(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

(This story is dedicated to my Mom, one of my lifelines.)

IN April of 1997, only three months after dismantling my life, shoving it into a moving truck and hauling it all the way to “Nowhere,” West Virginia, I was informed that my services as a husband were no longer needed and I should find employment and lodging elsewhere. There was no severance pay and all retirement arrangements were rendered null and void, along with all promises, vows, and kindnesses heretofore bestowed, implied or faked, either intentionally or accidentally during the previous period of cohabitation. “TaTa! Tootles! Don’t let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya!”

With my books, clothes and 12-string Fender acoustic guitar loaded in my Mercury Villager mini van, I began my reluctant journey back to New Jersey. My heart was so heavy that it would have been easier to carry the van itself for 400 miles than to drive in such a beaten down emotional condition. Mile after slow mile I moved farther away from my two beautiful daughters who I loved with all my heart and away from the woman who I no longer knew. Several times I stopped at pay phones (which would soon become a key means of contact with any type of sanity) to call my mom. Moms are good at bringing you home when you’re hurt. They never say, “I tried to warn you in the first place,” or any heartless things like that. They just say, “I love you. The porch light will be on and I’ll be awake when you get here.”

I stopped so many times on that trip. Steadily the emotional weight of what I was facing pressed down upon me. It was the beginning of a long road that I did not want to travel. I never wanted to be divorced the first time, let alone go through it again. How could I bear it? How could I go through the heartache again? How could I endure living so far from my daughters? How would I ever make it? I could not. Everything inside of me said that I could not do it.

Before it was even very late in the evening, I was as exhausted as if I had been awake for a month. In another call to mom, she insisted that I find a well-lit area to sleep for a little while. Just a few exits down the highway and I spotted a luminous oasis in southern Pennsylvania. At first I thought it was a mirage, a cruel trickery upon my weary eyes. But it was real! It was substantial! I had arrived at the Golden Arches! Thank God for well-lit McDonald’s parking lots!

I slept for possibly an hour there. Yet, when I awoke, the sadness was even harder to bear. For a moment I didn’t know where I was or why I was there. As sleep faded, the reality of my situation was forced upon me again. From that point, this experience repeated itself with nearly perfect consistency for the next several months. At times I dreaded falling asleep because I knew what awaited me on the other side when I awoke.

BACK in New Jersey, I spent the first month at my parents’ house. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I lost 15 pounds in the first few weeks. (If only I could lose 15 pounds so easily now!)

I had called my old boss at Readington Farms before I left West Virginia. He said to give him a call when I was back in Jersey and he would find work for me. For nearly 11 years before I went to WV, I held one of the best positions in the plant as a milk pasteurizer (sung to the tune of “Paperback Writer” by the Beatles). I called when I arrived in NJ. I was told to wait a few weeks until something opened up.

After two weeks they did have a position for me. I was offered a job scrubbing drains, emptying garbage cans, fetching supplies for machine operators – not to mention being made subordinate to one of the laziest guys in the place. Since I had been gone just two weeks over their allowable three-month absence period, I was considered a brand new hire. There would be no uniforms for 90 days. I would have to go through a physical and a drug test. I would have no health coverage for 90 days. I would work three daytime shifts and two late night shifts (every day of the week showed up on my time card one way or another). “Oh, by the way, Mr. Snyder, your pay will be $2 less an hour than you were making three and a half months ago. Glad you’re back!”

Thus began a period of humiliation and practical torture at the hands of some co-workers who were all too happy to see that I had “failed.” “We knew you’d be back! We knew you wouldn’t be able to make it work! Now fetch me a box of plastic caps for these milk bottles!”

