By Karen Harper DeLoach

I was a teen-ager in the ’60s.  Our evening meals were shared with Walter Cronkite and our boys in ’Nam.  We ate mashed potatoes and meatloaf and watched whirring choppers stir up dust while wounded soldiers were loaded on board.  Sounds of war rumbled in the distance.  Civil Rights marches, anti-war demonstrations, Flower Children, bra-burnings, flag-burnings, riots, free love, LSD and pot—all spilled into our living room as stories splashed across our small screen on the nightly news.

And—in the midst of that bra-less, hip hugging, bell-bottomed, mini-skirted, pot-smoking, rock-and-rolling, longhaired, newly liberated generation of teenagers—I walked through life, a throwback to the ‘50s.

To me, pot was something in which to cook oatmeal.  Being liberated meant my parents allowed me to double date when I was fifteen, instead of having to wait for my sixteenth birthday.

Let’s face it.  I was typecast for Father Knows Best, not Mod Squad.  I was almost untouched by the worldly turmoil around me.  I knew young men who were shipped off to Vietnam, but they all came home safe and sound.  I didn’t personally know anyone who burned their bras or smoked pot.  The first black students who attended my all-white high school were twin brothers.  They were not only welcomed; they were extremely popular with the whole student body.

My family and I lived the small-town life in a suburb of a sprawling city.  Daily household chores were part of our childhood routine—everything from making beds to scrubbing the bathtub to ironing clothes.  Mother took us to church every time the doors were open.  Sunday School and choir practice were part of our weekly routine.  Dad set down rules, and we abided by them.  Supper was at six, lights were out by ten.  We ate breakfast together every morning.  We were a ’50s family in a changing ’60s decade.

Sheltered?  Yes, and frankly, grateful for it.  Love-ins, drugs, race riots, hippie communes—it was happening on another planet, not the world in which I lived.

It wasn’t until I was in my forties that I fully realized just how carefully our parents had sheltered us. 

Our Dad died a couple of weeks after he and Mom celebrated their forty-third wedding anniversary.  Mom was broken-hearted when she lost the love of her life.  Four years later, we lost Mom.  Only after my parents were gone did I discover that because of their loving protection, I had never known that my parents had been on the brink of divorce when I was a small child.

I was around five years old when my dad asked mom for a divorce.  He wanted to raise my brother.  My mother could have my two sisters and me.

Mom wanted to shelter her little stair-step children.  She persuaded Dad to keep up appearances for our sake.  When we got up in the morning, Dad was at the breakfast table.  When we went to bed at night, he was there for a goodnight hug and kiss.  What we didn’t realize is that once we were in bed, Dad left.  He slept on a couch in his office and came home each morning in time for breakfast.  We never knew he was not living with us during those weeks while they were separated.  We never knew the heartbreak and pain our mother went through.

Mom was a strong Christian woman who lived her faith.  She turned to God in her marital crisis, and He answered her prayer.  Mom and Dad reconciled, their marriage restored.  They experienced the normal ups and downs of marriage, as do all couples, but they steadily grew closer and stronger in their love as the years drifted by.  Because our parents sheltered us from their problems for those several shaky weeks early in their marriage, we children never knew how close we had come to being a shattered family, a statistic in the rising divorce rate.  I grew up secure in the knowledge that my parents loved each other.

At one point in those early years, when emotions were raw and hurts still fresh, Mom threw Dad’s mistake in his face.  Seeing his pain, her tender conscience was touched.  She immediately humbled herself to him.  She knelt down in front of him as he sat in his chair.  Looking into his eyes, she apologized.  She had already told him that he was forgiven and she promised never to take that back.  She vowed never to bring it up to him again.  And she never did.

What humility and strength she exhibited, not to mention Christ-like love!  I admire her resolve to put aside her own feelings and handle a difficult situation in the manner she thought would best benefit her children and her marriage.  She definitely did not exhibit the “me first” attitude that is so prevalent today.

However, that situation early in their marriage seems to have laid the groundwork for a lifetime of secrets.  Over the years, situations have arisen in our family which we should have discussed openly.  Perhaps we tried to protect each other.  Perhaps we felt the need to keep up a façade of perfection.  Problems that could have been resolved festered.  James 5:16 says, “Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. . .”  

Some family members traversed emotional fires and overwhelming floods without the support of the rest of the family, either because we did not know their situations or we did not really understand the circumstances.  We should have been there to help “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2).  It haunts me that people whom I love have gone through intensely painful times alone. 

I confess!  I don’t like secrets!  We all deserve our privacy.  Not everything in life should be made public to the world or even to family members.  But I believe that if we talked more openly and shared more freely, understanding would blossom, relationships would be nurtured, and family would be strengthened.

Mom definitely taught her children to look to God as our ultimate Source in life.  And I believe we do that.  But sometimes we human beings need to feel skin.  We need a hug, a listening ear, a piece of advice.  What better source to look to than a brother or sister?  When I have opened up to my family members and shared my needs, they have always been there for me.  They have never turned away.

We were a ’50s family, so to speak.  We were children who were raised to worship God, honor our flag and country, and respect our neighbor.  Still, to use an overused watchword of this generation, we have been dysfunctional in our own way.  We have been too private at times, secret keepers.

My brother and sisters and I are individual works-in-progress.  We have a good foundation thanks to the godly principles our mother taught us from the cradle.  We have all made Jesus Christ the Lord of our lives.  What joy and hope there is in that!  Indeed, we “have a goodly heritage” (Psalm 16:6).

In the last couple of years, we have begun to open up and share our hearts through our stories.  We do this in an effort to encourage others and to glorify God for what He has done for us.  We hope you will be encouraged as you read the musings, meditations, and memories of four grown-up kids from a slightly dysfunctional family.