Thanks for the Splashes
Rebecca Andrea McMahon
Copyright © 2019 Rebecca Andrea McMahon
All rights reserved
First Edition
NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING
320 Broad Street
Red Bank, NJ 07701
First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2019
ISBN 978-1-64096-800-4 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-64096-801-1 (Digital)
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
To Jennifer McDowell, my heart of hearts, my one true friend, my best friend, who has been with me through it all. You have unknowingly been my strength and my weakness.
Acknowledgments
Special Thanks
To Maggie Rivers, my music teacher who had the wisdom to introduce me to Fur Elise by Beethoven, which saved me during some especially painful times. While writing this book, I would steal away to my keyboard and let the beautiful music bathe and soothe me. And for the times we spent the whole lesson sharing stories of Jesus instead of playing piano.
To Kathleen Jordan, my friend and confidante, for giving me encouragement like a waterfall and whose belief in me has kept me on task and whose kind words always included God.
Love flows one way—splashing, rumbling in a torrent toward, always, those we love. We nurture; we provide; we guide; we put them first. We know they love us; they tell us so. The love is different somehow, and we do not expect the same in return; we just know. Once in a while, not very often, when we don’t expect it; we feel a splash. We catch our breath. Then we realize, for just a moment in time, that splash is what we live for. And so I say, “Thanks for the splashes.”
For You, Lord
Lord,
Move my pen. Write with me to get my message out. People need to hear all of what I have to say and to grasp the underlying plea. Keep my pen moving, I pray.
Holy Spirit, guide me. Keep me on my course. Help me to put words down in a way that readers are blessed, for that is my intention.
In words that become difficult, I pray that you will put your healing hand on my sorrows that I may continue in this mission.
I know you love me and are my counselor, who leads me through all things. I will rely on your light and your prompting to pour my heart out on paper. I know this task is ordained by you and therefore blessed.
My Lord, in my spirit, I see the garden of Gethsemane with you seated, me at your knee. My spirit and yours are one as I worship you always.
Through you, I can shine and only through you, my bright and morning star.
Lord, you know my heart, and my heart is to see that my grandchildren make it in this world. Please hold my daughter close; she is wounded. I feel led by you to write this book and to help others. Lord, is my reasoning sound? I pray for your guidance always. I pray for salvation for my three. I must lift you up in my message, so hear me oh Lord as I submit my gifts and talents to you.
Prologue
Three babies born to parents who were not equipped to care for them, born into a world of neglect, abuse, starvation, and abandonment, struggling in their own little ways to survive, not fully understanding their hostile surroundings. These three, two girls and a boy, are exposed to horrific perils that no child should have to go through, but they survived. They came into this world given life by two drug-addicted parents who cared more for their next high than food for hungry little ones.
The grandparents on the father’s side were elderly and of ill health. The grandmother on the mother’s side watched in horror as the legal system declared that motherhood is sacred, and no amount of complaining to the authorities would change anything. She was treated as a meddler and a troublemaker and told to leave this little family alone.
Thanks for the Splashes takes you into a world that really does exist but that you’d probably not like to know about.
My Hero
Pacing, straining for that phone call, wringing my hands and reminding myself to breathe, my mind darts to all sorts of the many outcomes we could have to face. I am waiting for that phone call with a flight number, an arrival time, and a confirming voice saying, “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Not much talking—it’s all been said. I look out the living room window, nerves on high alert, tensing at any sound. Burk is with me but not nearly as anxious, not nearly as invested. After all, they were not his grandchildren being rescued after years of abuse, so he does not feel the sickening feeling I feel in the pit of my stomach.
The phone rings. I look at the caller ID. It’s them. I realize I have been standing in front of the phone for some time.
The