I AM sure that you already realize that these were dark and sad days. Admittedly, these were days of heart-broken agony and tears. The only way out was through. I didn’t want to go through. I just wanted out. They were confusing and colorless days. They were days of betrayal and abandonment. Several lines from Psalm 88, arguably the darkest and loneliest piece of poetry ever written (sacred or secular), reflect my state of mind during those days:

“My soul is full of troubles: and my life draweth nigh unto the grave. I am counted with them that go down into the pit: I am as a man that hath no strength: Free among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave, whom Thou rememberest no more: and they are cut off from Thy hand. Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the deeps. Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and Thou hast afflicted me with all Thy waves. Thou hast put away mine acquaintance far from me; Thou hast made me an abomination unto them: I am shut up, and I cannot come forth… Lord, why castest Thou off my soul? Why hidest Thou Thy face from me? Lover and friend hast Thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness.” (verses 3 – 8, 14, 18)
I distinctly remember one day when I came home from work, I barely had enough energy to close the door behind me. I literally collapsed on the floor, dropping my lunch box. For some time I lay there and sobbed, “Why? Why? Why?” The sun set. The house became dark. I fell asleep on the floor, awoke in the middle of the night and crawled my way into bed.

I had entered the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

AFTER the first month back in New Jersey, I received a phone call from my good friend, LeRoy Magyar. He was living in his parents’ home, a large multi-bedroom house in Glen Gardner (in the photo above), all by himself. He offered me a room. I lived there for six months, enjoying the quiet surroundings, until I was finally able to afford my own apartment just around the corner from LeRoy. I was forced out of the first room I occupied at his house by his cat that insisted on pissing on my possessions. (Could things possibly get any worse?) The second room was very small, just enough room for several boxes of books, a mattress, and my ever faithful companion, Elijah Job (see the previous article). It was a tiny room but it afforded the luxury of a door that the cat could not open.

WHILE in West Virginia for three months, I received no money. Oh, there was the promise of money before we moved there. But once we were actually there, everything changed. My mother-in-law (bless her stony heart) even denied ever promising that there would be money for us. Bankruptcy was unavoidable. The mortgage company foreclosed on our house. The bank was hot on my heels to repossess the van. I had left West Virginia without a penny in my pocket. For the first few months back in New Jersey, I borrowed my father’s Exxon card to pay for gas in order to travel see my girls.

Since the bank was seeking to repossess the van, I purchased a car in West Virginia for $800. It looked fine… until I paid for it. The thing barely made it home to New Jersey. One of the back windows fell out a few weeks later. The headliner sagged so that it was resting on my head as I drove. The power steering system leaked fluid and needed to be refilled constantly. LeRoy named it the “Blue Bomb.” It became my “get away car.” It was a way to get around without the bank finding the van. I hid the van at LeRoy’s place. For work I drove the Blue Bomb. I only used the van when I went to West Virginia to see the girls since it was reliable. When the Blue Bomb became too beastly to drive, I gave it to LeRoy’s brother who drove it in the demolition derby at a local fair. It went down in flames of glory.

AFTER a few months apart from my wife, it became apparent that she had determined to go her own way and there would be no reconciliation. To be sure, I continued to hope for at least 18 months that there would be. I trudged through many days of sorrow and dashed expectations. I prayed and held onto at least the idea of hope. There were no hopeful signs that gave any legitimacy to doing so. Desperation will cause a man to pray. Often in the extremities of his desperation a man will find his faith. Again this is reflected in Psalm 88:13, “But unto Thee have I cried, O Lord; and in the morning shall my prayer prevent Thee.” I find it interesting that a glimmer of hope appears even in the midst of the lowest experiences of this writer.

From the beginning of this ordeal I made up my mind that no matter what happened, I would fight to be close to my daughters and spend all of my energies to develop a bond with them. They were only one and three years old at that time. I decided that I would see them every two weeks. Eventually my schedule changed at the dairy and I had Wednesdays and Sundays off. So I would work until 6 PM on a Tuesday, then drive 320 miles from New Jersey to a friend’s house in West Virginia. On Wednesday morning I would drive another 50 miles to pick up my girls. I would then drive the full 370 miles back to New Jersey and go to work the following morning. I did this 20 times in 1997. Nearly 14,000 miles because I loved my daughters.

