Mountains and a Mustard Seed: A Family's Journey of Hope

By Nicole Allen

Mountains and a Mustard Seed: A Family's Journey of Hope is the real-life story of the Allen family. No detail has been spared as the reader is given an inside look at the dynamics of the average but not-so-ordinary family and their journey through this thing called life. How they worked at advancing careers, building a life, and enjoying comfort and security, to losing it all. Accompany them as they come to the humbling realization that they were not the authors of their own successes, learning to put their trust in God, and the amazement at how He provided for their every need, often using people along the way. Mountains and a Mustard Seed will inspire and give hope, regardless what stage of life's journey you are on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781643002224

Book preview

Preface

My husband Joe and I have been married for twenty-three years and have twelve children. Let me begin by answering all the questions that you are undoubtedly asking yourself right off the bat. All twelve kids are ours, we are not a blended family, and I gave birth to each of them. One at a time. We have six girls and six boys—Angela, Joseph, Patrick, Christina, Grace, Clare, Callum, Sarah, Katie, Ryan, Michael, and Noah. In that order. Yes, we know what causes it; and yes, we are Catholic. We have always trusted God to determine the size of our family, so there could be more. Finally, yes, we definitely have our hands full.

You may be wondering how a mom of twelve has time to write a book. To be perfectly honest, I really didn’t have the time. It took several years, from the time the seed was planted, and God had everything to do with me completing it. I was prompted to write our story by friends, family, and even perfect strangers. More convincingly, the nudges from the Holy Spirit were what moved me forward. There were dozens of excuses not to write it, but every single time I talked myself out of it, those familiar words would be spoken again, always by someone new. Wow, you have such an incredible story, you really should write a book. Or during Mass or meditation, I clearly heard the promptings internally, Write the book.

I’ve never been one to share personal information with total strangers, I’m half Irish, and Irish folks are private. Growing up, I was guarded, and taught never to air dirty laundry. I learned to be proud. As an adult, I felt compelled to keep up my persona of having the perfect life as wife and mother, living the American Dream, never exposing anything even remotely negative. Any worries, fears, anxieties, or struggles that we dealt with as a family were kept hidden away, like skeletons in a closet.

We truly were living the American Dream, by society’s standards, but our family was far from perfect. Life for us was easy and comfortable for most of our marriage. Along with each of Joe’s many career changes and promotions, life got easier and even more comfortable. We continued to move forward, on a steady climb on the roller coaster of life. There were a few minor dips in the ride but nothing that we didn’t quickly recover from. We never had any major struggles, and we were thrilled about the ride, very much enjoying the climb. The first eighteen years of our marriage could easily be summarized by a quote from the movie God’s Not Dead: Sometimes the devil allows people to live a life free of trouble, because he doesn’t want them turning to God.

I don’t know if the devil has that much power, but I never felt like we had troubles that were too big for Joe and I to handle on our own. I didn’t really feel like I needed to turn to God for anything. Life was great.

We had reached a point where we were ready to begin a steady coast in our virtually worry-free life. We had come to a sweet spot of sorts. Our kids were happy and healthy, we were living in an awesome house, Joe’s career was promising, and we were financially comfortable. As any thrilling roller-coaster ride will do, the bottom dropped without a hint of warning. That was the point where I was jerked into the realization of how vulnerable I was, and where my search for God began. What I quickly discovered was that he had always been there, I just hadn’t been paying Him much, if any, attention.

As I began to reflect on my life, the big moments and milestones that I had taken for granted. I was able to see the exact points where God had been there, guiding the way, and I was amazed. I began to see clearly, in real time, how He was with me daily in all the moments, the big ones and the seemingly insignificant ones, equally. He proved to be there through the people He put into my path, the places He led our family, and the way things just always seemed to work out in precise detail, and perfect timing. God instances, not coincidences.

This is my conversion story. I know I am not unique in the response to my conversion. When you have experienced something so profound, you are compelled to share it with others, to be a living witness and to inspire hope. You just can’t keep it to yourself. People relate to real-life experiences better than theories. They are inspired when you let down your guard and shed the pretenses.

People are starving for hope today. I have come to learn this by simply talking to people. I talk to everyone, and I smile pretty much all the time, without even realizing it. People have told me this, so I suppose it’s true. I am generally a friendly person, and people tend to talk to me, no matter where I go. When our roller coaster began its violent descent, I talked to people about what was going on. I told my friends from church, teachers, and parents at the kids’ school, ladies from my knitting group, the greeters and cashiers at Walmart, and folks in the doctor’s office. I didn’t just walk up to them and assault them with tales of my woes, I simply inserted whatever seemed appropriate, into the conversation.

What I discovered was that I wasn’t alone, and many times they too had stories that they shared with me. It seemed as though these spontaneous sharing episodes inspired hope in people. Friends and complete strangers thanked me, oftentimes because their situations didn’t seem so bad after hearing about ours. I felt like a walking Guidepost magazine. Soon, I began to see how sharing bits of my life, about how God was providing for our family, was spreading rays of hope. I started actively looking for opportunities to share more. I think that God must have been enjoying it because it seemed that the more I shared our story, the wilder and crazier our life became. The roller coaster continued to gain speed, but as it did, He sent lifelines, which gave me more reason to hope and have faith. I continued to smile through it all.

