I Am Rahab…Walk in My Shoes

by, Myriam C. Muniz

“You don’t know what it takes to be me anymore than I know what it takes to be you!” was the end of my response to the most judgmental message I’d ever received.

A single mom raised me. She was so strict; I couldn’t do anything. The answer to everything was NO. She had to know where I was at all times and who was with me. She was so strict that the other parents in the neighborhood looked to her as the guidepost for granting consent, so my friends would always have me ask my mom for permission before asking their parents.

Growing up in this environment resulted in me becoming an even more strict mother. I followed suit. My daughter grew up with me micromanaging every aspect of her life. I gave in a little by allowing her to sleep over friends’ homes and attend events, but with technology, I pretty much had a handle on where she was at all times. This culminated in a huge fight that resulted in me kicking my daughter out of our home when she was older.

When my daughter was in the fourth grade, she had her first crush on a little boy in her class. At that age, she still shared all her little secrets with me, so I listened, gave some “motherly” advice, and tucked the information away for another day. I watched this little boy grow up, got to know him from a distance, and judged him based on my observations. His family had issues, so I determined that he had the same problems. I watched him grow up through high school. He had a girlfriend at a young age, and I would see him with her and judge them. He would walk down the street with her positioned in front of him as they walked. I thought it was very inappropriate. Occasionally, he’d show up at an event, or my daughter would tell me that she saw him somewhere, and I would immediately start talking about all the reasons I didn’t like him. I was doing my best to steer her clear of this boy.

Freshman year of college, my daughter started spreading her wings. Unbeknownst to me, she started dating the boy. She befriended a co-worker and was secretly seeing him at their house. Fourth of July weekend, she approached my husband and me to tell us that she wanted to start seeing him. We forbade it. Forbade it! She was 19 years old and had just experienced freedom in college. She walked away but came back to us and said it was a done deal. She was dating this boy, and that was that. Well…we grounded her. I laugh, thinking back on that moment now. I’m surprised she didn’t laugh at us. We didn’t allow her to leave the house. She was only allowed to go to work, and home. All of this went on for a couple of days. I was working late one evening when my husband called hysterically to tell me, “She’s leaving! She’s got her stuff packed up, and he’s here waiting for her!” The other thing I didn’t mention about my mother and what I inherited from her was stubbornness. My response, “Well, let her go then.” I went back to work dazed and could barely concentrate, but I made it through the next hour to finish up the day. As I pulled up into my driveway, I could see my husband in the street talking to the boy next to his running car.

My front door was open, my dogs were barking with excitement, but all I could see was red. I was furious! I parked my car, didn’t acknowledge my husband or the boy, and as I walked in the door, she was sitting on the couch by the door with a garbage bag full of her stuff. I said, “What are you still doing here?” and kept walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I heard her mumble, “Well, Papi told me to wait for you.” My husband came into the house and told me to speak to her. He was running out to pick up some food he’d ordered for dinner. I guess he thought I was going to talk her into staying. What did I do? Nothing. I just looked at her. I believe I said, “If you’re going, go.” She went upstairs and came down with a couple more garbage bags full of stuff and walked them out to the boy’s car while I sat silently watching from the porch. I was livid. I was devastated. But what could I do? I was not going to negotiate. She was supposed to respect me and do what I said. She brought down the last bag and stood in front of the gate as though waiting for me to say something. I said nothing. After a few minutes, she got into his car and left.

