Prodigal to Policeman: Trauma * Faith * Transformation * Triumph

By R. Thomas Walker

Through riveting, and sometimes heartbreaking, personal accounts of trauma and loss, Tom uses real-life events to testify of God’s forgiveness and undying love. Captain Walker’s dynamic messages inspire others to seek a life with Jesus Christ, as well as to challenge them to seek God in everything they do. Even seasoned believers are rejuvenated and encouraged to find renewed trust in the Lord.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888329276

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Prodigal to Policeman

Trauma * Faith * Transformation * Triumph

R. Thomas Walker

ISBN 979-8-88832-926-9 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88832-927-6 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by R. Thomas Walker

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

An Introduction to Trauma

Aliens Among Us

Chasing Wild Bill

Lexington, 44904

This Is My House!

Too Poor for Friendship

The Church Letdown and the Dragon Slayer

Eviction Day

Hell-Bound in a Chevette

Grandbabies and God

Listen to the Music

The Bittersweet Melody of Change

Success, Failure, and a Tree Branch

Finding Freedom in Surrender

Faith Like Handcuffs

The Love of a Father

God Visits a Convenience Store

Find Your Understanding in Seasons

Denial Is Not Just a River in Egypt!

Nuggets of Love

About the Author

Brother Carl Breit, Pastors Bernie and Anita France

This book is dedicated to the loving memories of Pastors Bernie and Anita France, whose undying love for and faith in Christ served as inspirations for us all! Well done, fine and faithful servants! Until we meet again. You are both loved and missed.

Chapter 1

An Introduction to Trauma

June 25, 1967, was a cool and dry early-summer day in Ohio. America was in the throes of war with Vietnam, the Beatles premiered the first satellite television program, Our World , and Groovin' by The Young Rascals was the number 1 song on the airways. Shortly after 7:00 a.m., I took my first breath, and my mother (Pauline) always told me I was a true blessing. I can only imagine the uncertainties my twenty-year-old mom was experiencing at that time, but I'm sure her youthful optimism and the joy of having her first child helped her overcome many of her fears.

Richard Thomas (Tom) Walker was the name I was given. I was named after my paternal grandfather and an uncle who was serving in Vietnam. Mom said she liked the name Richard because it reminded her of royalty, likening me to a strong king. Although there was nothing majestic about my entrance into this world, I suppose my mother was having visions of hope and success for her baby boy.

To understand me, one must get to know my mother. Augusta Pauline Walker was born in Galion, Ohio, on May 31, 1947; and she was the eldest of three children born to my grandmother, Edna Mae Clevenger. As was common for that era, my mother was groomed to sacrifice and help care for her younger siblings. This was a trait she developed early on and one she continued to exhibit into her motherhood years.

My earliest memory of Mom revolves around a cactus plant in my great-uncle's home. I was about two or three years old, and I vaguely recall standing at the front door, behind my mother's leg. As she turned to go out, I must not have moved quickly enough, and I was pushed—tailfirst—into this cactus plant. Mom and my great-aunt took me into the bathroom, where they delicately removed every needle one by one while I cried my eyes out. Obviously, I survived; however, it must have been quite traumatic to be so easily recalled decades later.

Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I watched my mom give so much to others. Her selflessness and love of family was always on display, especially with her four boys. I recall watching my mother go hungry and literally wear rags just to ensure her children had what was needed. She did the same in sharing her love with her spouse or significant other, sometimes to a fault. Through my very narrow lens, Mom seemed to completely immerse herself in the person she loved and always tried to be the perfect wife, as defined by her generation. She cared for her home and family while doting over her children and putting her spouse on a pedestal. Mom seemed to enjoy the responsibilities that came with the titles of wife and mother; however, she allowed herself to be walked on and abused both physically and mentally.