Friends and strangers alike were astonished, and often asked how I could be so joyful and positive, when things seemed to be going so wrong on so many levels. The events that took place in our life—and when I say events, I mean multiple stresses, fears, heartaches, betrayals, and dramas—looked like a train wreck from the outside. Ridiculous as it sounds, I was able to feel incredible hope and joy through it all. Certainly there were times I felt desperate, angry, and frustrated; but when I remembered to turn to God, I was able to find the peace and strength I needed. No matter what else happened in my life, after that conversion, I knew that God would be with me. Hence, this book. I have to confess, putting my whole self out there was a huge decision, and I was absolutely terrified to write it.

The purpose for telling my story—the good, the bad, and the ugly—is quite simply to give hope. I guarantee that every single person who reads it will relate to some, or multiple, parts of it or will know someone who can. We all have struggles. If you are alive, you have struggled. I’m sure that you have probably heard it said that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. When the bottom fell out, and the struggles compounded in every way imaginable, I wasn’t so sure that I believed it. I am here to tell you that it is the absolute truth. I believe that if you ask God for help, He will give you the strength that you need to get through anything. If you pay attention, you too will see His hand as your life unfolds, in real time, and He very often sends aid through human angels. No matter how dark, hopeless, and painful your situation may be, He is there, waiting for you to seek Him.

Acknowledgments

This book would never have been possible without the love, support, and encouragement of several people. First and foremost, I want to thank my husband, Joe—my rock and the love of my life. There is no one I would rather travel this journey with. Thank you for being a strong leader, for always taking good care of us, and for being an outstanding role model.

Our children—Angela, Joseph, Patrick, Christina, Grace, Clare, Callum, Sarah, Katie, Ryan, Michael, and Noah. Without you, there would be no story. I thank God for each and every one of you every day. I love you all beyond words.

Cathy and Al Morin, and Bob and Nanette Mazzuca, for encouraging me to write those epistles, the springboard for this work.

Judy Wilmurt, for being the first to read my manuscript, and for sharing my excitement along the road to publication.

Fr. Lawrence D’Anjou, for validating my story and encouraging me to persevere in getting it out.

My sister Bridget Ouellet, for the marathon chats, for being my sounding board, and my cheerleader. For knowing when to be patient and when to nudge me out of my comfort zone.

My brother-in-law, David Allen, for the pep talks and big pushes.

Bob the Bus Driver Javens and Troy Scotchburn, for taking the time to read, review, and make notations of my typos as I worked through revisions.

This work has been a labor of love, discerned through much prayer. I give thanks to God for the gifts he has blessed me with and the courage to share them. I am especially grateful that he placed each of you in my life.

One

A Prayerful Giant

I am incredibly grateful for my Catholic roots. Joe and I recently had the privilege of hearing Matthew Kelly, a famous motivational speaker and author, speak at our parish. One of the things he spoke about that I could really identify with was about great families. He’s done a lot of research and has talked to a lot of people. What he has discovered is that all the greatest and happiest families that he has met have one thing in common, a prayerful giant. It might be a grandmother, grandfather, aunt, uncle, mother, or father; but somewhere down the line, there is a prayerful giant. Matthew Kelly defines a prayerful giant like this:

A prayerful giant is someone who covers their family with prayer, anchoring the family in God’s grace. They pray constantly for their families, surrounding them with God’s protection.

I hope that you can trace back to the prayerful giant in your family. If you can’t, or if they are so distant that you don’t have a clear memory of one, you may want to consider becoming the prayerful giant for your family. My maternal grandmother, Mary B. Hubbard (Hegarty), was our family’s prayerful giant. She came to Canada from Donegal, Ireland, with her father, when she was just seventeen years old. She married my grandfather, Simeon Stanley Hubbard, when she was nineteen years old. They met when she began working on his family’s farm in Forest, Ontario, cooking for the farmers during the thrashing. My grandfather was seventeen years older than her, and together they had sixteen children, eleven girls and five boys. She was widowed in her early forties, long before I was born, and even several months before the birth of my mother, the youngest of the sixteen.

I grew up in Niagara Falls, Ontario, and Gramma Hubbard spent a lot of time at our house in my formative years. Her visits would sometimes last for several months at a time. She was unequivocally the most influential model of faith in my life, and probably the closest person I knew to be a living saint. She was humble, wise, and kind. She could be stern if she saw any of us kids behaving badly, but I never once saw her lose her temper. She was generous with what precious little she had, and she owned practically nothing. She didn’t have any investments, and I don’t think she ever even had a bank account. She never owned a house or a car, and she never held a driver’s license. Even her wardrobe was modest and sensible, consisting of only a few summer and winter dresses, a couple pairs of shoes, and some winter boots. Her most treasured possessions were her prayer books, chaplets, and rosaries and some rescued statues of her favorite saints, which she kept in her room at my aunt Annie’s house.

Gramma Hubbard was in constant prayer, and I am fairly certain that she had a direct line to God because she always seemed to get answers. People often asked her to pray for them. They asked for prayers for their children and grandchildren, for friends who were ill, a job for a husband, for someone with an addiction, and for a return to the faith of a loved one. I know that she prayed for an end to abortion, the poor, vocations, and the holy souls in purgatory, those in her own family, and those who had no one to pray for them, and she encouraged us to do the same. With each new day, I have no doubt that she had something new to pray for, in addition to her usual prayers. I am certain that she prayed for lots of things that I will never know about, but what I do know is that she prayed constantly.

Gramma Hubbard was already in her seventies when I was a child of six or seven. I observed her at that age praying quietly with her prayer books, the familiar blue pieta book and her other devotionals, sitting in the chair in the corner of the living room or next to the kitchen window. She always had a rosary in her hand or in her pocket, and she attended daily Mass as often as she was able. My aunts Mary and Jane would often come by to pick her up to take her to church, other times she took the city bus that stopped in front of our house. If my mother had errands to run or shopping to do, Gramma would come along, but preferred to sit in the car saying her prayers while the rest of us went into the stores. At home, she would excuse herself each afternoon to do her homework. Homework was when she would go off to her room to pray.

