Lord, Did You Cry with Me When Mommy Hit Me?

The memoir, Lord, Did You Cry with Me When Mommy Hit Me?, was written by Nancy Stokkermans, a resident of Ontario, Canada. Nancy gives away free copies of her book to those in need of it in her local area. Way to go, Nancy!

Available in print through online bookstores, as well as in selected bookstores, particularly in the Ontario, Canada area. Available also in digital form through Amazon Kindle, B&N Book Nook, and Apple iBooks.








Description: Raised in fear by an emotionally cold and alcoholic father and frequently thrown into the darkness of a windowless cellar with, at best, only a rat for company by a physically abusive mother, Nancy spent a loveless childhood, searching for God and wondering why He did not intervene in moments when she felt lost and abandoned--until her niece is born. A small baby brings light and love into the dark home, and from that point on, hope never leaves Nancy, who, with the passage into adulthood eventually gets to meet the God whose comforting presence she had sensed as a child in her black prison.

Video Book Announcement:

Press release: Click here.

Reviews:

Library Thing:
I especially enjoyed the list of "tools" for finding God and overcoming the difficulties in ones life that she included in the end of the book. Overall I thought the book was well written and heartbreaking at times and comforting at times. (kitten-a-gogo, Library Thing)

Online Bookstores:
All Amazon and B&N reviewers of this book have rated it as 5 stars.

An amazing book! I couldn't put it down. (JRZ, Amazon)

Wow, this book has it all!! It is captivating and incredible. A story of faith, courage and triumph in the face of extreme adversity. Simply amazing.  (Anon., Barnes & Noble)

From the back cover:

It is impossible to put this book down. The reader hurts and aches along with Nancy -- and experiences joy when Nancy finally triumphs. For those who have suffered in similar ways, this book can be comfortingly validating. For those who work with those traumatized by child abuse, it will provide insight and inspiration. (from the back cover: Elizabeth Mahlou, author of Blest Atheist and A Believer-in-Waiting's First Encounters with God)

The author (as posted on her Amazon page):

I am a proud mother of five children, two sets of twins and a baby boy who passed away from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) at the age of four weeks. I am also a devoted Nana of eight little angels.

My former husband and I owned and operated a successful farming business for thirty years. I have moved on and now live in Strathroy, Ontario, a small town that is a pleasure to be a part of. My journey has been one of learning and self awareness, I hope I can share that with you.

Something I want each of you to know is that I am a survivor. Regardless of the painful pitfalls that I have endured, I know that I will come out on top because I now have the confidence to trust in myself. I need to honour who I am in order to walk through this life without regrets and sorrow.

I very much want to help you on your journey by sharing my experiences. I hope that you will identify with parts of my story and welcome the benefit of this exceptional gift.

My new book goes into great detail of my life's sadness and its extreme joys. I have taken many classes and worked very hard spiritually to obtain this gift. I am honoured to share this with you.

The author maintains an Internet presence, where she can be contacted:
Website: http://nancystokkermans.com/
Blog: http://nancystokkermans.com/blog/

Excerpt from the book:

Introduction

We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.

—Mother Teresa

Imagine a cold March night with stubborn snow still stuck to the sides of the road and heavy flakes hitting the windshield of an unheated car as it drives toward the city. In the back seat, a fifteen-year-old girl moans quietly in pain. It is a pain unlike any she has ever known, but she is afraid to cry out. In the front seat, a man and a woman—her parents—sit in stony silence. They hear her stifled moans and refuse to offer comfort.

Something trickles between her legs. She dabs it with her fingers. Is it blood? She is afraid. She is having a baby.

They hear her sobs and feel she deserves this pain. She will have this baby alone. She will be punished.

Her father floors the gas pedal. Let’s get this over with, he thinks. The car’s headlights illuminate the snowflakes, and for a moment it looks as though the car is floating in space.

At the hospital entrance, he opens the door and pulls her out. She stumbles toward a nurse, who reaches out to her. When she turns around, her father is gone. The car is gone. She is alone.

***

The girl in the back seat is my sister, Kathy. The people who left her at the hospital are my parents.

My name is Nancy Stokkermans, and this is my story.

***

I grew up in a house in the country. From the outside, it looked unremarkable, but to me and my siblings, it was a war zone. My father was an alcoholic who loved no one, not even himself, and my mother was so deeply unhappy that she would explode in violent rage at the slightest provocation—or even with no provocation at all.

