Gail's family was poor but rich with love. When her mother was in the hospital giving birth to the youngest child, their house burned. Before leaving the hospital, Gail’s mother was diagnosed with cancer.
When her mother passed, Gail and her siblings went to stay with their family, eventually living at her grandmother's house. Although warned that this was not a good decision, Gail’s father felt it was his only option. However, it was nearly fatal for little Gail. Her father—her hero—saved her in the nick of time.
The Welfare Department soon removed Gail and her two younger siblings and placed them in foster homes. They were ultimately placed at Childhaven, an orphanage for fortunate children.
Despite great sadness and pain in their early years, Gail and her siblings became strong, loving, and faith-filled adults. But those early traumatic childhood events weighed on Gail’s body, mind, and spirit until she was in her forties. Finally agreeing to seek help, she started seeing a Christian counselor. Gail’s story is evidence of the resiliency of the human spirit, the power of love, and the never-ending mercies of a loving Father.
Gail's family was poor but rich with love. When her mother was in the hospital giving birth to the youngest child, their house burned. Before leaving the hospital, Gail’s mother was diagnosed with cancer.
When her mother passed, Gail and her siblings went to stay with their family, eventually living at her grandmother's house. Although warned that this was not a good decision, Gail’s father felt it was his only option. However, it was nearly fatal for little Gail. Her father—her hero—saved her in the nick of time.
The Welfare Department soon removed Gail and her two younger siblings and placed them in foster homes. They were ultimately placed at Childhaven, an orphanage for fortunate children.
Despite great sadness and pain in their early years, Gail and her siblings became strong, loving, and faith-filled adults. But those early traumatic childhood events weighed on Gail’s body, mind, and spirit until she was in her forties. Finally agreeing to seek help, she started seeing a Christian counselor. Gail’s story is evidence of the resiliency of the human spirit, the power of love, and the never-ending mercies of a loving Father.
“You can’t go back and change the beginning,
but you can start where you are and change the ending.”
—C.S. Lewis
The night before I saw therapist James Jones, I awoke drenched in sweat, unable to breathe. Desperate for relief, I clutched my chest, wincing through the physical sensations that were rooted in something psychological. Hot shame spread through my temples to my cheeks and jaws. Almost identical to the sensation of nausea, it tingled and caught in my throat. I knew releasing it would not be as easy as hovering over a porcelain toilet with my hair pulled back.
After a few minutes of mental anguish, I laid back and focused my eyes on the popcorn ceiling. I inhaled, attempting to recover any memory from a dream I might have had. What had been so triggering to wake me up in such a panic? Though moments prior I had been sleeping, there were no lasting images of where I had drifted off to, nor recollection of whom I’d been speaking with. There was only the radiating, emotional pain that I’d been trying to avoid since childhood. Instead of fading with each infrequent fuzzy memory, the pain only seemed to worsen as the years passed.
Sometimes while experiencing these nightmares, I would hurt myself by accidentally hitting my head on the bed post, falling off the bed, or kicking and flinging my arms and legs so hard I would pull a muscle or worse. One incident required surgery to recover. Often after these terrible dreams, I would have marks on my back like scratches that were deep enough to scab.
Now at forty-three years old, the anxiety and fear had become so consuming—even causing a few fainting spells—that I agreed to seek help. It was affecting both my daily life and my family. I did not want to pass on my traumatic past to my children.
The anguish surfaced in strange ways, particularly around old women. Not always, but most of the time. I had managed to hide my anxiety as much as I could around others. But anytime I saw a woman with gray hair, especially if she was walking in my direction or made eye contact, I went into survival mode. I always tried to walk away, to avoid any kind of conversation, or worse—physical touch in the form of a hug, a handshake, a kiss on my cheek, or a tap on my shoulder or forearm. While their gray hair caused an immediate worry, the women’s hands were truly my enemy, especially if they were damaged by arthritis.
My husband Jerrie knew to keep a protective eye on me at church. Those holy spaces should have felt incredibly safe and peaceful, but they were where I was the most vulnerable. I was all too easily cornered in busy foyers by grandparents (with grandchildren in tow), who often asked to take us out to lunch. Any time Jerrie stepped away I felt exposed, so we developed a secret alerting system. Anytime I needed an escape, I would slip out of my location or conversation casually to find Jerrie and give him a nod. That was his sign to come to my aid and provide a distraction so I could remove myself from the situation. These situations were occurring more and more frequently.