It was not only these obvious times, when I saw her praying with her books, that left a lasting memory. It was the times that I heard her, when she didn’t know I was listening, that are stamped onto my heart. Her soft murmuring from behind the bathroom door as she got ready for Mass, when she was in her bedroom, or while she was washing her stockings and underthings by hand in the big laundry tub in our basement. Just about any time she was alone, I heard her. Her quiet prayers, petitions, and daily chats with her Lord. I heard her tell Jesus how much she loved Him and asking Him to help her. It was a clear sign and confirmation of what I already knew in my heart, Gramma Hubbard was the real deal. She loved God, and her faith was solid as a rock. I found great comfort and safety in her presence.

She was humble and quiet, never showy or preachy. She always sat in the back pew, her veiled head bowed in prayer. I can clearly picture her on her knees in St. Anne’s Church, in downtown Niagara Falls, with brilliant sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows, rocking back and forth ever so slowly in deep meditation. I wonder now if maybe that rock that I sometimes find myself doing with a baby in my arms at church might be that same rock. She’d had sixteen babies of her own, and I’m certain that she brought them each to Mass with her. Perhaps that rock had stayed with her into her old age.

Always a lady, Gramma Hubbard was modest in her dress. She never wore slacks, always a dress or a skirt, and I only ever saw her legs below the knee. She wore panty hose, the L’eggs in the egg kind, and she always saved the egg for us. We couldn’t wait for it to be our turn to get the egg. We’d put treasures and things inside and decorated them with stickers and markers. It was a real treat. I wish they still made those L’eggs in the egg. I know my kids would love getting the egg. Gramma Hubbard never wasted anything. I watched her carefully fold up brown paper bags and foil wrap to be saved and used again, all well before the recycling era ever evolved. Everything about her was practical. She never wore makeup, other than Labello lip balm and Chantilly sachet fragrance. She didn’t take tub baths but once a month. She didn’t want to waste all that water. She washed every morning in the little powder room in our basement, not even using the bigger, brighter bathroom upstairs.

She used Final Net spray on her silver hair, and combed it out each morning. She always looked and smelled like she’d just stepped out of a salon. She washed her hair with a yellow bar of Sunlight soap about once a month, on what I what I like to recall as her beauty days, one of my favorite things to watch. She’d come out from her tub bath wearing her dusty-rose bathrobe, zipped up to the neck, and down to the floor, and settled herself at the kitchen table where my mother would set her hair in gray prickly rollers and pink plastic picks. She would insist that my mother use Dippity-Do gel so that it would hold up all month. She wore a kerchief for the rest of the day, checking her curls every few hours to see if they were dry, and would tease them out when they were done. That’s about as fancy as she got, and she was the most beautiful woman of grace that I have ever known, through and through.

Never one to indulge, Gramma’s diet was simple. Every day without fail, she ate an egg, boiled or poached, with a slice of toast, a boiled potato, and a banana. She ate fish every Friday and Wednesday. Fish cakes were a staple in our house, and on occasion, fillet of sole was a treat for her. She ate canned tuna and salmon and loved rye bread with caraway seeds. She also loved raisin bread and buttermilk. Now and then she would eat Arrowroot biscuits, and she often ate soda crackers to settle her stomach. She kept white powdery peppermints or humbugs in her pocket. I remember her drinking Red Rose tea before she gave it up for Lent one year, substituting it for boiled water. She never drank tea again once Lent was over. She also gave up bacon another year, and after Lent was over, she never ate it again. Being a bacon lover myself, I was amazed at her self-control. I had tried to give things up for Lent, year after year, failing after only a few days. I couldn’t imagine ever trying to give up bacon. She never made a show of her sacrifices, she would just politely and quietly decline if someone offered it to her without giving a reason. I came right out and asked her about it. I knew she loved bacon and Lent was over, so I couldn’t understand why she would want to keep up the sacrifice when she didn’t have to. She explained to me that she decided to continue not eating it as a way of continuing her fast. She said that sometimes prayer and fasting was needed to answer some prayers than just prayer alone. I never asked her what it was that she was praying for, guessing that it must have been something pretty important for such drastic measures. I am certain that she made countless sacrifices that I will never know about.

Gramma Hubbard had a great devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. She prayed the rosary daily, and when she was visiting us, we said it with her together as a family, on our knees. She wore a large Miraculous Medal and a brown scapular at all times, with great faith. I know this because she needed to have a chest X-ray for a suspected bronchitis or pneumonia. When she returned from the appointment, she was visibly distressed that she had to be stripped down to a hospital gown with only her medal and scapular. The X-ray technician had instructed her to remove them, but she refused. I remember being in awe of her courage. I definitely would have been afraid to go against the rules, but more than that, I would have been embarrassed about someone seeing that I wore medals or scapulars. She was not ashamed of her faith or the sacramentals.

