daughter as my friend.

I couldn't believe what I had just heard! "Pardon me?" I asked.
"I said," the department manager repeated slowly, "you could be terminated for your actions."
Minutes earlier, my supervisor had told me that Mr. Brooks wanted to see me in his office—immediately. When I asked why, she had shrugged—yet every eye followed me as I left the room.
Mr. Brooks got right to the point. "Mrs. Chappell, we have reports that you have been observed leaving the hospital cafeteria, clocking in on the time clock, only to reenter the cafeteria and stay longer. Your actions are tantamount to stealing from this facility."
Mr. Brooks' accusation was correct. As a slow eater, I disliked having to rush through my evening meals at the community hospital where I worked the evening shift. We had only thirty minutes in which to get our tray, go through the food line, wait in line at the cash register, find a table, hurriedly eat, and then clock in before rushing back to our departments.
I had recently started clocking in, and instead of returning to my department, I returned to my table for an extra fifteen minutes. I then compensated for staying the extra time by taking only one of my two daily coffee breaks.
I considered myself a conscientious employee. I even gave time in ways not required. Once I accidentally broke a long tape before it was transcribed. Several unhappy doctors had to re-dictate their reports. That weekend, I drove to the hospital and worked undetected at my station for several hours without clocking in. No one knew, of course, but I did. It was my way of making up for the trouble I caused.
My conscience is clear in every area, I thought. How can he sit there and call me a thief?
"Mr. Brooks, I would never steal from anyone," I said, my face burning.
"Time is money," he replied, without expression. "When you steal time from your employer, that is the same as stealing money."
"I understand, " I stammered, "but I've not been stealing time." I then explained how I skipped one of my breaks each day to extend my mealtime, making sure to always take only one break.
"By law we must provide two breaks a day—and you need those breaks," he explained. "You're not the only one who has just thirty minutes for meals. You will need to eat faster or talk less. Hereafter, you will take your breaks, and you will return to your department after clocking in. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Mr. Brooks." I fumed as I walked toward my department. I wonder who the snitch is that started all of this?
I made a quick mental rundown of possible suspects. Probably that unfriendly woman from accounting—I’ve noticed her watching me. Or that grumpy guy from radiology. Whoever it is, they ought to get a life! Didn’t they have anything better to do than spy on fellow employees?
Mostly, I worried about what my co-workers would think. I'd tried hard to "walk my talk" as a Christian. And there I was—a Sunday-school teacher—accused of thievery!
Detouring into the women’s lounge, I splashed cold water on my flushed face. Defensive thoughts popped into my mind as I reached for a paper towel. How can you just lie down and do nothing to save your reputation? Your friends believe in you. Let them know how insulted you feel—with a humble but martyred air, of course. Refer to your good work ethics and habits. Remind them how often you volunteer to transcribe difficult tapes that others don't want to do. They'll rally to support you. Especially since they do worse things than you do. It won't change anything, but you owe it to them to fight for your reputation.
That made sense to me. After all, my conscious was clear. Suddenly, I recalled my mother's voice from across the years. "Kitty, the issue is not who is right, but what is right. I don't care who started it, I want it stopped right now!"
Just as I did back then, I argued.
Yes, but it isn’t right for me to be accused of something I didn't do!
God's Spirit stepped in and nudged me. But you did do it. By not following the rules, you gave a wrong message to others. How do they know you aren't stealing time? They only know what they see. If they see you do something that shouldn't be done, they will either question your integrity or be tempted to do what they think you are doing. You need to set a good example at all times in all areas.
I wrestled with each line of thinking as I returned to my department. Should I try to protect my image (and my pride), or would I humiliate myself by assuming responsibility for my actions?
"What happened?" everyone asked in unison as I entered. They waited for my answer, every eye upon me.
These were my friends, ready to take my side. Didn’t I owe them something? Yes, I decided.

 