While most older women terrified me, there were a few precious women who did not. Mrs. Mitchell was someone I could trust. She never frightened me. Perhaps it is because the first time I met her she gave me a fancy handbag with ten dollars tucked away in the pocket. Instantly I felt that this woman was kind and not a threat. I was even comfortable embracing her. She had class, and her husband complemented her perfectly—still opening the passenger door for her, always being gentle and intentional with his delicate cargo. She’d wave at everyone like royalty as she left the church parking lot. Even at people she hardly knew. But she always meant it.
Mrs. McCoy was another woman I had come to enjoy. She was a Southern, soft-spoken, gentle lady. She dressed beautifully. She kept a locket around her neck with photos of her grandchildren inside. But the first time her lips met my cheek, it was too much. I suffered momentarily, and even more so when I noticed her hands. They opened as she embraced me and I cringed, thinking for a brief moment that she might slap me. Her hands—withered by time, damaged by arthritis— looked like Mammy’s. Then in a half-second, she was Mammy, and I was frozen.
Too easily, all of these women were Mammy, my grandmother.
My body always hurt when they’d embrace me. I’d remember Mammy’s disdain and her willingness to strike without warning. No matter how gentle Mrs. McCoy’s kisses were, they’d mimic the same external flush as though I had been slapped across my face. Pleasantries would happen in slow motion as my mind went blank, until Jerrie would ground me with his touch. Back to reality.
Retreating sometimes worked unless the women were aggressively friendly. Southern churchgoers tended to be excessively sweet—with their courteousness, casseroles, and Christmas cards that I’d always hang on the refrigerator. There were certainly some of these women that I almost hated—I just never wanted to be honest about it; it wasn’t the upright thing.
On one occasion, one such aggressively nice lady rounded the corner of the main lobby, heading in my direction, while I was waiting for Jerrie. I would have crawled into the cracks between the crimson cushions on the chairs if they could have held me. In my younger years, I’d developed the ability to go to sleep at will as a means of escape. I’d position myself in comfortable enough places, then slip into a dream state. As the woman neared me, I considered suddenly dozing off—perhaps later blaming it on medication.
But she was too close—way too close. Way too fast. She neared my chair and I pulled back. After she was practically sitting in my lap, I stood and made my way past her to the staircase. The further I climbed, the more she chased, chatting all the way. I moved to the right side of the stairs, and she followed me. Then I stepped to the left and she did the same. I took a few uncomfortable backward steps up the stairs and she stepped up to close the distance between us.
By the end of our conversation, we’d made our way around the building before Jerrie located me. Once I was safely in the car with him, I felt like I’d gotten in a solid workout. When I told him what happened, he laughed about the marathon and asked me what the conversation with the woman was about. I’d been so busy running; I honestly couldn’t remember. I wondered how something so minor could feel so exhausting—but many of these scenarios depleted me.
There was nothing more insufferable than being trapped in vulnerable moments with most of these women. What was meaningful for them was usually harmful for me. On one Wednesday night, a lady I usually avoided approached me to ask if I would like to hear a poem she had written. Instantly, I felt trapped.
“Of course!” I lied—recoiling internally as she leaned forward and put one arm around my neck. She then began to recite the poem by memory in my ear. Her tone was gentle, maternal, soothing even. Yet, after a few lines, I felt hot tears pooling in my eyes from feeling terrified, worried I might faint. I let them roll down my face and neck, wondering what I should say in response. Then anger surfaced, eclipsing my vulnerability. After that, I felt the familiar, hot shame in my cheeks.
Finally, she was done with her recitation, and she looked at my wet face, no doubt thinking I was crying because I had been so moved by the beauty of her poem. “I knew you would understand. It makes me cry, too!” she told me. And then she walked away.
That was one of the emotional experiences I told James Jones about when I sat in his office for the first time. As I ran my hands over the threads of the fabric in the sunken floral couch, my timid voice filled the whole room with sound. It was an unfamiliar feeling—to hear my own voice; to share my pain, my fears, and my innermost feelings with someone other than Jerrie. I was feeble and something was emerging in me, far too much to bear alone. I could no longer continue living life as I had since my abuse at ages six and seven at the hands of my grandmother, Mammy.
