My Soul Cried Out . . . But I Could Not Weep - Softcover

Holyday, Elisabeth

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1456740407 ISBN 13: 9781456740405

Verlag: AuthorHouse, 2011

Inhaltsangabe

A small town country girl from humble beginnings with a passion for music and church is trapped for decades with a traumatic secret that changed the direction of her life. This playful happy-go-lucky little girl who once indulged in solving arithmetic that went far beyond her tender age; and running home from school to get to the Wednesday night Prayer Meetings, now gives a refreshingly tasteful view of life at home with her mother and siblings - rich in love though shadowed with poverty. The extent she went to spare her mother from more heartache when she faced her worst nightmare, is a testament to her resounding strength to protect her mother at all cost; but it wasn’t enough to shield her from the effects of what her silence would cost her in the years ahead. At times it’s like a story out of a fiction movie, unfortunately, it’s not. It is the story of a real person - a mother who is forced to share her story so her children can finally know the truth.

Tumultuous, yet inspiring, every ounce of this soul was put to the test but her faith withstood them all. The courage to always get up and keep going despite obstacles, and the determination to survive not so much for herself, but for her children and her mother; makes this a book for every mother, daughter, and sister. It can only be concurred that the loving bond Elisabeth had with her Mom, and the love she got in return, along with everything she learned in Church and Sunday school, shaped and moulded this precious soul for the unimaginable road she would walk ALONE.

And now, twenty-five years after her daughter said to her: "Mom, of all the books you have read, there's a book that has not been written, and that's your book." Elisabeth finally speaks.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

"Elisabeth is a naturalized Canadian Citizen who emigrated from Jamaica to Canada in the late seventies. She is a mother of three children and twelve grand children. Her family is her life. If you are travelling on a bus or train, or even walking along the street and you hear someone humming a song, chances are it is Elisabeth Holyday. She loves singing, loves to listen to Gospel Music, and anytime of the day or night you can hear Gospel music reverberating throughout her home. Her taste in music is not limited to Gospel, but she’s passionate about Gospel music. From Cassette Tapes to VHS, LP’s, CD"s. and DVD’s Elisabeth hoards them all. The same applies to her faith. She could watch Mass five times per day on Television, light candles from sundown on Fridays to sundown on Saturdays, reverence the Sabbath on Saturdays, attend Mass on Sundays , watch all the Television Evangelists on Sundays, and still be faithful to her Pentecostal upbringing, while her home looks like a Catholic Shrine. Though not an expert on Social Media, now that Elisabeth has written a book, when she is not fiddling with the organ, or reading a book, she is either on Twitter or Facebook, or, she is sharing her publishing journey in a blog. Even though she has told her story and is much more at peace with herself now, Elisabeth is aware of how much she has missed out on life because of her silence, and is intent on savouring every minute of every hour however simple it may be. A lover of nature, lots of sunshine, blue skies and the arts, Elisabeth anxiously looks forward to the days when she will be able to spend more time with relatives left behind in Jamaica who she couldn’t sponsor to Canada; more time with classmates from whom she felt like she was torn due to her misfortunes; and most of all, spend more time where she was born, where precious memories with her darling mother are still very vivid. Their bond was so infectiously close, that sixteen years after her Mom passed away, Elisabeth still feels she has an obligation to continue her Mom’s legacy of always looking out for those less fortunate. Christ-like by nature, Elisabeth is ready to move beyond her past into the future. Sharing her story has liberated her."

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MY SOUL CRIED OUT ... BUT I COULD NOT WEEP

By Elisabeth Holyday

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Elisabeth Holyday
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-4040-5

Chapter One

I have existed. I have not lived. The skeletons in my closet have bound me with a weight that has had me trapped for decades. Even though I feel the call for a higher purpose, I am in a struggle. Each time I try to move forward they stand before me like a huge monster. And so, from a High School Student and Sunday School Teaching Assistant, who was practically in church from dusk to dawn, with aspirations of becoming a Gospel Singer and a Spiritual Healer; to a mother of three by age 18; including being raped and left with a child from the assault; a murder charge 6 months after giving birth and so much more; they created a lifetime of havoc for me that changed the direction of my life and left me stagnant. However, nothing prepared me for the hell I faced for 7 years and beyond when I tried to put the past behind me and gave my heart and my hand in marriage to someone I thought would shelter me under his wings. It is the chronicling of spousal abuse that will cause one's hair to stand still. And with so much shame and so much hidden; so many questions to answer and so much to explain; they shattered my dreams and left me frozen in silence.