I didn’t sleep for the next three nights. I was heartbroken and worried. I didn’t know where my baby was or who was with her. Was she safe? Was she eating? On the third night around midnight, my husband’s phone rang. I was already awake, and on high alert, so I sprang up as he answered the phone. It was the boy’s grandmother. She was calling out of concern to let us know that our daughter was there. I felt immediate relief. We thanked her profusely for letting us know. She then told us, “She told me you threw her out.” To which we immediately responded in unison, “We did not throw her out! She left! She left!” His grandmother yelled across the room to our daughter, “Get on the phone and talk to your parents.” My daughter got on the phone, and we agreed to a meeting the following evening. When she came over the next evening, we talked. She agreed to move back home, and we set some ground rules. She had to meet the boy on the corner because he wasn’t allowed in or near our house. She was moved from her bedroom upstairs to the downstairs guest room. We also set a curfew. She couldn’t be in the house if we weren’t there. Did I mention that we sold her car? It got ugly.

The next few weeks were awful; it was tense and quiet. We barely spoke to each other; I was angry and hurt. Our daughter was angry and hurt. One weekend we went to Virginia. My husband was going to share his testimony at a church, I was attending a Women’s conference, and the rest of the time was going to be a fun vacation. My husband and I extended an olive branch and invited her to join us. She declined. It wasn’t good. One Sunday, as we were driving to church, our neighbor called to let us know that the boy had driven his car directly up to our door to pick her up. I was crushed. I walked into the church auditorium and broke down in the back row. I heard God clearly say, “She’s not yours. She’s mine. Let her go. I’ve got her.” It knocked me to my knees, and I burst into tears, shaken and confronted with my controlling, micromanaging ways. I knew God was trying to help me. I knew He was trying to reassure me. I cried. I prayed. Did I immediately change? Absolutely not. As we were driving back home from church, my anger renewed, and by the time I got home, I was full of righteous indignation. How dare she? How dare he? How dare they?

It went from bad to worse. It got even more tense and quiet. We confronted our daughter about what she’d done, and it escalated. Finally, one evening she was out, and it was close to curfew. There was texting back and forth, and it got ugly fast. There were threats, and when she finally walked in the door, the screaming started immediately. Accusations flew, and I lost it. The last thing I remember is getting in her face yelling, “And what…” to something she had said, and I started swinging. I was pulling her hair, and my fists were flying. My husband was in the middle, trying to block me and protect her from my blind rage. In the end, he pushed her out the front door into the rain for her safety. Here we were again. I didn’t know where she was or where she would go.

I woke up the next morning to a message from the mother of one of my daughter’s best friends. She expressed her disappointment in me as a Christian and couldn’t believe that I had kicked my daughter out because of who she was dating. She talked about never doing that to her child and how she had taken in my daughter. I immediately typed out my response, starting with, How dare you! and ending with, You don’t know what it takes to be me anymore than I know what it takes to be you! In between, I chastised her for not letting me know immediately that my daughter was in her home. We weren’t friends, just acquaintances because of our kids, but as one mother to another, I told her I would never do to her what she’d done to me. If one of her children showed up distraught at my door, I would let her know so that she could be reassured that her child was safe. I sent the message off immediately and went to work. At work, I pulled one of my besties into a conference room, burst into tears, and told her everything. She prayed with me. I asked God to help me, please. I asked Him to help me with my rage, to be a better mother to my daughter, and to rebuild my relationship with her.

Did it get better quickly? No. Months went by. I knew where she was. I knew she was safe, but we were a broken family. I trusted God with the season I was in and prayed for obedience to do what He asked of me. My new affirmation was, “God is working. God is working.” I had it up on my prayer wall and would say it all the time. I said it a lot the day I saw her walking home from work with groceries. It hurt my heart to see her and not offer her a ride. I said it a lot the day she came over to the house with her friend to pick up her things to go back to college. I said it a lot the day we agreed to co-sign on her student loans since I’d said no several times out of sheer pettiness before that. I mainly said it a lot on my birthday when I realized that she wasn’t going to call me to wish me a happy day, to which I turned around and didn’t invite her to Thanksgiving. It was a tough time, but I’m grateful for praying friends and a God whose mercies are new every day.

My daughter and I have restored our relationship and are in a good place. I’ve grown in my relationship with God. I’m a work in progress who knows that God is faithful…because I am Rahab, too.