I drove my meager belongings down that little country road to Rosie’s house. As the car meandered along something very unusual was about to happen. Not certain what was obscuring my vision of the road ahead, I struggled to focus my eyes.

We met in 1998, a year before the assault. Today I believe it was divine intervention. She entered my home office by way of referral. Rose was her name. She looked older than her years as the ashen skin spoke of her searing physical pain.

With sales dwindling as I wound down the company, I thought I’d have to couch-surf and beg, borrow or steal. Returning the two company cars was the first time in my life where I wasn’t financially stable enough to own a car. And then the whole mess ended in bankruptcy; for me, not him. That was fun. Then a dear friend stepped up and offered me a wee spot to rest.

Skip forward six years from that woman in the window in 1993. Out of the blue one evening, my common law husband of six years decided to beat me up.

My past lies behind me like a long convoluted road through a jungle of experiences. When once I dreaded thinking about all the mistakes and all the pain I went through as I traveled, today I can look upon its landscape as a series of rather unique gifts…much to my surprise.

After the wedding, the new job began effortlessly and even felt as if it was somehow meant to be. I quickly connected with Gloria, the clinic nurse, a woman in her late thirties and a single parent of a teenaged daughter. We realized early on that we had many things in common, not the least of which was the difficult job of being a single parent.

Life had started sliding down hill at thirteen when I was propositioned by a male member of my immediate family. I started my very long working career at fourteen, and was raped that same year; an old man flashed me on the beach at fifteen; and I had my first big crush, an unrequited love, at sixteen.

It was 1980, and I had just married my second husband, who happened to be an atheist. I was attending a church in town and had enrolled my eight-year old son into their school. It was an enrollment requirement that at least one of the parents attend the church. And in the beginning, I was happy to comply.

Off we went to the mainland. I have always loved change, so I soon moved on to other things in the big city, not the least of which was my first boyfriend. The guys we hung around with were all Catholic. This would be my first introduction to organized religion. Could I have imagined the depth of its meaning?