When I arrived at their house, my wife refused to talk to me or discuss anything. Most of the time she flat out ignored me, not even saying, “Hello,” “Good-bye,” or “Go to hell.” On New Years Day, 1998, I brought a friend along for the ride to retrieve the girls. When we got there she was happy to see my friend (actually a mutual friend of ours). “It’s so great to see you! How’s this? How’s that? How’s the other thing?” She kissed the girls good-bye and went back into the house without even acknowledging that I was there. I begged my friend to punch me as hard as he could so that I would at least know that I existed. Instead, he drove while I collapsed in the passenger seat through West Virginia and half of Maryland.

Most of these trips I made alone. This is when the pay phones became my lifelines. Often I would stop and call Pastor Alan Dunn, using a calling card. Many times he patiently spoke with me, listened to me, prayed with me, and helped me to drive on. Often I would call my mom or a close friend who listened to me over and over, telling the same sad story and asking the same unanswerable questions. All of these people were saints and angels, sources of inspiration and points of sanity in an otherwise crazy and seemingly pointless life. Often they kept me moving. They prevented me from careening off of many emotional cliffs during those days. I thank them.

YOU must know that these details are merely a sampling of the painful experiences that were my life in 1997 and much of 1998. My private journals are full of entries such as these:

“September 3, 1997 – I picked the girls up at 9:15 AM. They were very excited to see me. M went nuts! She reached her hands out towards me and started yelling. I picked her up and she just held on real tightly! I didn’t break down in front of [her]. I got the rest of my clothes. It didn’t seem to bother her at all to see me packing my stuff in the car.”
“September 10, 1997 – I had to cut down a lot of weeds at the house in Easton (see previous entry). Being there really hurt emotionally. The thought that [she] abandoned me is more than I can bear. Going to the house just brings back a flood of memories and a mountain of regret.”
“October 29, 1997 – This morning I woke up around 9:00 or so. I had to force myself to get up because I was so sad and God seemed to be so far away.”
You get the picture.

I HAVE often wished that I were the last of the human race that had to go through such harsh experiences. I have wished that I were the last person who ever had to face betrayal and abandonment. I have desired to be the last to have their heart broken, the last to deal with the stress and frustration of a failed relationship. I would absorb it all if the rest of the human family were at peace with one another and loved one another from their hearts. I will drive the miles for them. I will cry their tears and carry their heartaches. All I need is a pay phone every 100 miles and a friend on the other end of the line to keep me going. Sure, that is unrealistic. But I desire it. Now, when I meet someone who is going through tough times, dark days, and confusing experiences that make them feel alienated from all else around them, I say, “I understand. That’s where I used to live.” In reality that is all I can do. Yet in my heart, I wish that I could make it all better for them, set things right, restore their comfort, wrap my arms around them and protect them. If I say to YOU, “I understand,” look deeper into my eyes. Where once there were tears, there are now depths of compassion and empathy. I know what it is like to be where you are. I’ll do my best to help you through.

(Originally posted on the website Continuum…)

(This story is dedicated to Peter Martin*)

IN the picture accompanying this article (taken in April 2003), if you look through the fence, past the trees and across the river, you will see a road going up the hill through the leafless trees. Just a short distance from the crest of that hill is where I used to live – in another life, very long ago. It was seven years ago actually. I lived there before my second divorce. I thought I would tell you about it.

Seven years ago, there were seven people living in that house. J was 12 years old (the same year we discovered he had a seizure disorder), S was 10 years old (I have a cute picture of her as a Girl Scout that year), T was 9 years old (a cool kid even then), H was 2 (with the most beautiful blonde curls), and little M was less than a year (not even walking yet). Oh yeah, Sam and the woman he was married to were… older than the kids. (Did you think I’d give away my age? Ha!)

WHEN we first bought the house, the living room was “velvetted” with the lushest of 1970’s orange shag carpet. It was not “retro-70s.” It had really been there since the 70s. Also, the stains from the former occupant who used to change the oil of his motorcycle in the living room were a charming touch. The paneling was of a deep color I believe is called “Death by Mahogany.” The kitchen had a somewhat lighter paneling (“Suicide in Pine”), with an orange counter, which cleverly matched the chaos happening in the living room. Amazingly, the rest of the house was “normal” with white plaster walls and nothing-to-speak-of carpeting.

