The Fixer
by Janet Scholl

Why couldn’t I fix this?

I was smart. I was young. I was healthy. I was married with three beautiful girls.

It looked like I had it all, but I was beaten down, afraid and embarrassed. No one knew. No one even suspected, and why would they? I was very good at pretending.

Growing up, life was simple and good. I knew I was loved and didn’t really have anything to worry about. I spent my time at the dinner table, on the tennis court or in the church. I don’t remember ever not being in church. Even when we couldn’t go, we had a service at home. I memorized verses, learned how to recite the books of the Bible, listened to stories about giants, whales, bad guys and good guys. I knew the characters and could sing all the Vacation Bible School songs. I knew Jesus. He was God’s Son. He was the good guy in the Bible, and I colored beautiful pictures of Him.

When I was ten years old, with a childlike faith, I stood in front of the church and told everyone I believed Jesus was the Son of God, and was later baptized. I didn’t hear the angels sing or have an emotional reaction. It was just a simple act of obeying what the Bible told me to do. So life resumed as normal. I continued going to church and believing in Jesus, but to say I had a profound understanding of the Lord’s almighty power would be like suggesting an ant has a profound understanding of the power of the worldwide web. I believed, and that was enough for now.

My dad was a highly respected tennis coach. I learned how to work hard, on and off the court. I was not only taught how to play tennis, I was also taught values. I was confident, strong and blessed with a natural talent. I worked hard to win state and national championships. I played a pro- am tour in Europe, and I was on my way to play in a college tournament in Hawaii when I was diverted.

I never made it to the college tournament because I met someone at the Campus Christian Center. On the surface, he looked perfect. He went to church three times a week, made me laugh, and he wanted to get married. It seemed to make sense. My mother was only nineteen when she married; most of the women in my family married at a very early age and it worked out for all of them. Sure, let’s get married! I can truly say I don’t remember giving a single thought to praying about this decision. I just did it. So we married in the church, surrounded by family.

Then my picture-perfect life changed for the worse. My new husband’s anger appeared almost overnight. He pushed me into walls. The anger and the level of abuse quickly escalated into much more, and it never stopped for thirteen years.

I was overwhelmed and exhausted. I could hide the physical wounds, but the emotional wounds left deep scars. I lost my confidence and was afraid. But no one had to know. I could fix this if I just did the right things, trying harder, working harder.

I was struggling endlessly to make everything perfect, trying to please my husband, convincing everyone I was happy, attempting to control every situation. I was walking on eggshells, and things kept getting worse.

I often thought about how easy it would be to sit in a running car in my garage, but I couldn’t do that to my babies. Maybe a truck would hit me.

Suicidal thoughts came because I was tired. Eleven years into the marriage, I exhausted everything I knew to try. I was beaten and could not “fix it.” One day I found myself in our

 

family doctor’s office without an appointment. I walked in and asked to see the doctor. I broke down, begging him to stop prescribing medication for my husband. “If you knew how much alcohol he was consuming you wouldn’t prescribe him all those pills,” I said.

The doctor realized there was a more immediate problem. Me. He directed me down the hall to a counselor. I didn’t even take the time to stop and think about what I was doing. I just followed his advice and walked down the hall, again entering a doctor’s office without an appointment. A wonderful counselor and a true gentleman greeted me.

The counselor listened and counseled me for two years. He reminded me of the Serenity Prayer. I knew that prayer because it hung in my grandmother’s home. It said to accept the things I could not change, to ask for courage to change the things I could, and wisdom to know the difference. I finally had peace in leaving my abusive marriage. I gave everything I had to give.

It was time to make the call to my parents. I knew if I told them what was happening, they would rescue me, and they did. That’s one of the reasons I never told them sooner. I wasn’t ready to give up, and I didn’t want to explain why I was choosing to stay. But now I had made the call, and my daddy arrived like a knight in shining armor. I was barely able to move; I just went through the motions, packed what we needed and loaded it into the car.

I’ll never forget the moment I looked in the rearview mirror from the backseat and saw my daddy crying. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him cry before. I felt horrible. This is what I feared. I didn’t want to hurt people. But it was done. I had to press on.

