Monsters, Mice and Mercy

Jenny-May Hudson

Description

Jenny-May Hudson grew up in Pretoria, South Africa, the third child of an Afrikaner father and a British mother. Her childhood was horribly marred by her domineering father, who beat her mother, showered blows and insults on his children, and micro-managed the household with weapons, mind-games, and violence. Ironically, his tactics would come back to haunt him. The years of pain would leave Jenny-May with grim memories. Yet through the power of Christ a transformation was in store. Today Jenny-May is whole and happy. She and her husband Elmore, and their three children, have relocated to Perth, Australia. Jenny-May has developed a considerable speaking ministry, and her journey ' from abuse to self-acceptance and joy ' has become a source of inspiration to thousands. This book demonstrates that nothing can hold you captive without your consent.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Republic of South Africa
• Domestic violence
• South Africa
• Afrique du Sud

Informations

• Publié par: Lion Hudson
• Date de parution: 19 août 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780857214621
• Langue: English

Extrait

Monsters, Mice and Mercy
A life redeemed from abuse
Jenny-May Hudson
 
 
Text copyright © 2013 Jenny-May Hudson This edition copyright © 2013 Lion Hudson
 
The right of Jenny-May Hudson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
 
Published by Monarch Books an imprint of Lion Hudson plc Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road, Oxford OX2 8DR, England Email: [e-mail] www.lionhudson.com/monarch
 
ISBN 978 0 85721 446 1 e-ISBN 978 0 85721 462 1
 
First edition 2013
 
Acknowledgments p. 78 : Extract from “Father’s Eyes” © 1979, Gary Chapman. Reprinted by kind permission of Gary Chapman.
 
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
 
Cover photo by Belinda Booth Photography [e-mail]
 
 
This book is dedicated to my heavenly Father who has shown me more grace than I deserve, and healed my childhood memories, which have eventually shown up as a smile in my heart.
 
To my parents, who have helped shape me into a resourceful being.
 
To my husband Elly, you are my rock.
 
To my awesome children, Zane, Dean, and Ash. You have given me a second breath, and I love you unconditionally.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
 
PART ONE: CHILDHOOD
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
 
PART TWO: COMING OF AGE
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
 
PART THREE: ACCEPTANCE
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
 
PART FOUR: GRACE AND HEALING
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
 
PART FIVE: FORGIVENESS AND FAITH
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
 