As strong as my mom was, I stood by as she was physically beaten on many occasions. I grew up with her making excuses for all the bruises, cuts, and scrapes while I noticed the looks on others' faces when they saw the many marks my mother bore. Yet Mom would simply suck it up and move on. You see, Mom's pride was secondary to her family, and she wasn't going to let those scars or a little embarrassment deter from her mission of being a good wife and mother. In retrospect, one of those horrible events planted the seed for my desire to become a police officer.

I remember being awakened one night by the sounds of repeated slapping and thumping in between Mom's whimpering and pleadings for him to stop. I was probably about ten or eleven years old at the time. I quietly walked down the stairs that emptied into our living room. I rounded the corner, only to see my mother seated on the couch and my stepfather straddled over top of her. His closed fists were flailing, and I heard a slapping thud as each punch plunged into her face.

I recall being overwhelmed by a feeling of sheer terror as I watched my mother's head jerk from side to side with every blow. Between my stepfather's flurries of fists, he would stop to yell at her for a couple of seconds. It was during that time that I could clearly see my mother's face, which was covered in a mixture of blood and streaming tears. To this day, I'm not sure if she even noticed me standing there, but I witnessed it all. I felt completely helpless and frightened at that moment. Little did I know that the tide was quickly about to turn.

It was a hot summer evening when this attack occurred. I recall our inside door was open, but the storm door was locked. With a loud and sudden metallic bang! the door was torn off its hinges, and three enormous figures came bursting into our living room. I remember seeing dark clothing and oddly shaped hats that sparkled with the reflection of light off their badges. It didn't seem to faze my stepfather, though; he didn't miss a lick—so to speak—as he continued punching my mother over and over. The three men took hold of my stepfather, pulling him off the couch as he began to unleash a flurry of fists at them. Unfortunately for him, those men were not going to be used as punching bags, and my stepfather received a well-earned dose of street justice. At that moment, I was exposed to a new purpose in life, one I would someday come to embrace.

Before I go on, I want to clarify something. I'm not encouraging nor would I ever condone police brutality; however, let's be honest with ourselves. Policing was quite different in the 1970s, and my takeaway was not to be a bully. That kind of childhood trauma should've crushed my spirit by manifesting lifelong feelings of anxiety and worthlessness. Instead, it fostered a deep-rooted desire to help protect those who could not protect themselves.

Chapter 2

Aliens Among Us

I've heard it said that life is not measured by number of breaths we take but the moments that take our breath away ( author unknown ). The more times I circle the sun, the more I'm forced to acknowledge the profound truth in this quote. Honestly, if my life was a motion picture, it would be the culmination of defining scenes that directly affected me as a person as well as a believer. While we explore these memories together, please understand that I will give little reference to my faith because I want to help you feel how lost and vulnerable I was—even in the good times.

As I recall it, my mother and I first lived with my grandmother and my aunt on S. Boston St. in Galion, Ohio. That time in my life produced memories of my first dog bite, learning to ride a bike, my first beesting, and sticking a butter knife into a wall socket. (Please feel free to chuckle. I know I did.) I grew up watching the Saturday-morning Superhost, Johnny Sokko and His Flying Robot, Ultraman, and The Three Stooges. I was completely convinced I wanted to be Speed Racer and never quite understood why Lisa hated the thought of leaving New York to live with Oliver Wendell Douglas on Green Acres!

The fall season was fun for us because Mom and Grandma always made a big to-do about creating my Halloween costumes. This particular year, they'd decided I was going to be an alien. Just so you know, I've no idea who came up with this brilliant plan or why they thought it would be a good idea in the first place, but they went with it. Mom made me stand in the middle of our kitchen table while wearing a pair of sweats, low-top sneakers, and a long-sleeve T-shirt. Like some type of field sobriety test, I was told to remain perfectly still, with my legs slightly apart and my arms partially away from my sides. Mom placed a cutoff pantyhose over my head and face, and she began meticulously drawing clown circles on my cheeks with a tube of lipstick.

Grandma prepared several rolls of tinfoil—yes,