James listened patiently and didn’t give any indication that he was critically judging me. My husband had known him for years. They had become friends over time, which gave me a level of comfort in speaking with him. James and his boys spent the night at our house now and then when he held church workshops in the area.
It felt safe to sit in his office. He never treated me like I was strange. I felt my secrets were safe in the safety deposit box of his mind. But it didn’t feel safe yet to share my whole story. I whispered and skimmed over the hard parts that had never been spoken. There was a lot I didn’t say. James affirmed that this was natural with trauma survivors; that healing would take time.
He said to establish trust with him, he’d start giving me weekly homework. Afterward, we’d debrief. After a few weeks, my first assignment was to tell my story to two people—specifically, two women. Two people was a lot of people. But he said that once I shared my story, others would likely begin to open up to me as well.
The first woman I talked to cried the whole time I spoke, feeling immense empathy for me. The second woman didn’t seem to be paying attention at all. I wasn’t sure which response hurt worse. After I finished confiding in my silent friend, she surprised me by asking if she could share her lifetime secret with me.
It was horrible, agonizing. She had seen a murder as a child. The murderer had seen her too and had threatened to kill her parents if she told. Not even her husband knew the secret she’d been holding onto for decades. We held each other and cried freely afterward. She felt relieved to have told her truth to at least one person, and I felt honored that she had confided in me.
What James had promised me was materializing: as I opened up to others, they opened up to me. I was grateful to relieve my friend of her burden. Now there were two people who knew her secret, and that was enough. I relayed this proudly in therapy. It was my first mark of progress.
Next, James made me go to the nursing home alone to visit two old women from the church. I prayed for courage as I imagined what their hands might look like. I was tempted to tell him I wasn’t ready, but I pressed on.
They are sick, old people. I told myself. They can’t hurt me. They aren’t Mammy.
Because I wouldn’t see James until the next Monday, I waited until Friday. I thought, I’ll just do it and get it over with—then process over the weekend.
I had visited nursing homes often with church groups, but never alone. Even parking out front was difficult. With great fear, I entered one of the most unpleasant places a person can go. The smell of cafeteria food and sanitizer wafted through the rotating doors. I held my breath, trying not to make eye contact with the gaunt residents sleeping in wheelchairs throughout the entry hall. I clutched two small gifts tightly in my hands. I wondered if the women would like them.
I found room 107 with little effort, and knocked on the partially open door with dread, but peered in to find an empty, unmade bed. The woman was away. It was the perfect test run. One down, one to go.
My second visit felt a little easier, like a pressure valve was loosening, as I made my way past the warmly lit game room where music was playing. The residents were doing crafts. Every now and then I’d hear affirmations and clapping as a resident was praised for their good work. When I reached room 219, I found another resident chatting with the woman I’d come to see. The woman and I spoke for a little while, and the conversation transitioned from awkward stammers to full sentences relatively quickly. I was surprised—pleased even. I gave my two gifts to these women.
I walked out into the weekend having accomplished my goal. Then I slid into the warm leather seats of my car and cried. When I told James later, he cried too. I felt safe—almost safe enough to tell him about several experiences that I’d never spoken about to anyone—experiences that were still so poignant, potent, and clear in my mind.
Gail at five years old: “Little Me”
***
The first time it happened, I was in my mid-teens and living at Childhaven, a children’s home in Cullman, Alabama. I was sitting on my bed, staring off into space, when suddenly, in front of me I saw an exact replica of myself as a child, standing in a beautiful white cotton slip. Little Me was crying, so I reached for myself, thinking my hands would run through my younger self like a ghost. But Little Me was a person, whole and real. This wasn’t my imagination. So, I drew Little Me to myself. She had no weight. I sat her on my lap and tried to tell her everything would be all right. But I couldn’t make the crying stop because Little Me didn’t trust me. The truth was, I hoped everything would turn out all right, but I wasn’t even sure myself.
I wondered if I should tell someone about what had happened. I had houseparents and other children to talk to, but this story seemed too unbelievable to share. The children at Childhaven didn’t have counselors back then as they do now. We were each other’s counselors. We all had stories, but mine seemed too unbelievable to share. I thought about it for days but never told anyone.
This happened a handful of other times over the next few years—once in college, again early in my marriage, then after I had children.