After a year or so of orange torture, we decided to remodel the living room. I removed the paneling only to discover orange walls! When I “dropped” the drop ceiling, what do you think I found? Unbelievable! An orange ceiling! Think of it! Orange above! Orange below! Orange all around! What were they thinking???

“I like orange. I just want to sit around all day, puff the magic dragon and listen to Led Zeppelin, while surrounded by orange.”

You idiot! They sang “The Lemon Song,” not “The Orange Song!” Yellow would have been more tolerable! Especially in a pastel! You had your bands mixed up. You must have had a Tangerine Dream 8-track in the old player when you were tokin’ on one! Man!

WITH the help of friends and family, I did the living room right. The kids were issued claw hammers and promptly went to work gutting the room. We stripped it down to plain old brick. Then I installed new insulation, sheet rock, and spackling. The walls were painted an off-white color. New berber carpet was laid. A stucco ceiling and ceiling fans added the finishing touches. Nice.

Even before the renovation, friends and family were often found in our home. Hospitality was the sign over the door. We didn’t care if we knew you forever or just met you when you showed up at the door. You were welcome. You were fed. You were valued.

For example, one of my fondest memories is of a time when our friends, Rich and Susan, were experiencing hard financial times. Without much ado or even a second thought, we headed to our big freezer full of groceries and filled a few bags up for them. What did we give them? The filet mignon! Damn right! Our mottos were, “It’s better to give than to receive,” and “Let them eat filet mignon!” (and cake only if they finished their vegetables)

In those days, we were Christians, actively involved in church and practical in caring about people. It was common for our living room to be filled with 20 or more people on a Friday night for times of informal singing and Bible study. (Imagine me with hair past my shoulders, an earring, jeans and a T-shirt, teaching from the Bible! Stranger things have happened! Remember the orange living room?) Afterwards there were always refreshments: tea, coffee, pastries. Hospitality was the word.

YET, somehow the weather changed. Cold winds drifted through and someone’s heart grew cold. The new walls lost their luster and the new carpeting offered no comfort. When I said, “I feel like I lost your heart somewhere along the way,” she simply laughed. Fall had arrived and winter was quickly approaching.

It was decided that we would move from Easton, Pennsylvania to Belington, West Virginia. The plan was that we would help my then mother-in-law with her start-up software company. It was a grand plan. I would be sent to school to learn computer programming. We would live with her on 40 acres of pristine West Virginia land. This would enable us to improve our financial condition and provide better careers for us.

The catch was that the three children from my first marriage were going to live with their mom in New Jersey when we moved. You have to understand how difficult this decision was for me. I had cared for these three children on my own for several years, due to alcoholism and drug abuse on my first wife’s part. I potty trained them. I made sure their immunizations were up to date. I saw them off to kindergarten on their first days of school. I fed them, bathed them, read to them, nurtured them. I baked the birthday cakes and wrapped the presents. I was Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy all in one. (One year “Santa” forgot to dispose of the extra wrapping paper. His explanation was that he wanted to leave the wrapping so that the children would have something to wrap gifts for other people in and learn how to be generous like he was. Whew! They bought it!) It was extremely hard to allow them to go live with their mother while I moved 400 miles away.

MY heart was not fully engaged in moving to West Virginia, as you can well imagine. I worried for my children. I worried about living with my mother-in-law who did not think well of me to begin with. I worried about the subtle eerie vibes I was picking up from my wife.