She prayed novenas regularly, asking the holy saints to intercede for her for some petition, help with decisions she had to make, or for someone who had asked for her prayers. One of her favorite saints was St. Anthony, who she taught us to pray to for help with finding lost things. She always promised him money for the poor, St. Anthony’s Bread money, as she called it, in thanksgiving for answered prayer. She prayed to St. Thérèse the Little Flower, who sent roses from heaven, and she almost always received a rose in response to her prayer. When I was old enough to walk to the local florist by myself, and had some babysitting money, I brought her roses. I knew she was always praying to St. Thérèse, though I never knew exactly what it was she was praying for. She received roses a lot, so she sometimes would ask St. Thérèse to send her a specific colored rose as a sign. She was not superstitious, she truly believed with a childlike trust. Of course she never told anyone what color she was waiting for, but she always got an answer. She also had a great affection for St. Francis of Assisi. I came to realize that it was this special saint and his virtues that she modeled her life after with her simplicity, humility, and prayer life.

Gramma Hubbard became a Secular Franciscan—a Third Order Franciscan, as she called it, after she was widowed. She didn’t talk about it much at all. I may have heard her mention it once or twice, but regretfully, I never asked her about her vocation. When we went to her visitation at the funeral home after she died, I was startled to see her dressed in a brown Franciscan habit. It was then that I recalled what she had mentioned years earlier about becoming a Third Order Franciscan. She looked like the saint that I believed her to be. Her very life, as I recall her memory, was the essence of what true Christianity should be. It was what I aspire to be in my life, though I have a very long way to go. While I witnessed her in her seventies and eighties in my youth, teenaged years, and young adulthood, I did not know all the details of her life. I knew only what she shared with me and what I observed myself, without ever pressing her with questions. I never wanted to invade her privacy.

At the stage of life that I am in, now in my forties, I know that her life could not have been easy. There are so many things I would love to ask her if she were here, about her life and her faith. I have wished, over the years, that she could be among my own family, holding and rocking my babies, and sitting in my living room saying her prayers. I believe that Gramma Hubbard must have experienced life in a more exaggerated way than people do today. Poverty, hardship, struggles, anticipation, fear, excitement, joy, peace, loss, and heartache. Leaving her family behind in Ireland, coming to a new country with her father, working excessively hard, marrying young, and raising a huge family. Having just enough to get by, losing her husband in her early forties with several young children still to raise on her own, and others at various stages of their lives with struggles of their own. She never spoke in detail of those things to me, but my guess is that she must have felt every emotion in its rawest form.

I truly believe that it is not the experiences that we have in life—the good, the bad, and the ugly—but how we respond to them that define who we become. I did not know her while she journeyed through all the experiences that made up the better part of her life, but I believe that Gramma Hubbard responded in faith, prayerful trust, and love to everything that God handed her. I miss her, and I think of her every single day. I wish that I could thank her for her example in my life. She taught me the importance of scattering seeds, which I pray I do effectively. I know I did not fully realize how extraordinarily special Gramma Hubbard was when she was with me. It wasn’t until she was advanced in age, shortly after I got engaged, when I witnessed an act of love and kindness that I felt the depth of her heart. I had no idea that she would, more than two decades later, continue to be a living part of my life, even from the other side. I never imagined that I would feel her presence with me as I experienced hardships and struggles, but I did. I felt her with me every day, sensing that she had experienced many of the very same trials a lifetime earlier in her own life. Our connection is multifaceted. Not only was Mary B. Hubbard my grandmother, she was also my godmother and confirmation sponsor. Our bond was forged by the Holy Spirit.

Two

The Early Years

Niagara Falls, Ontario

I’m a cradle Catholic. I went to a French Catholic elementary school, École St. Antoine, from junior kindergarten to grade six, Our Lady of Mount Carmel for grades seven and eight, and then attended two public high schools, Westlane and Stamford. Despite having strong Catholic roots and examples in my life, I didn’t feel particularly religious growing up. Our family went to Mass every Sunday, I received all my sacraments and was fairly well catechized, but I definitely didn’t have what I would call a relationship with God. My prayer life consisted of a lot of gimme prayers. God was who I went calling on when I needed something—help with a test, to spare me some punishment, or to attain whatever random items that I wanted. I would sometimes make promises, bribing Him only if I got the answer that I desired. I wasn’t good at keeping my promises, and I can’t say for sure that I even remembered to thank Him properly for the prayers that I felt He answered.

My childhood and teenaged years were ordinary. I was a good student, had nice friends, and there were no earth-shattering events that occurred that brought me to my knees. Life for me was fine. I came from a working class family, the oldest of eleven children, I was mature beyond my years, and had a lot of responsibilities. I learned from a very young age how to cook, clean, and change diapers. My mother worked for a few years when I was very young, before becoming a stay-at-home mom when I was four or five.

I knew early on that I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, just like my mother. She was a fine example of how to keep it all together. She kept a clean and organized house, cooked dinner every night, and kept us kids neat, clean, and well-disciplined. She loved to entertain, and went all out with cooking and baking. She decorated and set a beautiful table, always making sure that things were perfect. She made a good impression, and appearances were very important to her.

My parents were very particular about how I spent my leisure time. I was a Brownie; took guitar, singing, and swimming lessons, gymnastics; sang in the church choir; volunteered at Dorchester Manor, the local nursing home; and babysat most of the neighborhood kids. During my teen years, I was introduced to the pro-life movement, and participated in prayer vigils, Life Chain, and volunteered with Right to Life, Birth Right, and Campaign Life. We made regular trips to Toronto to pray, picket, and sidewalk counsel outside of Henry Morgentaler’s abortion clinic. I helped with Christmas baskets, church fund-raisers, and anything else that my mother was involved in. She dabbled in a lot of different things and often took on the lead roles, so I got a taste at an early age of being involved in the community.