I began to see Little Me more often after a traumatic accident in 1977 when Jerrie and I were in a fire at church camp.
There was a little house where we taught crafts to the campers. I had told one boy in particular, “Do not come back in here by yourself.” He and his sister were sent to camp by a church. They didn’t know how to mind. They didn’t know they were supposed to do what they were told to do. Their mother lived in a little trailer, and if the kids wanted to go to school, they went. And if they didn’t want to go, they didn’t have to go. When I gave him instruction, he didn’t listen.
He had entered the craft house and turned on the burner where we had been making candles. The wax caught on fire. When we saw the fire, Jerrie and I rushed into the building to put it out. Jerrie grabbed the container of wax to get it outside. I threw a towel over it, which forced the flames higher. Jerrie slung the container to get it out of the building and the flaming hot wax landed on my legs and face.
Thankfully, the building didn’t catch on fire. The place was soon full of children. I thought they were taught to go away when there was a fire, but instead they all ran in to see what happened. I sat on the floor and started wiping the wax off my legs and wiping it on the floor.
An hour later, I made it to what would later become the burn unit at Erlanger in Chattanooga. It was a very long recovery. My face, my right arm, and both of my legs were burned badly.
The following summer the little boy told me he was sorry.
***
While the visitations with Little Me occurred in different years, the visual was always the same: Little Me always wore a white cotton slip and was always crying.
Over time, and with my constant reassurance, Little Me cried less. Once we established a sense of safety and trust between us, we could read each other’s minds. She’d open up to me about her feelings, and I’d tell her about her future, a future I hoped was brighter than any darkness we’d endured.
Maybe because of the trauma to my body from the burn accident, weeks in the hospital with months of recovery, I focused so much on healing I saw none of Little Me for a period of time. I missed my visits with myself, but I felt Little Me needed me less. Maybe I was healing after all.
James Jones and I saw each other for over one year. I made great progress. When we completed therapy because we moved to a new church, I said, “Thank you for your help but I don’t ever want to talk about this again.”
James said, “Gail, it would be a shame to waste all that pain.”
His reply blessed me and hundreds of other people.
Gail Champion Barber’s Fleecy Clouds adeptly traverses triumph over adversity, delving into the profound journey of healing and attaining a successful future. The author examines the influence of providence on her life. This memoir invites readers to witness the transformative power of love, bravery, and the indomitable human spirit.
Gail reflects on her early memories within a tight-knit family. Following her mother’s death, she and her three siblings were placed with separate relatives who failed to provide them with a nurturing environment. Eventually, they were reunited, albeit forced to reside with their grandmother who treated them harshly. In this haunting narrative, Gail recounts incessant maltreatment during her youth.
Subsequently, their father entrusted the safety of Gail and two of her siblings to foster care. Ultimately, they went to Childhaven, a refuge proving pivotal to their upbringing. They bestowed Gail with compassionate care and unwavering support from the devoted staff.
Childhaven reinforced Gail’s faith in divine guidance. Childhaven greatly influenced her and her siblings' lives, as they actively participated in the organization, demonstrating their growth and empowerment, learning skills like gardening and animal care.
After meeting her husband in college, they embraced the joys and responsibilities of raising their children and engaging in meaningful domestic and international ministry. Gail gravitated towards individuals grappling with adversity, genuinely understanding their plight. She shares a myriad of heartwarming stories exhibiting her ministerial qualities of compassion and patience.
Through the darkness, Gail emerges as a luminous beacon. As a mentor and guardian, the writer assumes an integral role in the transformation of others. She unveils poignant tales of individuals finding comfort in her presence, emphasizing her aptitude for forging bonds and instilling a sense of safety.
The captivating book revolves around Gail’s exploration of trauma recovery. She artfully inspects the extensive effects of abuse and depicts the intricate process of healing. As the narrative unfurls, the author's experiences gradually transform into an undaunted mosaic. Through introspective examples, a strong bond is forged between readers and her innermost musings.
The book is an uplifting story of triumph displaying the strength of spirit, love, and interconnectedness. It transcends the boundaries of a mere memoir reminding readers that optimism and healing are achievable amidst unfathomable pain. The story offers a radiant symbol of hope, particularly resonating with those who have endured immense suffering. The author’s masterful prose reinforces empathy, perseverance, and the capacity for healing.