People ask me why I didn’t tell anyone; why I didn’t leave. I still can’t explain it. There’s not a simple answer to that question. A little over a year after we married, we gave birth to our first daughter prematurely. She was tiny. When you’ve shared an experience like this, it complicates life even more and you hold on to what you know. But after thirteen years I had to let go.

Since I hadn’t talked with anyone but God for the first eleven years of my marriage, we developed a very close relationship. Jesus was no longer just a character in a Bible story like I learned as a child; He was my friend and my comforter. He was the one who sustained me. It wasn’t just about book knowledge anymore; I gained heart knowledge.

Now it was time to start a new, easier life. I paid my dues; I’d met my quota of pain and I survived.

While the next four years were challenging, I still saw myself heading back up the mountaintop. I was rebuilding my life and my confidence.

A single mom of three little girls, with a full-time job, I volunteered as a volleyball coach for the older girls’ teams. I had the love and support of my family and friends, and my faith was stronger than ever. Life wasn’t easy, but it was good.

One day, I heard someone say “Hi Shorty.” Since I’m six feet tall, I had never been called that in my life. It got my attention. I turned around and found myself looking at a tall, handsome stranger. It was love at first sight for me! But this time I wasn’t going to rush into anything. I had to take care of my girls. Of course he wasn’t too anxious to rush into anything either. He needed to figure it out, because I was a package deal. We dated for four years before marrying, and I can truly say he is my Prince Charming. God blessed me with more than I could have ever imagined in a husband. I don’t know how I would have made it through the following years without him.

My youngest was one-and-a-half years old when my first marriage ended. As the years progressed, people told me they were concerned she wasn’t developing at the pace of her peers. I was in complete denial. I enrolled her in kindergarten, and soon received a call they wanted to meet with me. The next journey began. Years of testing, years of therapies, doctor after doctor, a laundry list of diagnoses. Every time another doctor would add a new diagnosis, I grieved all over again. One day, a very wise person told me, “She’s the same child she was before you walked into that doctor’s office; it’s just a new label.” That was true, and it helped tremendously, but she had so many labels.

At the same this was going on, my middle daughter was complaining her back hurt. We went to doctors, specialists, and more doctors. She had X-rays, MRI’s, CT Scans, and every test imaginable. With each doctor came a new diagnosis and a new treatment plan, seven in all. She literally crawled through the house some days. Finally, after two years, we were convinced to try one more specialist. He ordered a full-body scan that revealed a stress fracture. A full body cast and a few months later, she was feeling no pain and feeling good, and I was again feeling like I could “fix things.” At least I could find the doctors who could fix things, even if it did take a long time.

One day in the midst of all this, I called my parents to tell them the latest development in my seemingly never- ending list of medical updates. Daddy listened, then in his Texas drawl, with a little chuckle, he commented, “Well, after this, there’ll be something else.” What? Really? Where was the sympathy? Where was the encouragement? Hadn’t I paid my dues and had my share of hard times?

But by now, I knew he was right. There’s always another challenge in life. We aren’t allotted one or two problems; in fact, there’s no limit. Trials are a part of life, and I don’t even get to choose the ones I want to experience. If I did, I would make sure they didn’t involve my children suffering. I could take anything, but leave my girls alone!

A couple of months after my middle daughter’s recovery from the back fracture, she came in one Saturday morning with a strange look on her face. She thought she was having seizures in her sleep. It didn’t seem possible, but something about the look on her face told me I needed to take this serious. We started with a new set of doctors. At one point, I went to twenty-one doctors with Amy and Cara in less than two months. New tests, new X-rays, CT scans and MRI’s. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect the phone call so soon. They found something. I couldn’t even pronounce that word the doctor just said, but I heard “brain surgeon.” It was surreal. We scheduled an appointment with a world-famous surgeon and made the decision to let her go to the volleyball camp she had her heart set on. Can you imagine? How do you send your child off to a volleyball camp when she may need brain surgery? I still don’t know how I let go of her for that week.

Amy went to Abilene Christian University for a weeklong camp, not knowing what would happen when she returned. I fasted and prayed. On the last night of her camp, my husband and I attended a service at our church. We prayed and we sang. I was overwhelmed with a sense of peace when we ended the evening with the song, “It is Well with My Soul.” The words got my attention, “Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say, it is well, it is well with my soul.” Did I really believe that? Yes, I did. I gave the burden to God and He took away the immense feelings of fear and replaced it with peace.