When I was in middle and high school, a lot of kids my age were allowed to go to concerts and parties. I wasn’t. I was allowed to go to approved movies, the mall, or out to dinner with my friends. I had classmates who were allowed to wear makeup and date. I had to wait till I was sixteen for both. I knew kids who experimented with drugs and alcohol and smoked cigarettes. I was way too afraid to try drugs, but I did try smoking. My dad was a smoker till I was in high school, and I used to walk to the Avondale store to buy him his cigarettes. That was way before there were any regulations on selling tobacco to minors. The only rule that they eventually introduced at the store was that you needed to bring in a signed note from an adult. All the clerks at the store knew my family, and that my dad occasionally sent me to buy his cigarettes. Most of the time, when I handed the clerk the note from my dad for a pack of Player’s Light king-size cigarettes, they would return the note to me with the change. One time, I decided to keep the note so that I could use it again later. I had been intrigued by the cool kids who hid around the back of the middle school at lunch, smoking in their little circle. When my mother went out of town for a few days to visit her family in Sarnia, I decided that it was the perfect opportunity to experiment.

I took the recycled note that I had saved to the store, along with my babysitting money, and had no trouble at all buying a pack of cigarettes. I walked to Fern Park, at the end of our street, and was relieved to find it empty of kids and parents. I huddled down in the big wooden fort and lit a cigarette. I honestly had no clue what to do with it and am quite sure I didn’t inhale. I just basically sucked in mouthfuls of smoke and blew them out till the cigarette was gone. I lit a second one. Same thing. I felt incredibly annoyed that I had wasted my hard-earned money on something that was obviously so dumb. I had no idea what the fascination was. I threw the rest of the pack into the trash can and walked home, never to touch cigarettes again.

As a senior in high school, I was not what you would call popular. I was not into sports or music, and although I got decent grades, I wasn’t particularly studious. My favorite subjects were fine arts, creative writing, and home economics. High school for me was something I needed to get through, not something that I enjoyed. I wasn’t one of the cool kids that enjoyed liquid lunches on Fridays at the Bon Villa, the local bar across the street from the high school. I eavesdropped on the stories during my English class, which was right after lunch. I wasn’t interested in drinking, but at the time, I thought it would have been nice to be one of the in crowd. They seemed to be having a lot more fun than I was. None of my friends were partiers, but we decided that before we graduated, we would try it.

Drinking age in Ontario was nineteen, and we were all underage, but that was part of the thrill. It was a well-known fact that they didn’t check for ID at the Bonnie. Before the last school dance of the year, we planned to join the club. There were five of us altogether, including my best friend since junior kindergarten, Michelle Casimir. We decided that we would all go to the Bonnie for a beer before the dance, just so that we could say that we did. Being responsible kids, not wanting to drink and drive, we walked to the bar. Giggling and giddy, we gathered our wits and tried to compose ourselves next to an overgrown hedge at the edge of the parking lot. As soon as we got up our nerve and began to make our way toward the steps, I saw my uncle Roy stumble out the door. Frozen in my tracks, I gasped and told everyone to run. Thinking back on it now, I am pretty sure that my uncle hadn’t been in any condition to even recognize me, but at the time, it had scared me enough to bolt.

Our plan to have a beer hadn’t been completely spoiled. We decided to walk to the VIP Korean Restaurant down the street instead. After being seated by the waitress, all five of us ordered the same thing, an egg roll and a Labbatt Blue. The waitress looked at us like we were crazy, but she brought us our order without asking for ID. The Korean families that had been eating their dinners when we walked in stared at us the entire time we were there. The beer tasted gross. I didn’t enjoy it in the least, but I drank it anyway. I still can’t drink beer, I never acquired a taste for it. I kept the bottle cap as a souvenir, and my mother found it in the pocket of my jacket when she washed it. She questioned me about it and was quite shocked when I admitted to her that I had indeed had a beer. It was so out of character for me. She yelled at me, but I don’t remember being punished for it. I hadn’t done anything to really disappoint my parents up until that time that I can recall, and it would be a few years before I would disappoint them again.

Three

One Snowy Night

Niagara Falls, Ontario, 1989

I need to begin this chapter with a disclaimer. It’s about how Joe and I met. It has been written—and is intended—to be read from the mind-set that I was in at the time, and not from the place of faith and understanding that I reached later on. We did a lot of things wrong. If we could have a do-over, we both agree that we would have done things differently. We also agree, however, that because of God’s infinite and unfathomable mercy, we have been redeemed. God has the power to turn the bad things in our lives and use them for good, and He has definitely done so in our lives.

And so I begin. Joe and I met at the Ramada Coral Inn hotel in Niagara Falls, Ontario, where I was working as a front desk clerk. He was the president and CEO of Allen and Associates, a consulting company that he owned, and he stayed at the hotel regularly as a corporate guest. He worked as a human resources consultant for Ford Glass. Coincidentally or not, he had a contract with the plant in Niagara Falls where my dad worked. Joe travelled to multiple Ford Glass plants throughout the Unites States and Mexico, and came to the Niagara Falls plant about twice a month. Although we had no romantic attraction whatsoever in the beginning, or for several months after our introduction, I still remember the day that we met.

I was a new employee at the hotel, which was owned and operated by the Orsini family. It was the summer of 1989, and I had finished high school, with no desire of going to college. I was ready to join the workforce, earn a paycheck, and move out on my own. I wanted to find Mr. Right, get married, and start a family. That had been my plan from a very young age. My mother saw an ad in the newspaper that the Ramada Coral Inn was hiring. They were looking for front desk clerks, and she insisted that I apply for the job. I chuckle a little bit to myself every time I recall this story because I am pretty sure that she wished more than once that she never saw that job advertised. I know she definitely regretted insisting that I apply for it.

