The Stranger, the Pear Tree, and the Armor

The Story of the Stranger, the Pear Tree, and the Armor -

Picture the muddy shores of a dark lake at midnight. For whom the bell tolls, so they say.

Watch the moon close its eyes for what it's about to see.

Let the crickets stop in total silence for what they are about to hear.

Imagine for a moment seeing fire and coals burning red and orange in a makeshift grave and within it, lite bones and branches with sparks floating up towards the heavens. Where is your child, you ask? Not far. It could happen in any neighborhood in the Pacific Northwest.

So, I was playing with my toes.

I am three years old, highly concentrated on the clean little piggies in all of their glory, and freshly released from my pink morning bubble bath. My mom was in her place, the kitchen, of course, baking a magical garden of chocolate chip cookies. It filled my space in the nearby living room. Ah, my favorite bouquet of home sweet home.

These are my first memories.

And the memory of the man looking through our window at that very moment.

I knew there was something wrong when my mom stopped singing while she worked in the kitchen. Instead, she entered where I was sitting on the floor, crossed in front of me cautiously on her best-hushed half lifted feet, and made her way to the window to get a better look at what she saw from afar. As she peeked from behind the tied-back curtains, it confirmed her fear. It was a strange man, standing oddly intense as if in a gunfighters' spread. He was motionless, but his body was aimed and ready for fire within a block, down the street, at our only stop sign. He had a stare that penetrated the atmosphere with his malevolent body language. If I had to guess what was going through his mind in retrospect, it would've been the words, "THAT'S THE HOUSE."

As my seemingly frozen mom crouched with white knuckles tightly clenched around the window dressing, she suddenly jumped as quick as a flea when she saw the flinch of his first movement. His first step had begun. His stare was unwavering. His plan....all commence forth. He walked slowly and methodically as if he knew he was the lead role in her personal real-life horror story that was unfolding live and unrehearsed. He enjoyed the play.

I know she didn't mean to panic or scare me when her reality hit, but she lost her cool.

She started explaining in adult verbiage, not sugar-coated by any means of the word, of the impending danger that was sure to take place unless we took action fast. I had no choice but to fulfill my orders given to help with the situation at hand. She told me to run and lock the back door, the farthest door, that ugly playroom door entryway into our carport that was dilapidated and unlockable. I knew this, and I was three. She knew this, and she was 33. This is when I first felt the fear of this mayhem. It got worse from there, though. Her logic must've been bass-ackwards because she then told me to go outside and put the dog AWAY. Not the other way around. He was a big Chesapeake Bay retriever, loyal to the family, and could've come in handy that day. But mom went loco.

At the local grocery store, shops my mother's best friend. She didn't make a habit of driving off the distant Indian reservation where she lived with her large family to get her weekly groceries. On this particular day, however, there must've been a good sale going on, is all I can think.

She drove a rundown blue station wagon. She was a rather large woman, which over the years formed lackadaisical personal habits. She took her time in things. Slow and studious. Somehow it paved the perfect path for someone to take extra care in always doing everything by the book. When I say book, I mean the Holy Bible and any manufactured law book known to man always to walk the straight and narrow.

She was a sweet, quiet, unassuming woman that would give the shirt off of her back in any time of need. She loved the Lord, and he loved her.

As the man continued up the street, walking slowly in his ripped-up jeans, overgrown hair in a matted mess, his dirty face and eyes never looked away. She hoped that maybe, just maybe, he would pass by and go up the road to the nearby lake. We had many strangers pass by daily during the summer months to take the steep and potholed gravel road that eventually came to a dead-end of dark water and woods. Our house was near the end of the pavement.

As soon as our property line started with its grassy hill, he veered off the road and started to cross up the lawn. Still, he came toward our door, passed our pear tree, in which he picked one from the branch, took a bite, and threw it to the ground. His eye's never abandoning his target. Every motherly instinct when into overdrive when this happened. The reality was coming true. Hide the kid. Self-preserve. Pray.

She shuffled me quickly into the nearest bedroom and then into the closet. She had the voice of specific authority in which I have never heard from her before. She told me to make myself small and to not say a word no matter what happened. She kept repeating the phrase, "No matter what happens, stay silent, and do not leave this hiding spot!"