As I walked out of the church, Amy called me. She was excited to tell me about the devotional they just had at camp. They had learned the story of the song “It is Well with My Soul.”

Wow!

God used the same song to minister to both of us at the same time in two different cities. I knew, that I knew, that I knew, God was in control and everything was going to be okay.

When Amy came home from camp, we went to see the brain surgeon and scheduled the surgery. I was brave and confident in the One that could fix this, but I’ll never forget the moment I saw her after surgery. She had thirty-two metal staples across the top of her head, and her golden blonde curls were matted with blood. All the tubes and monitors were overwhelming to look at. As a matter of fact, my daddy, my knight in shining armor, had to run out of the room. It was more than he could bear, but God filled me up with a strength I couldn’t have had on my own. She spent a month in the hospital, and I was with her every moment.

Two months later, Amy was back in school getting ready for one of her senior dances. I was proud to be her mom. And secretly, I was a little proud of myself. I had “fixed this” by taking her to all the doctors, finding the best surgeon and nurturing her back to health.

Back to my youngest daughter. So far we had spent seven years trying to help her. Seven years of therapies, medications, research, and many tears. There were tears of exhaustion and frustration.

Why couldn’t I “fix this?”

We hired an advocate to help us maneuver the school system. She was an absolute angel in my eyes. With direction and help, we found the answer.

Autism.

It didn’t change Cara, but it helped us to understand why she acted the way she did, why she wasn’t progressing the way she should, and it gave me a new hope that I could “fix” this too. I just needed to learn more, spend more money and try harder. More therapies, special diets, research, tutoring, Autism conferences, workshops, more reading, and more prayer. I prayed earnestly for healing. I wanted healing and I wanted answers. The more I read, the more I was convinced I knew the answer to “why,” but all the answer did was make me angry. I was angry with everyone, doctors, teachers, pharmaceutical companies, the government, and myself. Anger was making me physically ill. It felt like I had a vice tightening on my temples.

One morning, I thought I clearly heard the message that I should forget the past and press on. It wasn’t audible, but it just suddenly came to mind. I knew that scripture. I would have to look it up.

A couple mornings later, I was going through the motions, putting my makeup on, trying to get ready to face another day. I was depressed, and exhausted. At that time, I rarely listened to music while getting ready, but that particular morning, I needed anything inspirational. I turned on the radio and heard a song I had never heard before. The main theme of the song was about finding the strength through Jesus to press on.

Wait a minute, that’s the scripture I just looked up, Philippians 3:13–14.

“Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

I did not hear the name of the song or the group, but I knew I had to find it! I went to the Christian bookstore that day and there it was. That song was my battle cry. I wore out the CD, and I’m sure I got more than a few weird looks while driving and singing my heart out with tears streaming down my face, but I didn’t care. I was being restored again.

I drove home one evening, listening to my song, singing loudly and feeling stronger than I had in a long time. As I was driving, it occurred to me that my head didn’t hurt. I couldn’t remember the last time my head didn’t hurt; but it was true, the pain and the intense pressure was gone.

Part of “pressing on” was the realization Cara needed more than we could give her. It was evident she needed to be in a group home; but if you’ve ever tried to find that needle in a haystack, you know it’s not that easy. There are over 84,000 people in the greater Dallas Metroplex with intellectual and developmental disabilities who are unable to live independently, but only 2,000 beds. Many of these individuals will end up homeless when their parents die.

I knew my family wouldn’t let that happen to Cara, but I didn’t want to burden anyone. I was going to fix it. I would find a safe, clean, affordable place for Cara. I had a plan. God must have laughed because every time I tried to get Cara into the home I chose for her; inevitably, something unimaginable would happen and the door would close. What would we do? Waiting lists were long, and the private facilities I found cost as much as $4,500 per month. That wasn’t even an option for us.

Once again, I found out God does his best work when we get out of the way. Sometimes we don’t get out of the way willingly, so He has to move us out of the way. That’s exactly what happened in our case. He moved us completely out of the way in circumstances I could never have imagined. Without a single doubt in our minds, we know Cara is exactly where God wants her because there’s no other explanation for how everything transpired.