Acknowledgments
Perspectives
Make a Choice!
How to Find Us
Picture Section
Author’s Note
Although this is the story of my life, I wish to recognize the enormous suffering experienced by my Mum, my brother Laurence, my sister Lindy, and my baby brother Gregory during our years together, and I wish to salute the amazing people you have turned out to be.
PART ONE
CHILDHOOD
Chapter 1
M y father beat up my mother before they were even married. The writing was on the wall.
Yet she chose him. She married my father Desmond, none the less. He was a charmer. He could play with your mind, until you went over the edge and back again. It was almost as if he believed we hungered for more, like bloated refugees dependent on food aid. He dished, and we got what we got – that is, until the early hours of the morning of 26 January 1983, a night when darkness mixed with moonlight, and quiet fought violently to silence a gun…
Mamma says he was enchanting. I was fascinated and often wondered just how enchanting it could be to be beaten around by your date. She should have run then.
My eldest brother Laurence and my sister Lindy were born fifteen months apart, and I came along on the tenth of November, four and a half years later, to spoil an intimate union between my siblings. Still, there were not enough pawns in my father’s game, so my parents produced one more, my baby brother Gregory. With a wife and four willing little spirits, the master could begin. I was going to become acquainted with a vortex that required me merely to be swept down a circular flow into a current of endless cycles. Instead, I built muscle at every ripple in order to develop the capacity to swim against, and eventually out of, this vicious body of water called my birthright.
It was not too bad at first. Des liked little ones. It was when you could talk back, question, or defy him that the decay became evident. I deliberately say this, as he was sick before we arrived. Dedda, as he insisted on being called, was just a master at disguising his symptoms. He conned and manipulated even the sharpest of men, and to my horror people actually said they liked him.
My first clear memories were of going to Trust Bank in the centre of the Jacaranda City, Pretoria. Apartheid was in full swing, and Dedda would vent his hatred of “ kaffirs ” on a regular basis. Mamma, being from England, had a totally different outlook on the world, and the mixed messages we received were very confusing. Mamma liked and helped Black people, while Dedda called them “ kaffirs ” (a grossly racist expression, all too frequently on my father’s lips), and beat them up with eager consistency.
My visits to Trust Bank became more frequent, and I was required by Dedda to look pretty and wear one of my best hand-me-down dresses from Lindy. The lady at the bank would coo at me as I was raised onto the counter, and I clearly sensed some hot stuff going on between the nice blonde teller and Dedda. Somehow the adoration I felt from her evaporated and it was transferred to my father in a wriggly and seductive fashion. I had a feeling Mamma would not like her. My visits to the bank declined as my awareness grew, and Dedda disposed of me like a used rag. A cute little decoy who asked too many questions, I had served my purpose. I was just part of the brood.
Because of the size of her family, my mother had a 1960’s Volkswagen Kombi-bus. As she stepped on the gas, it would raise itself slightly from the wheelbase, and once in gear, erupt into motion with a series of thuds, and race to its destination, as Mamma was always late! She sat forward, the steering wheel hugging her breasts, wearing an intense look on her face, as she dodged traffic, trying to buy back time…
The Kombi came in handy on more than one occasion, as my brother’s large mountain tortoise used to escape from our property, and carry his heavy body slowly down the road, until someone would notify us, which would send Mamma roaring down the road in the stub-nose Kombi to recapture Torty. He would further stress her out by dumping huge poops in her car during the rescue, which would make her really mad. Torty’s liaison with our family ended when my brother swapped him for over a thousand silkworms. Yup, during the negotiation and transaction phase, the silkworms were counted. The census went on for days.
Dedda loved sports cars. In fact he was a real boy, who enjoyed bodybuilding, golf, rally driving, good clothing, and shooting with his large variety of guns. My father was a married bachelor. He claimed his rights to drink, play golf, enjoy evenings at the Club, go on country trips, and then step right back into his God-given right to run, discipline, and abuse his family. He told us on many occasions, “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out!” He meant this. I believed him, and he went on to prove it. He controlled us in every way, and he would decide whether we’d live or die. He was the almighty Dedda, and whenever we were in doubt, he would remind us, and we’d retreat to accept his absolute authority.
The fear was overwhelming. Dedda had many weapons – fear, mind-games, guns, fists, and more, but his best friend was a metre-long sjambok . This is a wooden stick with eight strands of hard leather that taper off in width, to eventually end in a single strand. A people whip! Dedda would thrash me with all his might and the whip would chew into my flesh as the single strand curled around my thin legs. The results were shocking, and I had to wear tracksuit pants beneath my school dress to cover the cuts and bruises left on my body. Dedda would hiss that if anyone saw the fruits of his severe thrashing, there would be more where those had come from.
One day I knew his spirit was in darkness. This was usual, but this particular day he was ready to explode. I could see Dedda hovering. He was searching for a reason, wishing to be pushed over the edge. He told me to pack up my blocks and walked out of the room. Greggy and I were playing on the floor of the bedroom we shared. I sensed Dedda’s mood, and started coaching Greggy that we had to tidy up. Without notice, he burst in, only seconds after his first request, and said with a slow but determined voice, “If you don’t want to listen, then you must feel ! Now you will get a hiding, Jeanette!” His eyes were darting all over the room. “Look at this mess. Blocks all over the place. I thought I had told you to tidy up!” I felt my cheeks being squashed from the grip he had on my face, and now he had his ice-blue eyes directed at mine. “When I get back, this room had better be tidy, and you, little girl, are getting a hiding.” I knew he had chosen me, and that this one was going to be bad.
I ran to my cupboard, and climbed the shelf. I pulled out all my panties. There were four, one in each colour with a duck embroidered on the front. The label in the back read “Princess from Woolworth’s”. I quickly put on all four panties, to shield my bottom, one on top of the other. I had seen the look on his face. The time between the warning and the delivery of the hiding felt like an eternity. “Please, Jesus, let him come now!” I was trembling. Six years old. Petrified! What was taking him so long? “Please come now. Just do it!” My mind explored all possibilities. What would he bring with him? “Please, God, it doesn’t matter. Can it just be over?”
Finally, Dedda opened my door. I searched his hands. Nothing! He had big hands. He had a beautiful body. Our home had a full gym rigged out in the garage, for him to enhance his physique. He would announce to all who cared to listen, “I am a body man…” Dedda was a police r