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

Holyday, Elisabeth

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1456740407 ISBN 13: 9781456740405

Publisher: AuthorHouse, 2011

Synopsis

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.

About this title

About the Author

"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.

"

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

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. I remember thinking that he was too intelligent to be a preacher because the pastor at our church didn't have a rich vocabulary like he did. And as young as I was, I have never forgotten the chorus that was sung at that Meeting, "Ye Men of Galilee Why Stand Ye Gazing." It sort of made me feel sad, like I was just gazing when God had work for me to do. And when I think about it now, it makes me wonder if there had been a call on my life long before I had the sense to recognize it.

Looking at my mother's appearance attending church, no one would have guessed it was the same dress and tie-head that she wore all the time for every occasion: Prayer Meetings; Concerts; Fasting; Funeral; Convention; you name it; everything. It was as though she lived by Ecclesiastes Chapter 9:8, always in full white with a laced embroidered handkerchief in her breast pocket and her Hymn Book and Bible in her hand, or as she liked to call them, "Chart & Compass." On one occasion, a brother in church said to me, "Elisabeth, if you can't afford to go somewhere don't go." He might as well have been talking to the dead. My dress was clean but a bit tight, that was no reason whatsoever to stop from Church. Anyone who knew me; knew that as long as I wasn't naked I was going to church; it didn't matter if it was worn, patched or tight. And in spite of the poverty that ravished our family, my mother's relationship with God was the bedrock of our family. The church was our anchor. We had no Sunday matinee or TV, not even a radio but there was always something happening at church; whether it was a Candlelight Service, Convention or Concert, something was always happening. To be in the audience at a Concert and listen to my mother recite a Poem, was as though she was guided by the Poet himself, flawlessly gliding from line to line with amazing grace and eloquence. Even though I recited, it was Mother who got the encores, especially when she did renditions of My Lord and I, & The Oration. Our passion for church coupled with the loving bond we shared glued us together. It is on that foundation that I have managed to stand, even now.

My earliest memories of home, was a one bedroom bamboo house with a hall. It was one of three homes in the yard forming a triangle with my mother's at the top, and Brothers Phil and Victor on either side at the lower ends. The root and the branches of a huge Nesberry tree in front of the house served as veranda for family gatherings. My mother's pride and joy was her heart shaped pink and white June Rose Garden perched on a slope to the right side of the tree root which she diligently attended to daily.

My mother, my sister, my little brother and I all shared the same bed which was created by setting pieces of board on wooden posts. The only disadvantage was that if a piece of the board shifted, one of us could fall off the bed, and the wood at times gathered little insects which stung like mosquitoes. Our mattress was made with dried banana leaves from the trunk of the tree which we stuffed in a blue and white pyjama—stripe bag. Whenever it got too flat, mother would open the bag, washed it, and we'd stuff it again with freshly dried leaves and mother would sew up the end. Each time a new one was created it was crispy so my brother and I would play jumping jacks on it while singing, "We get new mattress, we get new mattress, we get new mattress." The boards tumbled off, but that was part of the fun, to reposition them and to keep jumping and chanting. Our makeshift mattress proved far more comfortable than the heavily coiled spring mattress introduced years later that bore into our bodies, and caused us to wake up in pain.

Alongside our bed was a huge mahogany chest mother inherited, which served both as an ironing board and clothes storage but there were those who thought it was a chest full of money that she inherited. I'll never forget the time when she sent me to get credit from her Shopkeeper niece how she frowned and asked me what happened to the chest-full-of-money mother inherited. It hurts to see how we were struggling and a niece could feel that way. Thankfully my mother never sent me to her again, she would always send me to the other Shopkeeper across from her niece's and said, "go to Sister Williams, her mother has a lot of children so she understands."

Our living hall furniture was very minimal, a small wooden table with two chairs, a hymn book, Bible, a kerosene lamp with the home-sweet-home lamp shade and a small glass cabinet. All my life growing up at home, that little table was where countless devotion took place every night. It was where mother sat and did all her mending, and it was there by her feet, at that little table, where I first learnt about the Creator of the Universe. Gracing the bamboo walls was a huge picture frame bearing the words of The Lord's Prayer that was intricately carved through a bed of pink and white rose that my father had brought home from Cuba. Inside the little glass cabinet were two treasured items, a blue and white ceramic bowl that weighed about fifteen pounds which my great grandmother bought for six pence, my father's drinking glass and some made in England china wares which she inherited from her ancestors.

We made our own doorway mats by gathering scraps of materials from dressmakers and used hair pins to hook them on to crocus bags. It took a lot of scraps, patience and time but the finished product with the richness of a variety of colors complemented the strawberry-dyed hardwood floors. We never had a refrigerator but we didn't miss one because mother inherited a huge Spanish jar made from clay which kept our drinking water just as cool and refreshing as any refrigerator. And we never had a clock or radio to tell the time of day, but mother could guess the time of day by the position of the sun on the ground or when aeroplanes passed over.

We had a variety of fruit trees including avocado and a variety of herbs to make tea, but we were usually short of sugar. I remember picking chocolate and pounding it, then forming them into little balls and leaving them to dry until we were ready to use them to make chocolate tea; and I have never forgotten the aroma of freshly picked coffee beans boiling from a distance. There was yam and banana that we could harvest but the crops were far between so we credited groceries from the Shopkeeper. And like sugar, we were always short of meat. In most instances we settled for a little coconut oil on our food.

There were two homes close to my mother's on nearby family land: one behind and the other to the far left. It was pathetic to listen to the the way that man to the far left used to beat his wife, sometimes just months after having a baby, for hours. It sounded as though everything in the little one bedroom shack was being destroyed. One day when she escaped and ran to get his mother, it was a complete waste of time. When she returned with his mother he began to beat her again. His mother walked away with her behind shooting up in the air and her chest bowing towards the ground with the long bad smelling tobacco pipe in her mouth. As a little girl I could only look on in horror helplessly but I have never forgotten what that woman said as she walked away: "me nuh mek nuh match and mi naw bruk nuh match" (I didn't make any match, and I won't break any match). That's why many, many years later when the couple's son faced the capital charge I paid for his defence. He was a product of his environment.

A cousin, who lived a little further away, closer to where Brother Phil kept his pig tied, could be heard reading his Bible all day every Sunday. He sounded more like a child learning to count. By midweek when he began to beat his common law wife, it sounded like everything in the little bamboo shack was tumbling over. Amazingly, these men were never stopped. No one intervened, ever.

Another cousin who lived on adjoining family property behind our house had strange behaviours, he always talked to himself. Wherever he went, whatever was discussed, we could count on hearing him grumbling to himself about it. I didn't understand it because he was a brilliant man with fine penmanship and a retiree of the Royal Air Force with a steady job at the Sugar Estate in the capacity of a scale clerk; but something was needling him. I remembered Brother Phil beckoning to him to untie the pig from the sun on his way home for lunch one day but he didn't.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from MY SOUL CRIED OUT ... BUT I COULD NOT WEEPby Elisabeth Holyday Copyright © 2011 by Elisabeth Holyday. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Publication date: 2011
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1456740407
• ISBN 13: 9781456740405
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 360