She is now living in a group home, one mile from my parents’ home and five minutes from my oldest daughter’s work. We know Cara will thrive and be happier living in this type of setting, but that hasn’t made it easy. As a mom, I selfishly wanted to always take care of her, protect her, spoil her, and, when the time was right, I wanted to be the one to help her move in to her home, share the fun of seeing her make new friends and realize how much fun she’s going to have, but that wasn’t God’s plan.

I think I got a taste of how Moses must have felt. He led the people to the Promised Land, but didn’t get the privilege of seeing them enjoy it. Remember, I had been moved completely out of the way, I didn’t get to help her move in, meet her roommates or decorate her room. I had to accept by faith that she would be okay. More than that, I had to decide God would always take care of her.

There was now peace about Cara, but in the midst of trying to fix my younger daughters, my oldest daughter had been suffering in silence. The counselor couldn’t give me details, but wanted to tell me she should be on suicide watch. I was knocked off my feet.

What happened? I knew she was struggling. The relationship with her boyfriend and the relationship with her biological father were both bad, but was it something else? Was it me? Doctor/patient confidentiality kept him from telling me anything. He said it would all come out and he just needed to make sure I kept a close eye on her over the weekend.

I hung up. A horrible thought entered my mind. Did someone hurt her? Did he? I knew. I called her and asked the question I didn’t want to hear the answer to.

Silence.

The silence spoke volumes. I was right. I had hurt before. I had hurt physically, mentally and emotionally, but my heart had never felt pain and sorrow like this. I literally fell to my knees in desperation. I knew I couldn’t fix this. I was powerless.

All I could do was pray, and I did. I prayed like I had never prayed before. So many times I gave my children to God, trusting He would take care of them; but then I always took them back again, relying on my ability to fix things. This time I knew only God could restore her.

It was a painful time, but we survived. At least I thought we were okay. A few years later, Jennifer hit bottom. She was beaten, tired, scared, and crying out for help. She needed to leave her husband and move home with our grandson. My bad habit of thinking I could fix things showed up again. I was wrong. The harder I tried, the worse things got. Once again, I was in denial. But over time, I had to face the truth when the truth stared me in the face. There were lots of bottles of prescription pain pills, evidence of an addiction. It was time for me to let go again. I had to admit I was just as powerless over the drugs as my daughter was. I could not control her decisions or her actions. I felt guilty. I felt like a failure as a mom. We took her to a hospital for help. I was numb, but anything with the word “hope” gave me reason to press on. I went to sessions with her. I needed to learn what we were dealing with and how I could help. I learned I could not fix her problems, but it was enough right now just to stand by her, offer a hug and a shoulder for her to cry on. I learned I didn’t cause it, I couldn’t control it and I couldn’t cure it. I had to give her up again. I’m a slow learner.

She made it through the thirty days. Now she’s made it two years. I am so proud of her.

I believe with all my heart God has a purpose for our sufferings, and I believe Jennifer and Amy will do amazing things to help others. Even with Cara, I have people come up to me and show me simple messages of hope and encouragement she’s written them on church attendance cards. My girls are beautiful shining stars in God’s universe.

I am thankful God gave us the resources, knowledge, wisdom and abilities to fight for Cara’s rights and safety, and to help Jennifer and Amy. I am a better person for all the trials and tribulations we endured. I wouldn’t have chosen the journey, but I can honestly say I’m thankful for it. A very wise lady once told me we should pray that God would give our children enough pain to keep them on their knees. That’s a hard prayer to pray, but it’s true.

Like my daddy said, there’ll always be another challenge, but I won’t give up and I’m learning all the way. I’ve learned God doesn’t just sustain me during adversity; He restores me. I’ve learned God doesn’t waste adversity; He uses it. I trust He is doing something much larger with my life than merely giving me a good life, free of struggle, and I’ve learned to accept I don’t have to know all the answers.

I have learned we will hurt, we will suffer, we will be treated unfairly, we will be taken advantage of, we will be betrayed, and we will experience disappointments. We will even experience these things from our own husbands, children, friends and family.

All the trials, all the struggles, all the suffering, all the worries, all the pain, all the unanswered questions, it’s not about me and what I want, it’s all part of God’s story, and He can fix anything!

Janet Scholl was born and raised in Texas. Her Texas roots, Christian heritage and love for family run deep. She is married to her Prince Charming, has three daughters and four precious grandchildren. Janet’s personal experiences through many trials and her will to press on, will encourage and challenge you.