I think (for me) it is easy to forget the day to day reality of this and how it would feel if I was in this same situation.
One Mothers Story...
May 29, 2008, 4:00 p.m. I went to get my driver's license renewed and was right in the middle of answering questions on the computer exam. Somehow I missed the sign to turn off my cell phone in the Texas Department of Transportation facility. I think it must have been too big to notice or something. How glad I am I got that phone call in spite of the eagle eye and the warning voice I received from an employee as the ring sounded its joyful reveille. I answered with a "hello" , and then I heard the exuberant voice of my teenage son, who triumphantly announced, "The Supreme Court has ruled. Mother, we're free! "
Okay, so be it, whatever it takes to get my children back. I feel concerned, but peaceful. I have long since forgiven these people for their outrages against us, but that cannot change the level of confidence I am able to offer them in the future. I am not thrilled at the thoughts of further investigation of a non-existent allegation. I am grateful to be getting the children back, but I would rather be left alone unbothered to gather my innocent ones and begin the long and tender healing process, the rehabilitation of mind and body and soul.
June 2, 2008, 10:00 a.m. Suddenly, we receive word that all of the mothers can go get their children without waiting for a specific appointment. Our attorneys e-mail us the proper forms, and we are gratefully and anxiously ready to go NOW, even if we have to walk. But we have a deadline, 5:00 p.m. Oh, sure, we can pick up the children over the next several days, but who wants to wait until tomorrow? Which mother is willing to have her child be last? We receive word that our children at the shelters have been told that their mothers can now pick them up, and if the mothers don't show up, they just can't make it. Little does anyone know what a tender and heartrending situation that presents. How can we expect young, vulnerable minds to understand the reason for any delay? Our children are scattered all over the state of Texas, so how does a mother choose which child to rescue first? Oh, the pressure! Indescribable.
Both of my teenage sons have already insisted that I get their two little sisters first, so I have already traveled to San Antonio, the city nearest their location, to wait the moment of reunification. I have decided to begin with my youngest child, six years old, then travel one hour, retrieve my eight-year-old, and then go for the two boys, five hundred miles away. But, there is a very big challenge facing me. There are simply not enough vehicles to go around. I have always belonged to a caring and sharing environment where honest people look out for each other, lending vehicles and such back and forth to fit the needs. It is our way of life. It is efficient to share, and fulfilling to think of others.
I weigh these things over carefully in my mind as I watch my friends leaving to retrieve their children. No matter how deep the pain, I cannot bring myself to jump in front of someone else. How can I possibly feel good about rescuing my child and alleviating their pain at the expense of another mother's child? I believe that is how every mother feels, but somebody has to be first, and somebody has to be last. Finally, I am the only mother left in the house. All the vehicles have been filled and gone, the minutes are ticking by, and I am weeping. It is just too big for me. There is no way I can endure that kind of suffering, the pain of the awareness that my little ones would feel the hurt of betrayal from their very own mother, the hurt of being forced into an unexplainable and compromising circumstance beyond my control, yet knowing that I will have to take responsibility for my choice in the matter, and by so doing, I must take upon myself that gnawing pain of knowing that my children are suffering and I can do little about it. There is nothing to do but to place my burden at the feet of my loving Heavenly Father. He will bear that for me, and now I know that He will take care of everything. How do I describe a heart-broken smile? But since the Lord helps those who help themselves, I am not going to give up easily, so I continue earnestly looking for solutions.
1:45 p.m. Think, pray, cry, smile. My phone rings. None other than my darling six-year-old daughter is calling from a shelter that allows one phone call per child per day. Her voice is broken and frantic, "Mother, where are you? When are you coming to get me? I am one of the last ones left here. " How do I process that? I feel so desperately small and inadequate to care for this precious child. It feels like someone has taken a sledge hammer and smashed my heart into a thousand pieces, yet I feel the courage and reassurance of Someone much greater than I, so I tell her to hang on and smile, that I am coming very soon. My next thoughts are getting more radical. No matter what, I have to get my children today. My first instinct is to take off walking and thumb a ride. Surely, someone will stop for a lady in a pastel dress lugging a briefcase filled with birth certificates, medical records, school records, pictures, proof of parental custody. My next idea, a little more rational than the first, is to run door to door in the neighborhood and plead with each person I meet to either lend me a vehicle, or take me to find my children.