I trembled a bit as I slowly slipped my finger under the seal of the envelope. Both of my daughters are strong, productive young women who reluctantly agreed to my proposal. I had just finished my first year of graduate studies in counseling. The first year is the hardest; each student is required to receive ten hours of personal counseling. I didn’t think I had anything that needed “fixing;” on the outside we were a happy, balanced
family. I had discovered you help others if you can’t look at yourself? As the layers ripped off through those sessions, I began to feel exposed. Maybe I wasn’t as “OK” as I had thought.
I did the scariest thing I could imagine. I called each of my daughters and asked them to write me a letter telling me what they felt about my parenting. I asked them for a “no-holds-barred” response. The weeks of waiting for their replies were horrendous for me. My mind went through every experience I could remember, wondering if the girls would say I was unfair, or too hard on them. It was an open invitation for them to let me have it. Painful as it might be, I truly wanted to know. I wondered, Could I learn from the past?
I was the disciplinarian in our family. My husband is an easy-going phlegmatic who likes to be the good guy. I was raised with rules and regulations and had learned that there was a price to pay when rules were broken. My siblings and I all seemed to be responsible adults so
I assumed that the parenting model I experienced was the best one to follow.
My counseling sessions had proven to be heart-wrenching. It was necessary to look at the effect of our parents’ input into our lives. I’ve always struggled with this part of counseling; I need to take responsibility for the choices I’ve made and refuse to blame my parents.
It was important to realize our past shapes the way we handle life, so I was forced to hold up a mirror to my life and willingly see the negative aspects of the model my parents set before me.
My mother was very controlling; everyone knew she spoke for the family. My dad went along with whatever she wanted just to survive. I began to let the memories come back. I felt the fear of my mother’s wrath. Did I receive beatings? No, but the fear was there. Even the look of disapproval, disappointment, or the tone of voice from a parent can go deep into a child’s heart and I realized my heart had been pierced.
One Saturday while I was a teen a group of teenagers from our local church planned a day at the State Park. It was too cool to swim so we knew we’d have to look for other activities such as hiking or boating. My mother had never learned to swim, and she was determined that we wouldn’t go near the water if she wasn’t around. I happened to mention that I needed money to help pay for the rental of a rowboat.
“You are not to go out in a boat!” was her order.
“But, Mom, that’s what everybody will do.”
“You heard me.”
I was right. Everyone in the group rented boats and spent the day on the water. I sat alone on the beach all afternoon. Why didn’t I just go ahead and go with the rest of the group? Somehow, the fear of Mom finding out was so strong that a miserable afternoon seemed easier to take. There was a mental control that followed me through much of my life. I hadn’t realized it until the counselor held up the “mirror.”
During my engagement to my husband we would return home after a date and sit in the driveway for a few minutes before going inside with the family. Of course, we weren’t going to go “too far” with my parents right inside; but invariably, my mother would begin to flash the porch light on and off signaling that we were to come in immediately. Not all of the fear was bad. It kept me from making mistakes that could have had negative impacts on my life. There is a measure of parental fear that is healthy. However, the line is very easy to cross and after experiencing the counseling, I feared that I could have easily stepped over it with my own children without realizing it. Only they could decide, and I was about to read their assessments.
Had I imparted that same controlling fear to my daughters? Did they see me as I saw my mother? Children see our imperfections and learn to live with them. Did my daughters have to find mechanisms to deal with the kind of parent I had been? All of these questions ran through my mind as I tore away the envelope that held my older daughter’s response.
Tears flowed down my cheeks as kindness flowed through her words. I had asked for harsh truth and yet I received beautiful compliments. Most of the letter reminisced the good moments we had enjoyed. At the end, though, was this thought:
“Mom, I wish you had talked to me more.”
I was startled. We had talked. But I realized her desire. I was never open to sharing my thoughts, pain, or longings with her. I understood that she didn’t know who I really was. She knew me as one who fed, clothed, and provided emotional support, but in my desire to be the picture of a good mother, I had withheld the real me.
The second letter stared at me. Our older daughter had always been an easy-to-please child who gave little or no resistance to our directions, but the second? She was another story. It seemed she always pushed the line. She had an outlook on life that said, “I think I can fly!” Now, I was about to read her opinions on my parenting skills. I braced myself. We had butted heads repeatedly through her teen years. But, to my amazement, her letter began as the first, with sharing the things she appreciated. Tears would not describe my response. Opened floodgates might a better reflection of the scene.
When I read the second part of her letter, I nearly dropped the page. I decided the girls had collaborated, for I read nearly the same phrase:
“Mom, I wish you had shared who you are with me.”
I ran to the phone and called each one of them asking if they had talked and agreed upon their responses; but each assured me they had not spoken about what went into their letters. Actually, they had been as nervous about writing them as I had been about reading them.
Following my telephone conversations with the girls, I had to go to God. I had hidden behind walls that now were revealed. Could I trust that He would heal the hurts and ease the pain as I bared my inner self?
In the days since, I’ve made a conscious effort to take special times with each of my daughters to sit and talk with them openly. I’ve shared times of my life that were full of pain. I’ve shared embarrassing moments. I hadn’t realized that withholding some of the unlovely things of my life had presented a level of perfection to them that they felt they could never attain. It is a relief to find that sharing my imperfections has drawn us closer together. With a lot of hard work and dedication, the love of two amazing daughters, and the tender grace of a merciful God, we have all been set free to love each other completely—without reservation.