Those were the days way before Internet job searches, when you got dressed up, went to the place of business, and asked to fill out an application that was printed on real paper. When you spoke to a manager who sized you up and decided whether to interview you or waved you off with the promise of a phone call. I got an immediate interview and was hired on the spot. Robert Orsini, the younger son of one of the owners, was the one who hired me. He was only a few years older than me, had been raised in the business, and was already managing the hotel.

Two brothers, Joe and Gus Orsini, had married two sisters, Mary and Anna. They had immigrated to Canada from Italy and bought the Coral Inn, which evolved into the Ramada Coral Inn, and the Ramada Suites and Conference Center. They were a wonderful, well-respected, hardworking family; and they ran a very successful business. I loved working for them and learned the job quickly.

I enjoyed dressing up in my navy-blue skirt and blazer, white blouse, and coral chiffon scarf. With my makeup and hair done, and high heels on, I felt sophisticated. The front desk area and office overlooked the indoor/outdoor swimming pools and restaurant. The atmosphere was fun and friendly, with a wide range of guests, from vacationing families to foreign tour groups, seniors, sports teams, and couples on their honeymoons. Everyone always seemed to be in a good mood. Now and then there were cranky, hard-to-please guests, but I didn’t mind the challenge, and did my best to make them smile. The businessmen and businesswomen who had contracts with local companies and stayed frequently got special rates.

The night I met Joe, I was working with Iole, Joe Orsini’s daughter. It was late summer, and I had only been working at the hotel for about a month or so. I loved working with Iole, who was always sweet and very patient. As we began our shift, and checked the availability of rooms, and the reservations that had yet to arrive, Iole remarked that Mr. Allen had a reservation. She asked me if I had met him yet. I told her that I didn’t think so, and if I had, I couldn’t recall. She laughed and said, Oh, if you met Mr. Allen, you’d remember. He’s one of my favorite corporate guests.

Later that evening, he arrived at the desk to check in. I noticed that he was a very tall, more than six feet, and in good shape. He was a young-looking brown-skinned man. What I remember the most about that first meeting was his personality. He was exuberant and had a confident, self-assured presence about him. Now remember, I mentioned that there was no romantic attraction initially, but I certainly appreciated his full-of-life personality. He was smiling when he walked up to the desk, putting both hands down on it. He greeted Iole and me. He playfully pointed to her, saying, I remember your name. Wait a minute. Hang on. It’s like a song.

Then he started to chant, Yolee! Yolee! Yolee!

We both stood there giggling at his silliness. Iole made the introductions and showed me his reservation, pointing out his special corporate rate, and I checked him in. From that point on, he became my favorite corporate guest too. He always seemed to be in a good mood, was friendly, and full of personality. It was eight months before the sparks began to fly.

Fast-forward to early March 1990, a couple of days before my twentieth birthday. March weather in Niagara Falls is always unpredictable. The sun had been shining brilliantly when I arrived for my three-to-eleven shift. There was no hint of the blizzard that had been forecasted. After clocking in and getting updated by my coworker from the previous shift, I checked the available rooms and glanced over the reservations. A weekday in March was never busy at the hotel, and with the impending storm, it was virtually deserted. Several reservations had cancelled. Snowflakes had begun to fall. The big fluffy ones that make it impossible to see your hand in front of your face, and they were accumulating rapidly.

As I looked over the few guests who had yet to check in, my heart skipped a beat when I saw his name. Joseph Allen. I was startled by the sudden rush of excitement and butterflies at the mere sight of his name. I found myself anxious for his arrival. During his last hotel stay, he had come up to the front desk to say hello before heading into the restaurant. It wasn’t unusual for him to do so, but that evening, his hand had brushed past—no, it had lingered over—mine, just a little longer than a friendly pat, sending electricity up my arm and through my whole body. I don’t recall thinking about him between his previous stay and that snowy evening, but seeing his name on the reservation definitely made my head swim and my heart flutter. I spent my whole shift waiting for his arrival.

The snow continued to fall, fluffy steady puffs, with not even the slightest breeze. It came straight down and piled up quickly. Evening fell, and the sky grew darker, looking like a perfect Christmas night, calm and peaceful. Everyone that had been due to check in had either arrived or cancelled their reservations. Everyone except for Mr. Allen. The roads were deserted. People were hunkered down, waiting out the storm. I waited anxiously, half expecting that he would call to cancel, but hoping that he wouldn’t. At ten o’clock, Derek, the night-shift desk clerk who was scheduled to relieve me, called to say he would be two hours late. Gus Orsini offered to come in so that I could go home, but I told him that I didn’t mind waiting. It didn’t make sense for him to come out in the storm. I called my parents to let them know I would be late.

It was a strange feeling, being alone in the hotel. All was quiet in what was usually a hub of activity. The restaurant and pool had been closed for hours, and the guests all seemed to be in for the night. The only sounds I heard were the humming of the ice maker and pop machines, and the scraping of the snowplows and salt trucks. As isolated as I was, I wasn’t afraid. I found the solitude wonderfully peaceful. Mr. Allen still hadn’t checked in. I hoped that the extra two hours would give me the chance to see him.

Shortly after midnight, Derek called to let me know that he was on his way. I had parked my car in the first parking space, next to the entrance. I had watched it slowly get buried in snow all evening, from the front lobby window. I drove a 1987 Honda Civic, so it didn’t take much for it to get covered. I decided to go out to clear off the heavy layer of snow while I waited for Derek. The snow hadn’t let up for hours. The air was still and fresh, and not at all cold. The sky was clear, but black as pitch, and with the streetlights illuminated, the crisp contrast of the white flakes was breathtaking. For a moment, I stood gazing up to the heavens, taking in the beauty.