During Christmas break in 1996, J, S, and T moved to their mom’s house. On December 26, the day after Christmas, my wife’s brother and her mother’s boyfriend arrived with a rented U-haul trailer to move her and our two little girls to West Virginia. They almost left before I even got home from work to say good-bye. (In hindsight, that should have been one of several warning signals I should have picked up on.) I was scheduled to follow them a month later in order to put in enough time on my job to earn another full week of vacation. It was a lonely month. Everyone was gone. Even most of our friends had been alienated either by choice or by misunderstanding. I felt isolated. Alone. I remember one night, standing in the middle of that once congregational but now deserted living room, with tears on my cheeks and a sense of impending but unavoidable trouble. Yet, even then, I could have never imagined the upheaval and heartache that were soon to come.

I was left to pack up the house on my own. The scope of the job was daunting. The growing sadness in my heart made it burdensome. I am thankful for two friends who so kindly helped me at that point. LeRoy Magyar arrived one night and patiently helped me wrap china and Corelle dishes in old newspapers. Pete Martin came on the night before I was to depart for West Virginia and helped me load the house into a U-haul until 3 in the morning. We even ripped out the berber carpet, rolled it up and taped it tightly (then proceeded to clobber each other with rolls of carpet that weighed millions of pounds!).

I spent three months in West Virginia while things steadily deteriorated with my wife. It takes two to make a relationship work. But it can take just one to end it. Once one decides in his or her heart that they are no longer going to work to sustain the relationship, there is no amount of effort, sacrifice, begging, promising, crying or praying that the other person can do to make any difference at all. It is over whether you like it or not. At that point I was rather heartlessly advised by my wife to “just get a grip and deal with it.”

IN April of 1997, I was back in my home state of New Jersey. I was broken-hearted, bankrupt financially, separated from the three children I worked so hard to raise, 400 miles from my two daughters who were only 1 and 3, and isolated from my former friends. Some compared me to Job in the Bible. No, my children had not been killed by a freak storm. I still had my health. But for all intents and purposes, the seeming unfairness of it all was strikingly similar to Job’s. (In fact, my kids brought a gerbil home from school at that time. They gave him to me because they “didn’t want me to be alone.” We named him Elijah Job because Elijah was a man like any other man who prayed fervently and God heard him (James 5:17, 18). Job was a man who faced unprecedented hardships yet said, “Though He (God) slay me, yet will I trust in Him.” (Job 13:15)

I could go into details about this part of the story. (Maybe some day I will.) I could tell you how it felt to walk back into that old house in April of 1997. I could describe how it was haunted with the sounds of laughter and children’s voices. I could tell you of how I had to chop down the overgrown yard with the only tool available – a shovel – while tears streamed from my eyes and blood dripped from my hands. I could tell you of the humiliation I was forced to endure when I returned to my former place of employment. After holding one of the best jobs for 13 years, upon my return I was given a position of cleaning drains and scrubbing floors – for $2 less an hour than I was making just three months prior. It would take many pages just to recount the times I sat down and asked, “Why?”

However, I want to make the point that this is where I “used” to live. Now when I look back at that time of my life, it feels like a tale from someone else’s life, or a portion of an old book that I vaguely remember. There are more than merely fences or rivers that separate me from that life. Now that I am starting to experience the benefits of all those hardships, I sometimes wonder how I could have even shed one tear over any of it.

Of course, I know that it was only by going THROUGH those hardships that I was able to arrive at this point of my life. Seven years ago, something inside me said, “There is no other way but through.” I knew that I would cheat myself if I tried to go around the hard things that were handed to me. I could have retreated to alcohol or drugs myself. I could have shirked my responsibilities to my children with the excuse that life had dealt me more than I could bear. I could have tried to escape in any one of a million ways.

The Apostle Paul wrote that “all things work together for good to those who love God.” A theological view.

Napoleon Hill wrote (many centuries after Paul), “In every adversity there is the seed of an equal or greater opportunity.” An optimistic and practical view.

I am finding that they are both correct. Despite many misgivings and doubts, I am slowly but surely finding it to be so.

This is where I try to live now.

Perhaps I will elaborate on these things in the future. All questions are welcome.

(* whose friendship is invaluable and whose much appreciated bottle of homemade wine accompanied me in the writing of this article.
I need a refill, bro!)