Like I said: a warzone. I would walk across my own living room floor and step on a landmine. One minute, I’d be a six-year-old girl carrying a doll to the sofa and the next I’d be thrown up against a wall, my nose bloodied. I’d never know what had happened or why. It was just the way things were in my house.

My parents had six children: Ken is the oldest, then Kathy, Karen, me, Gordon, and finally Donna. For some people, to bear even one baby is an impossible dream, but my parents were blessed with six healthy, beautiful children. The irony is that they were both unequipped to be parents at all.

A typical Sunday in our house went like this: the sun would dawn on a relatively peaceful household, and my mother would attempt to make breakfast for the family. Within minutes of my father’s arrival in the kitchen, however, the tension would begin to mount. My father would open up one of the brown bottles he was always drinking from—I wouldn’t realize what was in them until I was nearly in my teens—and his mood would descend with each sip. He would begin to argue with my mother, who would begin to cry. He would lose patience with her show of emotion; she would get angry at his intolerance. This would escalate until my father stormed off alone with his brown bottle, not to be seen for the rest of the day, and my mother would abandon the breakfast and go looking for my sister Kathy.

I don’t know why she chose Kathy as her target, but my older sister, mom’s second child, was the focus of almost all her resentment and rage. Whenever mom felt upset, which happened several times every day, she would hunt Kathy down and beat her brutally. She would strike from behind; Kathy, sitting at the dining-room table doing homework, innocent and unsuspecting, would feel a hard strike on the back of her head. She’d turn around to find out what was happening only to have her face slapped so hard she’d fall off her chair. “You stupid kid!” my mom would scream at her. “Get off your ass and clean the kitchen—now!”

***

I talk about these things now, and I know what they mean. My siblings and I were the victims of serious trauma and abuse. I have met with therapists, and I have searched my soul as an adult, so I understand the implications of all that I went through. Now I do. But then? I was a child, and I had no point of reference, none at all. So, I thought all of this was normal. Imagine it: I had no idea that there was anything wrong with the picture. I thought everyone had a father who could go for weeks without saying a word to his daughter. I thought every mother beat her children mercilessly. I thought nothing of the fact that my older sister had bruises on her body nearly every day of her young life. I thought it was a normal act of discipline to be thrown into the tiny crawl space under the house. While other kids were taking time outs in a corner of the living room, we were being shoved into this dank, windowless dungeon where we could feel, but not see, the rats that skittered over our ankles. I didn’t think this was strange.

***

Our memories have a way of distorting the past, filtering out details so that only foggy portraits remain. Some events, though, get preserved with crystal-clear accuracy. I remember one particular incident that happened when I was about ten years old. I had been jumping on the bed, and it had broken. My father was in the process of fixing it, and I decided to help him since I was the one who had broken it. As I walked around the mess, I accidentally stepped on a nail that protruded out of the bed frame. It imbedded itself deep in my heel. The pain was excruciating, of course; I was a brave kid, but I nearly fainted, especially when I had to pull my foot off of the nail slowly, my blood pooling on the floor. I looked up at my dad, stricken, hoping beyond hope for some comfort from this man, but it was not to be had. “How stupid can you be?” he screamed. Coming from a man who rarely spoke to me, these words were crushing. I ran from the room and bolted outside and down the long laneway. I didn’t stop until I reached the creek far from my house. I ran without shoes on, bleeding from my foot. I sat with my foot in the rushing water, hoping the bleeding would stop. I sat there and cried myself empty.

***

Every day in my house was hard, but Sundays, for some reason, were the worst. Was it because my father was an atheist, and my mother was a thwarted Christian? Was it that the absence of any spiritual foundation in our home brought people’s emotional tensions to a boil on that particular day? I don’t know, but I remember Sundays as the most painful day of the week. It was the day my father started drinking before the breakfast dishes were cleared away; it was the day my mother cried herself into a stupor. Most people say they don’t like Mondays, but I was always relieved to see the sunrise on Monday morning: it meant we had survived Sunday even if we were battered and bruised.

***

My childhood was hard, yes. The suffering continued, as you will see in the coming chapters, but all along, I had an inkling that God was with me even when it seemed most unlikely. I knew that even though my own parents couldn’t love me, there was someone, somewhere, who did. I sensed God even before I knew who He was. In the darkest moments, when all I could hear was the sound of my own breathing in the damp cold of the crawl space or the sobs of my sister as she nursed her freshest wounds, I knew there was someone to live for, and I dedicated myself to finding Him, however long it might take.

 

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