As I waded my way back to the entrance, stomping the snow from my boots, I noticed that Derek had arrived. I told him that he would no doubt have a very quiet night. I let him know that there was only one reservation yet to arrive, Mr. Allen. We both agreed that the odds were he’d been delayed due to the weather, and that he most likely wouldn’t arrive at all. It was really coming down out there. Derek said that the plows and salt trucks were out in full force, but it didn’t look like it would be stopping any time soon. I said goodnight and walked out toward my still-running car in the parking lot.

Noticing the headlights turning onto the street that ran down the side of the hotel, I hesitated. There were no other cars on the road, so the lights seemed out of place. Something made me wait to see where the car was going. As it pulled into the virtually empty parking lot, I stood next to my open door, sensing that it was him, but needing to see with my own eyes. The car door opened, and his tall frame unfolded, pulling out a single bag. It was Mr. Allen. When he looked up and saw me standing there, he flashed a familiar smile and said, Hey.

I smiled back and casually approached him to say hello. Before I could even utter the word, I was scooped up into the biggest, warmest bear hug of my life. With my head spinning, buried in his chest, I couldn’t process exactly what it was that I felt. It had all happened so quickly. I enjoyed the warm moment caught up in his arms. Before he let me go completely, he kissed me. Right on the lips. I wasn’t completely certain if his affections were a manifestation of his sheer relief, having just survived a crazy Canadian winter storm, navigating through whiteout conditions, multiple flight cancellations and delays, or if he was genuinely happy to see me. I wondered if he had been having the same fluttery feeling as I had all evening. Once we backed out of our embrace, we nervously stammered about the weather, his nightmare flight, and the wild road conditions. I don’t remember walking back to my car, or even the drive home, but I do remember not sleeping much. A warm glow enveloped me, and I couldn’t stop smiling. I was anxious for my next shift at work so I could find out if what I had experienced was more than just a friendly greeting.

When I saw Mr. Allen the next afternoon, all signs seemed to indicate that the feelings were mutual. Words were not spoken, but they were conveyed by eye contact and body language. Each of us searching the other, looking for the connection, and the way he squeezed my hand when he greeted me, and how he lingered, just a little longer, at the front desk when he came and went. It was the week of my birthday, and I must have mentioned it, because when he returned from his evening jog, he handed me a portable CD player and a Linda Rondstadt and Aaron Neville CD. Their song, Don’t Know Much (but I Know I Love You), had played over the lobby radio when he stopped by the desk. It was a song that I liked, and when he sang along to it, I realized we shared the same taste in music. After sensing that we were both feeling the same way about each other, the butterflies and heart flutters became uncontainable. Throughout the day I replayed the hug and kiss in the parking lot, and I played what I claimed to be our song, over, and over, and over.

I had casually mentioned the name Joe Allen to my parents when we had first been introduced because of his connection with the Ford Glass plant where my dad worked. My dad said that he had seen him around. The new feelings that had suddenly emerged had changed my entire demeanor, and it was obvious to my parents that something was up. When I started mentioning Joe Allen’s name again, it didn’t take long for them to figure it out. I knew in my head that the conditions for a relationship were not ideal; however, my heart spoke much louder. Joe was fourteen and a half years my senior. A yet-to-be twice-divorced father of one, and a non-Catholic African American. I was a twenty-year-old cradle Catholic, never-married white female, with no kids. I was fully aware that this was not the dream my parents had for their firstborn.

Four

Joe versus the Volcano

Niagara Falls, Ontario, 1990

I don’t think that my parents wanted to believe that I could be in love with Joe. I gushed about how nice he was, so friendly with a vibrant personality and great sense of humor. They had several questions, and although I knew they wouldn’t be happy to hear the answers, I was completely honest with them. My mother was visibly distraught while my dad remained silent. She was clearly upset by the fact that Joe was still legally married to his second wife. I explained to her that their marriage was over. The fact that he also had a son complicated matters. On top of everything was the significant age difference and, although they didn’t say so at first, that he was black. I told them that none of the things that they considered to be obstacles mattered to me. The whole thing had come way out of left field for them, so I know they had to be in shock. As a mother, I know I would be, but as a twenty-year-old, my heart was bursting with all the crazy emotions of new love. I told my parents that Joe and I had made a date to see a movie that night. My mother objected. I was an adult with my own car, so I made the decision to go despite her protests. We went to see Joe versus the Volcano. Little did we know it then, Joe would come face-to-face with a real live volcano. My mother.

My relationship with my mother had worked well up until I fell in love with Joe. She had always been the dominant parent in our household. I knew what was expected of me, and I rarely ventured out of that realm. I had always been the good girl, respectful, responsible, and mature beyond my years. From a young age, I learned not to go against the grain. It was through my observations of situations with many different people throughout my life—relatives, friends, and acquaintances—that I learned that there were conditions to my mother’s affections. She had a strong personality and a low tolerance for those who disagreed with her opinions. She surrounded herself with like-minded people but seemed to have no trouble ending friendships when differences surfaced. People came and went, relationships were built quickly and ended abruptly. Although I never knew all the details, I felt sad many times over the loss of friendships. As the loyal daughter, I learned to follow my mother’s lead, associating with who was in and avoiding who was out. I never betrayed her trust, even when my heart felt the injustice.