She wanted to stay near me, but there wasn't any room left for her, after storage and little ol' me taking up all of the space. My mom had to make do with standing behind the door just a few feet away, making sure she was as thin as she could be next to the wall.

I missed my mommy.

I felt worlds away from her, and all I could do was obey her word and hope for the best, hope that she was wrong. She was not wrong; after a long silence, then came the first tap on the front door. Small and kind. Innocent and unaggressive. OK, so maybe he was only asking for directions to the lake?

Then came an even longer silence which was then followed by an even harder knock on the door. My mom motioned me with her index finger over her lips to ensure my silent behavior. I followed her direction without fail. I couldn't scream if I wanted to, even though I had no clue how to digest the situation. I just copycatted her, "became" her in a sense.

Then, after all the thick tension, He must've gone away. There was a silence that lingered longer than before. It was wonderful. I could finally exhale, and we could get back to the chocolate chip cookies. Let's go play!

I started to unravel my twisted legs from my armhole, and then there came the most unwelcome noise of all. Sudden bangs on the door. Full fists pounding from the flat, fleshy part of this unwelcome stranger's angry hands, and at the same time, the doorbell chimed over and over. I always knew the doorbell to be a fun sound, but now, it had a purpose that played another song that I did not like. The door handle was gripped and twisting without movement, but the sound had all the intention of making the lock give way.

It was then, both my mom and I, petrified and powerless, waited for the next awful occurrence to present itself.

It happened.

We heard his voice yelling with fury and craziness as he carried on with his fists and now body slamming up against the door. He was belting out breathlessly," I KNOW YOU ARE IN THERE!" I WILL GET IN WHETHER YOU WANT ME TO OR NOT "...." WHO IS GOING TO HELP YOU NOW? ALL OF THE NEIGHBORS ARE GONE," he taunted. The door frame was starting to come away from the wall from the rhythmic force with continued labored grunting. You could hear the cracking of the paint and wood. I closed my eyes, held my knees tight, and all I remember after that was seeing stars.

When I opened my eyes, I heard my mom crying with frantic words unintelligible and quick out of her mouth. My tears were hot and quiet on my face, my throat swollen and clogged with emotion to stay silent. Her sound came closer and closer to where I was hiding. The closet door fiercely opened to let in the light, and I saw arms coming at me. It was my mother's arms. She was pulling me out and holding me close to her body with a force that I will never forget. I then heard another voice behind her.

Now, at the grocery store, which was ten minutes away, still shopped my mom's best friend from the reservation. She heard a voice as well. It was the voice of God telling her to drop her groceries, get into her car, and go as fast as she can to get to our house. Without hesitation, she left her food cart post haste, ran to her beat-up family mobile, and drove as fast as she possibly could out in our direction.

In our town, there are cops on every corner, tourists at every light. As living on an island, ferry traffic took up all the enjoyment of going from point "A" to point "B."

Somehow, she managed to miss every police officer, every tourist, and every ferry schedule to take her blue bucket of nuts and bolts over the speed of 100 miles per hour in a 30 mph zone all the way here. Mind you, she never broke the law, as I said earlier. But God spoke.

That made all the difference that day.

She tore around the corner as if the house were on fire, and it was at that moment the door was about to buckle! As we were hopeless and hiding, the man at the door fled.

He was one beat away from entering the house until he was interrupted. She watched him run from the porch and up around the corner, where there was a truck idling and ready to go. In it were two other men. They had it planned.

The small, black, and rusty three-seater truck that carried three men peeled away from the gravel lake road, leaving no time for anyone to get a license plate number or valuable description.

They never were caught. But everyone became wiser because of God's saving grace, like the gentle reminder of the Garden of Eden that triggered my mom's internal instinct when she witnessed that bite of the pear. It woke her out of her standing coma, and it was then she was able to put on her armor of the Lord.

My eyes were closed so tight when I was in that closet that I saw stars. I like to think that I saw the universe in a blink of an eye.

When I heard my mom cry, I now understood that it was from tears of joy. When I heard that voice in the house behind my mother after she rescued me, I'm assuming it was just as sweet as the voice of God that was pressing at the grocery store. Strong, safe, and sound. Just like my mama's arms. For that, I've been listening ever since.