2:00 p.m. Hey! What about a taxi? How much will it cost? I look in my purse and find fifty dollars. Next, I find the Yellow Pages. T, t, t, ta, taxthere it is, taxi. I call three numbers before I get a real person with a real voice. I am a little hyper by now. "How much will you charge to take me from San Antonio to Converse? " I can hear the fingers whisking over a keyboard to obtain the information. "Fifty dollars, Ma'am. " Hmm, spend all my money just to get to my first stop? Then what? I wonder about taking a gamble. If I can just get over there, by the time I fill out the paper work and pick up my littlest girl, surely something else will work out.
My phone rings, a friend of mine. "Maggie, you have got to get over here to Gonzales. Your eight-year-old daughter is really worried about you not making it. She is so afraid to be left alone here overnight. If you don't hurry, she is going to be the last one here. " I hang up the phone, and I also hang my head in exquisitely painful concern. "How do things like this happen? " I ask myself. "What does a Mother do with a crisis like this? " There is no way I can call my daughter and console her. She is only allowed one phone call per week, and today is not the day. It feels like the weight of all time is hanging on the present moment, and those moments are ticking away, and I have miles to travel and children to rescue before 5:00.
3:15 p.m. We arrive at the shelter in Converse, and after anxiously waiting a little while and then wading through the paperwork, my sweet, little girl, tearful but smiling, is handed over to her mother. We load up, and she parks herself on top of me with her giant-size bear cub hugs, and we depart the facility with great rejoicing.She remarks in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, "Mother, you must've got my message to the Judge so I can go home with you today. I sure wish she would call me because I want to tell her a sermon. " The next thing she wants to do is call her older brothers and check up on them. She has been denied any kind of communication with them for two months because they were accused of being "perpetrators" , and now, she is very anxious for a reunion.
3:35 p.m. Since we have not been allowed any cell phone numbers to our children's CPS caseworkers, before I leave Converse, I ask my first daughter's caseworker to call her co-worker at my next stop to tell her I am coming and that I must pick up my daughter today. She sends back a message that she will be there only until 5:00. My friend sets his GPS for Gonzales and steps on the gas because it is roughly an hour's journey, and the paperwork process takes about half an hour.
This experience of losing our way for a while on this most crucial time-sensitive mission for the sake of a child brings a tender memory to weigh upon my heart, and I find myself in deep contemplation of the depth of trauma upon my sensitive and vulnerable eight-year-old daughter. May 5, 2008, would have been the day of my first visit with this sweet and precious little girl after she was taken by the State. There is a unique detail about her in that she was the first child on the first bus taken April 4, 2008. I was absent during the Raid, traveling out of state. My daughter was numbered among the first group of girls taken without their mothers, and even after the rest of the buses arrived at the temporary shelters with both children and mothers, the first group of girls was still not allowed to be with any mothers. I had heard through reports of friends that my little girl had been greatly suffering over the traumatic events, and I was tenderly cognizant of her intense need to at least visit with her mother. Finally, after thirty-two days, I had an appointment to meet with her.
The caseworker reacted in a coldly professional manner, saying her day was booked until 5:00, and made a comment indicating her suspicion of my sincerity, saying that it appeared odd to her that I would be late for my visit. I replied that I was well acquainted with the mother whose one-hour visit followed mine, saying that I was sure the mother would be glad to share her hour with me for the sake of the child. The caseworker did not seem to understand that kind of mentality and appeared confused at the probability of such an arrangement. I assured the caseworker that I was confident the other mother would feel fine about sharing because we loved each other and would do what was best for all of the children. I told her I would call the mother and make sure it was all right and then call her back, but when I tried to reach the caseworker again, she was conveniently unavailable.
I submitted my identification to the officer, and then I waited fifteen minutes in severe anxiety, realizing that my remaining half hour was wasting away. I could only imagine my little daughter inside of the formidable fortress, anxious and distressed, expecting the long-awaited visit from her mother. I could visualize her in tears questioning my delay, worried over my safety, heartsick with loneliness, traumatized by memories of bad guys with guns. Finally, an officer approached our vehicle and flatly told me, "Mrs. Jessop, they have sent word that since you are late for your visit, you will not be allowed to see your daughter today, and we would like you to leave now. " There was no explanation about the fact that I had been waiting for fifteen minutes.
