Answer the Door

By Alenda Omonije, Dallas, Texas, USA

 THUMP….THUMP….THUMP on the right side. Sobbing on the left, both noises behind closed doors. I’m standing in the hallway -- which door do I go to first? My five-year-old body turns to the left. I’m familiar with the sobbing and I care about it the most. That’s where Mama is!  My steps don’t match the quickness of my heart. What’s wrong this time? I need to see.  Can I hug her? Should I stay away?  I’ll try to get Mama in a happy mood.  What do we need to do NOT to be beaten again today?  My arms and legs still hurt, and I can see the purple spots on our bodies again.

“Answer the door.” My twin sister’s emphatic whisper jumps across the room.  I’m familiar with those directive whispers, too.  I knew which door she meant.  She moves to the right, because for her any direction is better than Mama’s, even the one where the unknown thumping is.  Alida has always been the strong, brave one, and the least tolerant of Mama’s episodes. Mama’s door swings open and our 17-year-old sister, Sandy, who had moved out of the house to escape the drama three years ago, now a single mom with two kids of her own, comes out and yells, “who is it?”

 “POLICE!”

 Sandy opens the door and with no hesitation, says, “she’s in her room, this way.”  Sandy often shielded us from Mama’s episodes.  Alida and I stand there together, quietly.  Alida’s biting the inside of her lips again. She always does that when she’s nervous or scared.  I put my arm around her. We lean into each other. We both peek at the left door.

“Hi, you’re gonna come with us, ok? We’re just gonna go for a ride.  It’s ok.  Mama’s gonna come too,” the policeman says,  with a weird smile, as he’s bent down, too close to our faces.  Alida’s lips are now visibly caved in. I can see the imprint of her teeth.

After the long car ride in the night, the policeman walks us through another door.

“Hi!  Oh, you two are so cute!”

“Don’t be scared.”

“You like cookies?”

 Alida substitutes the inside of her lips for the cookie. I stay quiet, no cookie.

We lived with the smiling cookie lady, Mrs. Beckham, and her husband, and three other foster kids for three years, our foster home. The Social Workers and the State allowed our Mama to visit us only on Christmas day during those three years.  Mama needed a doctor and treatment and time in mental facilities.  Even now, with a bit of guilt for feeling this way, I was happy to be away from Mama.  No more beatings, no more yelling, no more purple spots on our bodies.  No more walking over the drunk/drugged-out guy in the hall.  Alida and I needed hot meals. We needed uninterrupted sleep. We needed a coat in the winter. We needed shoes that fit our feet.  We needed peace. We needed love.  Mrs. Beckham gave us that.

On a late Sunday afternoon, we were sent back to our Mama.  The courts determined that Mama “successfully completed” the treatment programs and sent us back, “best that the children be with their biological parent/s”.  For us, that only parent was our Mama.  It didn’t take long for Mama’s yells, sobs, cursing, beatings, men and episodes to come back.  Even at age nine, Alida and I resolved --  with no words, no proclamation, not even a complaint -- to do what Sandy did, find a way to leave.  I found solace, routine and hot meals at school.  I loved school.  Education was my way out of the chaos.  

At age ten we began staying out in the streets, at friend’s houses, our sister’s house, anywhere that let us, until 1am or 2am.  We did and saw more things than our young years should have known. 

By age fourteen, I was resilient and tough.  And I did leave my Mama.  I moved in with my 21-year-old boyfriend until I graduated high school; the years were oddly mixed with gladness and emotional and physical abuse. The abuse was not one-sided. We fought each other. 

At age eighteen I entered college, free from my tumultuous adolescent relationship but holding on to the promise of the better life I thought an education could offer.  That summer I walked through the glass doors of a downtown skyscraper, my summer internship -- rare for a freshman.  I worked with another college intern, a guy that was happy all the time.  He talked about God authentically, freely and openly.  He even prayed during a work luncheon. I thought that was a bold move. I admired that.  He invited all of us to church.  I went.

“Alenda, can you read the next scripture please? It’s Luke 13:23-24.”

 I read, “Make every effort to enter through the narrow door, because many, I tell you, try to enter and will not be able to.”  This scripture was one of many scriptures I read with the three women around my kitchen table over a four-week period.  I learned about being a disciple of Jesus, the Kingdom of God, my sin, the cross, and most importantly, Jesus’s love for me.  Now Jesus was offering me a new way! a new door!  And if I chose to walk through HIS door, the escape from the chaos, the peace, and the love I sought for so many years, since I was five years old, could be mine and fill my life, my heart, and my soul.  “Answer the door.”  This time it was Jesus whispering this directive to me.  His voice was gentle and even imploring.   I decided to obey HIM, to walk through HIS narrow door and wrap my soul and my life in his words. 

Now, thirty-one years later, God has blessed my life with my faithful, loving husband of twenty-six years.   Our three amazing children are thriving and are all disciples of Jesus.  Our children have either graduated from or are now attending the most prestigious colleges in the U.S.  (a longing for education I always had and God fulfilled through my children? I believe so.) And when our children come home from their college breaks and visits, they walk through the door that leads to the home I longed for as a child.  My home, the home that Jesus built and gifted to me, a home where my children have loving, nurturing parents filled with provisions, peace, and love.  

Acts 2:39 “The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off – for all whom the Lord our God will call.”

May the name of our Lord Jesus be forever praised!  Amen.

Alenda Omonije became a disciple in the New Orleans campus ministry. She has been married to her husband, Femi, for 26 years. They have three children, ages 23, 21, and 18. Alenda’s current profession is in education, and she is an empty-nester!