For a long time I have struggled with the nightmare of sharing my story, but I didn't have the strength to go there and my pride restrained me from baring my soul to the world. But there is always a battle going on inside of me between who I am; why I'm here; and what became of the child in me who wanted to be a Gospel Singer and even boasted of becoming the Champion of the family and ridding it of poverty. It seemed the many challenges I faced, especially during my teenage years, knocked me off my feet, changed the direction of God's plan for my life and left me adrift. But I have always felt that there is an assignment awaiting my signature. I'm not sure what it is, but I realize now, that if I am to walk my predestined path, or, have the second half of my life better than the first half and begin to live instead of feeling that I'm just existing; then I owe it to myself to begin within, by cleaning out the junk so I can be free. My children need to hear from me too, they've been waiting all their lives. Later in the story you will learn about the article in a Memoir on Silence; the statement made during a Presidential State of the Union Address; the comment from my daughter; and the revelation from a childhood friend that broke the camel's back and spurred me to pick up a pen and share my story.

I was born in Jamaica during a turbulent storm that whipped the island following one of the deadliest hurricanes of that decade. My mother was the only parent I ever knew. My father died from pneumonia when I was nine months old and the only memory I have of a father-figure was a grandfatherly gentleman affectionately called Preacher Man, who regularly came to play with me. Mother told me that he was my father's best friend and that he practically saved my life during the storm by running with me to a stronger family home while sheets of zinc from the roofs of houses all around were sailing through the air. I don't think Preacher Man lived in the neighbourhood, but from what I can recall, he visited regularly and I still have the memory of him crouching down before me trying to make sense of my small talks with a big broad smile and two dimples on his cheeks. TV Preacher James Robinson bears such a strong resemblance of him that I consider him the reincarnated version of Preacher Man.

I loved my childhood days up to age 15; I was very happy and I was loved. I had fallen at 14 but I picked up myself, dusted off and was convinced that there was no mountain too high that I couldn't climb. Before my world as I knew it crashed and left me at the edge of a cliff, I loved to give jokes and people always told me I was jovial like my dad. My mother was the light of my life, I adored her and I loved school, but I loved church even more. Like my mother, Church was my life; I soaked up everything like a sponge. From the moment I heard my mother said, "Elisabeth, see if you can find a bottle," I got excited because that meant we were going to church. I would take the bottle to the Shopkeeper for a Penny. Half-a-Penny would get us two ice mint sweets on our way to church to freshen our breath and the other half Penny would go in the collection plate. I always felt sad for my mother giving half Penny for offering. I just felt like we were the poorest of the poorest. At times in Church I wondered what we were going to have for dinner when we got home. On the contrary, one large kitchen on the church premises was shared by all who lived on the compound and every Sunday, before Sunday school began, I could expect to be called for a sumptuous dinner of rice with kidney beans, brown-stew fish or chicken, a slice of yellow yam and a glass of carrot juice. I never understood how they could afford those big rich dinners, seeing that the women were housewives, the men barely got by, the Pastor only owned a small cane field which was seasonal and only spare change was placed in the offering plate. But regardless, I lived and breathe Church, nothing could stop me. I got the idea though, that if ever I had my own church, one tenth of the offering collected each week would return to the Church's poor. No one should leave church after placing the "widow's mite" in the collection plate and wonder what they will have for dinner that night.

Apart from Gospel Singing, I cannot think of a single thing more precious than the times I spent soaking up any and everything religious like a sponge. When the moon wasn't shining, mother and I would make our own bottle torch by pouring kerosene oil in a bottle, then making a long cork of reeled newspaper. The Wednesday Night Prayer Meetings seemed like months away from Sunday night service. I was always early just so I could watch Mother Maggie in her mint white dress setting the table with white tablecloth, glimmering white candles, fresh flowers and water, looking every bit the same today as when I watch mass on TV. And she always hummed the same hymn, I Have a Friend, a Precious Friend, Oh How He Loves Me. I studiously watched her almost with a sense that someday I'd be doing the same thing.

Church on Sundays for me was from dawn to dusk: first there was Worship Service which started between 11:30 am and 12:30 that lasted about 3 hours; Sunday school at 5pm; and the 7pm Night Service which ended about 10pm. It was a long day but I had to get the whole works, because even though they held Healing Service on Mondays, by the time I got off from school it was almost over; so I had to scoop up everything on Sundays to last me until Prayer Meeting on Wednesday Night. I can still hear Captain announcing to the congregation at the end of Prayer Meeting to make sure I was safely taken home whenever my mother didn't return for the Night Service.

Open Air Meeting was another passion. Sometimes it was as close as a 10 minute walk, and I would purposely sit in the front row, hoping the Preacher would call me to do the Scripture Reading. The first time my mother took me to one, it was conducted by the only remaining cousin from the McCoo's side of the family who shared the same faith as my mother. He held the meeting at the biggest crossroads in the district where three grocery shops formed a triangle, and he used the steps of one of the storefront for his platform. That cousin was the most eloquent Preacher that I had ever heard as a child....

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: AuthorHouse
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2011
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1456740407
• ISBN 13: 9781456740405
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 360
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
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