I hung up the phone heart-broken. I felt the frustration flare up inside of me, but then my emotions defaulted to a defense mechanism I often employ, and I broke out in a laugh, incredulous at the injustice in my life. I rather suspect I confused the poor officer who watched me intently, obviously expecting some kind of a nuclear reaction and preparing his self-defense at the onset. Striving to maintain a resemblance of dignity, I remarked, Well, it won't do any good to get angry, will it? " He enthusiastically agreed. I searched his face for any expression of kindly understanding, and observing a small glimmer, I clung to a spark of hope, just one last solution to an impossible situation. I held up a picture of myself that I had planned to give to my little girl, and I asked the officer, "Well, if you won't let me visit my daughter, at least will you take this picture of her mother to her? " The officer immediately stiffened, and replied coldly, "No ma'am, I can't do anything like that. No ma'am. "As we drove away from the facility, a chilling numbness wrapped itself around my heart, the harsh reality of unpreventable injustice, and I felt helplessly appalled at the inhumanity of gross misunderstanding. I knew that the state employees didn't really have anything against me personally, but it was painfully obvious that we were victims of an intrusive and manipulative invasion of a government entity out of control, a nameless, faceless monster, bloated with horrendous pride and vindictive prejudice, fed by the hateful sap flowing en masse from the venomous fangs of anti-FLDS crusaders. The evil demon, motivated by anger, jealousy, lying, hate, money, power, and corruption, had wound its vicious tentacles in and out, around and among hundreds of unaware, yet corruptible human beings, servants of the vast domain of the State of Texas. What a shame that people in responsible positions would be foolish and gullible enough to allow themselves to be "educated" by contemptible snakes and their lying propaganda against us, and then without conscience, form biased and inaccurate opinions without taking responsibility for their own actions, apparently incapable of searching for truth, allowing themselves to be controlled by the Master Puppeteer. We know the CPS is not the instigator of this despicable crime. They simply and detestably fall into the identity of the wicked tool, a destructive sledgehammer, slathered with the murky grease of religious and political corruption, intended to mar and destroy an unpopular religion, wielded by none other than Satan himself.Really? Crying? Whatever for? I felt the anger boil up hotly, and I grappled intently for a few moments with the powerful and conflicting emotions of anger versus forgiveness. Then I said, "Hello, Sweetie! They won't let me see you today, but everything is all right. We must not change how we act because of how they act. Let's make the best of this and be happy anyway. I don't get to see you, but I am thankful I get to talk to you. "
Then I could hear her sobbing, and I wanted to join her, but I knew that wouldn't help her at all. There was no way we could carry on a conversation, so the only thing left to do was sing. So, with purchased courage from the unlimited Source, granted through the channel of gratitude, the heart-broken mother serenaded her heart-broken daughter.
After the song was finished, I asked my little girl if she would like to sing. She replied in a thin voice, broken by emotion, "I want to sing for you, Mother, but I just can't," and then the sobbing increased. About then, the shelter employee who was monitoring the phone call announced our time was up. I think both the mother and child cried themselves to sleep that night. The next day I got a surprise phone call. Someone must have been very kind to arrange it for us, and there was my little girl again, only this time, her voice was strong and clear and full of hope and courage. "Mother," she announced happily, "I have a song for you! " I was overjoyed to see her resiliency from the traumatic experience the day before. Then she sang for me high and clear in angelic tones, "God Be with You Till We Meet Again. " Oh, I had a great deal to be grateful for than night.
There is not room enough in the small car to consider getting the two boys five hundred miles away. I find I have to land and regroup and find another way to complete my task of gathering my children. My good friend who has been so wonderfully instrumental in preserving my sanity this day makes sure I find my way to a stopover location, and then without any ceremony, he quietly and graciously hands to me three hundred dollars. Words cannot express my gratitude for our good men. What a blessing it is to belong to a favored bunch, to have that common bond of understanding so characteristic among our people, that certain something that is only obtained by giving without expecting anything in return, creating a level of trust and confidence that is not generally understood by others.
It has taken everything I have in me to leave them, though as to their safety, I have no doubt. There is nothing I can say to quiet their fear of being dragged away from Mother again. The only way I can find peace and reassurance is to recall the comforting words, "This, too, shall pass away. " This is the longest ride of my life
Just as I expect, the first thing the boys want to do is call their sisters and brothers to determine their safety and comfort. We travel all during the night, reaching our rendezvous point June 4, weary but grateful. How does a mother describe her relief to see her children finally together after an excruciating ordeal?
Texas, and her almighty papa, the governor himself, has invited me to find another state in which to reside, yet I am bound by red tape to remain here under the scrutiny of Rick Perry's Doberman pinscher, the CPS. If I only could, I would walk to safety beyond the borders of Texas; but I smile at that thought because my shoes are gone, lost somewhere over the last thousand miles, as I transferred vehicles seven times. But I am alive, and I have my children, and I am unspeakably grateful for that.
http://www.truthwillprevail.org/
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