The Places I Thought I Was Hiding

There have been quiet places all throughout my life. Not because life was quiet. Quite the opposite. The quiet was where I went when life became too loud.

Looking back now, I realize I wasn't running away. I was running toward the only places that ever made me feel safe.

The very first one was an old oak tree behind my daddy's house.

I was six years old when my sister, little brother, and I went to live with him. What was supposed to be a fresh start quickly became a year filled with fear. The physical abuse seemed to come every single day, and for a little girl trying to understand what she had done wrong, the world felt frighteningly small.

Except for one place.

There was an enormous oak tree in the backyard. It stretched so high into the Texas sky that, to my little eyes, it looked like it could touch the sun itself.

About halfway up the trunk was a place where the branches opened just enough for a little girl to climb in and sit unnoticed. It became my hiding place.

From up there, I could see the rooftops stretching toward the horizon. Every evening, the sky painted itself in brilliant oranges and yellows, with ribbons of soft blue-gray weaving through the clouds.

The bark was rough beneath my legs. The breeze gently moved through the leaves overhead. I could hear birds calling to one another before they settled in for the night. Then, almost like someone had flipped a switch, the cicadas would begin their evening song.

It was so quiet...I could hear myself breathe.

I'd sit there for hours.

Thinking.

Planning.

Trying to figure out what I could do differently tomorrow.

Maybe if I helped more.

Maybe if I stayed quieter.

Maybe if I tried harder.

Surely there had to be a way to keep angry people from being angry.

It never worked.

But somehow...I always climbed back down with enough hope to face another day.

Then one afternoon, Mama came. She packed us into the car, and we left.

I remember sitting on the floorboard, my cheek resting against the seat, listening to the steady hum of the tires rolling across the highway.

For the first time in a long while...I felt safe.

No tree needed.

I thought life was finally about to become everything I had dreamed it would be.

Instead...it became something entirely different. Mama was almost never home. We were hungry most of the time. There weren't adults checking homework or asking about our day. There was simply the quiet determination of four children trying to survive.

About a mile from our little trailer, railroad tracks stretched across the East Texas landscape. We walked those tracks often. They led to a cemetery for prison inmates. Most of the graves didn't even have headstones yet.

To reach it, we had to cross a little creek. Thick grapevines hung from the trees like ropes. We'd grab one, swing across the water, laughing when our feet barely missed getting wet.

Then everything would become still again. I'd lie in the thick green grass and stare into the endless Texas sky. Clouds slowly drifted overhead, becoming horses...

then birds...

then castles...

then nothing at all.

I wondered why my life looked so different from everyone else's. Why Mama was never home. Why we were always hungry.

But strangely...those questions never felt quite so heavy while I was lying there.

The stillness somehow carried them for me.

Years later...my first truck became another sanctuary. It wasn't much to look at.

Old.

Worn out.

But it was mine.

If home became too hot during the summer...or the smell inside became too much...or the roaches started dropping from the ceiling onto my bed...I'd quietly walk outside and climb into that truck.

The leather seats carried a smell I'll never forget.

Clean.

Safe.

Mine.

No bugs.

No shouting.

No chaos.

Just me...

and silence.

I never realized silence had a sound until then.

It does.

Then came Florida.

Kyle's father and I were just two broken young people convinced that if we drove far enough away, life would somehow become easier.

It didn't.

There were arguments.

Heartbreak.

Confusion.

Dreams that slowly unraveled.

Whenever everything became too much...I'd walk to the beach.

I can still smell the salt air. Feel the damp sand beneath my feet. Taste the ocean on my lips. The breeze never stopped moving. Neither did the waves.

I'd ask the ocean questions. Questions I couldn't ask anyone else. It never answered.

At least...not with words.

But somehow...I'd always leave feeling lighter than when I arrived.

For years, I thought those places were where I escaped.

The oak tree.

The railroad tracks.

The truck.

The beach.

I thought I was hiding.

Trying to get away from everything that hurt. But now, when I look back...I wonder if I had it backwards all along. Maybe those weren't hiding places.

Maybe they were holy places.

The world couldn't find me there. But God always knew exactly where I was. I always look back at my most alone and fearful moments and realize...He was there the whole time.

He never left me.

When no one came looking...He was there. When I wondered if anyone noticed...He noticed.

I don't remember hearing His voice with my ears. I remember feeling it in my soul.

As if He was gently reminding a little girl of something she couldn't yet believe.

You are worthy of so much more than this.

It's not always going to be like this.

Looking back, I realize those quiet places gave me two gifts. Faith that I was never truly alone. And hope that life would not always be this hard.

I couldn't have explained either one back then. I only knew that every time I climbed down from that tree...walked back from the cemetery...stepped out of that old truck...or left the beach...I somehow had enough strength to keep going.

Today, the quiet has found a new place to meet me. The oak tree is gone. I don't walk those railroad tracks anymore. The truck is long gone. And the beach is hundreds of miles away.

But every time I sit down to write...I find that same stillness. The same slowing of my breathing. The same gentle whisper reminding me I don't have to carry the weight of the world for a little while.

Writing has become my quiet place.

It's where I remember.

It's where I heal.

It's where I listen.

People often ask me why I write such personal stories. The answer is simple. Because somewhere out there is someone who is still looking for their oak tree.

Someone sitting in a truck.

Walking a beach.

Watching a sunset.

Wondering if anyone sees them.

If my stories become a quiet place where they can catch their breath...if they help someone feel seen...if they remind one hurting heart that hope is still alive...then every painful memory was worth remembering.

Because I want them to know what it took me years to understand. The world may not know where you are.

But God does.

He always has.

And He never left.