When I made it clear to my mother that I planned to continue seeing Joe, she tried everything in her power, including calling his soon-to-be ex-wife, in an attempt to dig up dirt. She tried to plant seeds of doubt in my mind, informing me that Joe had been married not once but twice, something that he had already told me. Joe had shared everything about his past with me in great detail, and none of the so-called secrets that my mother thought she would shock me with were of any surprise at all. She tried to convince me that because Joe was a frequent traveler, he undoubtedly had a girl in every port. She told me that I shouldn’t think I was anyone special. None of her attempts to break us up worked. In fact, they brought us closer together. For my entire life, I had been the obedient child. Now that I was an adult, my mother frantically tried to maintain her control.

I was well aware of the fact that I was going against the rules of the Catholic Church, but at the time, it wasn’t that important to me. A tiny voice inside my head whispered warnings that I was entering into dangerous territory. I brushed them aside with the hope that everything could be repaired with an annulment. I had no tangible knowledge of the annulment process. It was a term that I had heard tossed around, but nothing I had any experience with. My uneducated understanding was that it was a Catholic divorce. I had no idea what the process involved, how long it could take, or even if Joe could get not only one, but two of them. I never seriously considered the very real possibility that I might fall into a state of mortal sin. None of those things were at the top of my list of worries. All I knew and cared about was that Joe and I were in love and we wanted to get married. I believed that everything would come out in the wash.

My mother all but went out of her head with sadness, disappointment, anger, fear, and frustration. She had been accustomed to having all the control, and she fought to maintain her power. It was a losing battle. The two of us were in a constant state of debate over the situation, and the tension was ever present. I am certain that she prayed for our relationship to fizzle out on its own, but the more she badgered me about it, the more I sought refuge in Joe. Several weeks went by with my mother and I adamantly opposed to each other. I refused to stop seeing Joe, and after some ugly words, she told me to get out of the house. I don’t think she actually expected me to leave. As far as she was concerned, I had no place to go. She was right, I really didn’t have a place to go. My good friends were all away at university, and Joe was traveling on business. My mother knew that Joe wouldn’t be able to easily rush to my aid. I had my own car though, so I drove to a phone booth and called him collect. I told him that my mother had just kicked me out. He was well aware of how my mother felt about him, and although he didn’t like that our relationship was causing tension between my mother and me, we both viewed it as her problem, not ours.

Joe told me to go to the Western Union Station and wait for a money order. He said he would make a hotel reservation for me. He wired three thousand dollars to me, and I checked into the Viscount Hotel. I stayed there until he arrived the next day. I still have no idea why I called my mother, but I did. It must have been to let her know that I was okay, so she wouldn’t worry. She was surprisingly calm over the phone and told me that she wanted to meet with the two of us to discuss the situation. Joe and I were cautiously encouraged. At least she was willing to talk. She told us what time we should meet her at the Campaign Life office in downtown Niagara Falls.

When we arrived at the office, she was already there, waiting in a very businesslike sort of way. Not surprisingly, she was alone. My father was not the confrontational type. My mother explained that my father was much too angry to come to the meeting. That was something that I found odd, because he had remained virtually silent on the topic, leaving all the talking to my mother. My father was not one to show emotion. I don’t doubt that he was probably hurt and disappointed, but he definitely didn’t seem angry. My mother sat across from the two of us at a long boardroom table and told us what we both already knew. She didn’t approve of our relationship, and speaking for my father, neither did he. The reasons she gave us was that Joe’s divorce was not yet final. She said that until such time as his marriages were annulled, she would not approve of us dating. She reminded us of the fact that I was a Catholic, and was going against church teaching. She also questioned Joe’s motives. He informed her that if I had been just a fling for him, he certainly wouldn’t have agreed to her interrogation. He told her that he loved me and intended to marry me. He was not holding me hostage and wasn’t in any rush to get married. We could wait for an annulment, but it was unreasonable to not be allowed to see each other in the meantime.

The meeting ended with no resolution. We refused to put our relationship on hold, and my mother refused to support it. Joe and I left together, and I promised her that I would return home that night. Joe and I discussed the meeting over dinner at the Casa D’Oro, a great Italian landmark restaurant in downtown Niagara Falls. We were unwavering in our resolve to be together, and we wouldn’t let anyone stand in our way.

My dad has always been a man of few words. My mother did most of the talking and made the decisions about pretty much everything. My father remained silent, to me at least, on the subject of my relationship with Joe. My mother would have had me believe that he was in grave distress over it all. I don’t claim to know what their private conversations were like. All I knew was what I witnessed myself. What she said he said, I took with a grain of salt. The words my father finally did speak to me shocked me like none other, because they were not consistent with the way I had been raised.

Joe was out of town again, traveling on business. I had just returned from work. My mother had been growing increasingly distressed by the fact that Joe and I were showing no signs of breaking up, and it seemed to me that it was consuming her entire life to the point of panic. The timing, for what I would describe as an intervention, had

Reviews for Mountains and a Mustard Seed

[sandylw · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Nicole Allen's first book is a book about her journey of faith. It is the story of a young woman who falls in love with a man fourteen years older than she. Nicole is Catholic and makes sure she attends Mass Sunday, but she is not deeply involved in her Church. Nicole and Joe are open to having children and soon find themselves with one, then two, then three and more. Joe often gets transferred and they make many moves but his moves always seem to bring a job with more responsibility and more income. Nicole's faith grows as her family grows. Things are not always smooth, especially with Nicole's mother. Also, when Joe loses his job, things get difficult for a family with a dozen children. Nicole's faith continues to grow and she continues to grow as mother and wife.