On the Road Again (Where IS my Home?)

Me in Russia, Turkey, and China

For the second time in just a few months during this World Pandemic, I have been evicted from a house where I was renting a room. This house, like the other, is in Bakersfield, California–a sprawling agricultural town in the Central plains, surrounded by vineyards, nut trees, and distant mountains. Bakersfield is definitely not Los Angeles, New York, London, Frankfurt, Moscow, Istanbul, Abu Dhabi, or Shanghai–cities I have visited during my world travels. I taught English in Russia, Turkey, and China for 5 years, living under their political systems and economies. After returning to California, I was homeless in Los Angeles for over a year, living in my car and driving for Uber Eats to make barely enough money for food and gas. I finally got a good teaching job and then moved to Bakersfield.

Not new to challenges, I survived a rare form of cancer 25 years ago when my son Jonathan was just a baby and my daughter Jessica only 3. I lost my mother, father, and younger brother (my entire immediate family) when I was too young. I write these things into my books. By the grace of Jesus, I have survived them. But the idea of home is an elusive thing.

My Daughter Jessica visits me in a California motel room, looking like Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz,” who just wanted to go Home

Right now, nothing seems as difficult as trying to find a home. Should I stay in Bakersfield, in expensive, coldhearted California, during Covid-19? Everyone here must wear a face mask to go outside, people line up 6 feet apart to be allowed into stores to shop for food, and Starbucks (and all the restaurants) won’t let people inside. Governor Gavin Newsom (who was just caught in a scandal for disregarding his own Coronavirus Laws) has made new curfew laws that some California sheriffs refuse to enforce. If we order take-out food, we must pick it up ourselves “curbside,” or have “contact-less delivery” left beside our home. Eight months ago this began, and now winter is coming. The sun which shines so brightly hot in Bakersfield summer has been covered up with gray.

Lois Mary Groves (my mom)

My mother as a teenager and little girl, with braids like my daughter Jessica. Lois Mary Groves was a haunted creature who ran away to meet a military man as a teen but then came home, met my dad, had me, and died too young

Home. When I was four, I played outside my Grandmother’s stately Southern mansion near the old university where my Grandfather and she had taught and my mother graduated. I remember the home’s tall white pillars by the stained-glass, embellished front door. I could wander out that door and stand at the front rock wall that bordered grassy yards. I was barely tall enough to glimpse the world outside. Walnut trees lowered branches beside a guest house and a little creek. My Grandfather, Professor Ernest Rutherford Groves, taught at UNC (University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill), one of the oldest campuses in America. He graduated from Yale University and Dartmouth College. He received an honorary Ph.D. from Boston University and became famous for Marriage and the Family books, classes, and counseling. He started the National Council on Family Relations that still holds conferences. Sadly, he died before I was born. Gimghoul Castle (part of a secret society my grandfather belonged to) rose stately down our road. The three stories of our house held treasures from far-away places: cut-glass display cases with hand-painted rose tea sets from England, Colonial sterling silver candlesticks and spoons, African ebony masks hanging scary on the wall, and mahogany tables with lions’ feet that were hand-carved in Holland.

124657030_10222012045183606_553556538494133188_o

I wish we could live in hotel room like this, my newest one

That’s where I used to hide. I felt safe. I had no idea, at four years old, that my life was about to completely change, I would lose all of my family, and I would never again enter that stately home. I would become a Traveler, wandering across continents, finding adventure, touching amazing things like silver ferns in glacial forests on islands near Antarctica and newly carved ice statues near old Soviet palaces. But always, always, I was missing a place called home.

Lonna in Fern 5X4

Me looking sad and homeless in a New Zealand Silver Fern

I became a good owner and renter of homes, paying on time, keeping things clean, never yelling or causing trouble. Yet, none of those homes was really mine, even the several I bought and had my name signed to, for an ex-husband and the bank owned them, too, and my name was easily removed from papers. How easily we can live our illusions, telling ourselves that we own something permanent when even we are just passing through this planet, and we only borrow things. Homes can come, and homes can go, but people last forever . . . Don’t people know this? I still don’t understand why I was evicted twice this year from the single room I rented (for too much money) in a Bakersfield family’s house.

I’ve gotten used to crutches since I was born with bad knees!

I had my first total knee replacement surgery and had just learned to walk well again last May, and California Newsom made it illegal to evict a tenant because of the Global Pandemic and forced quarantines. Yet, I wasn’t surprised when my newest, Covid-Crazy Landlady told me to get out. She had become more paranoid with the whole coronavirus tragedy and saw me as the Evil Germ Lady (which was true only in her mind, since I kept things neat and clean and even washed her dishes). Increasingly more frustrated at losing her well-paid job, she poured her anger onto me, playing loud drums and weird, tribal music at all hours, taping mean letters and Evil Eyes to my door, and burning sage throughout the house even though I am allergic to any kind of smoke. I begged her to stop and got a sinus infection! She kept wafting up smoke like Hell. She announced she would force me to court and say that I harmed her stepsons (who were not always there). I pointed out that almost every time those 3 young boys came to visit her and their dad (her new husband), she left. If they brought home a family dinner, she stayed in her room. That only made her more angry (of course!). God gave me the gift of testing people, which doesn’t work out well for me!

Covid Crazy Landlady Collage

Covid-Crazy Actions

“I will, one way or another, get you out soon,” she promised me. And so I left because I hate being where I’m not wanted. I stayed too long in a motel because I had nowhere else to go, using up most of my saved money–until I found my new room in Bakersfield, near Sam’s Club (my favorite store). This second time I did not see trouble coming. I had just settled in after 5 months. I had learned to walk again, again after my second total knee replacement surgery this year (Yes, I did 2 major surgeries during the Pandemic).

I had my clothes wardrobe figured out (finally choosing my new, practical but elegant style, which is important to a woman). I had stocked up on food from Sam’s Club (just in case things got really bad after the U.S. Presidential elections). I had my cool survival gadgets, books, and blankets and was about to launch new video series for my YouTube Channel: “Survival Woman” and “Lonna Lisa Teaches English.” When my fiancé Jose called and asked how I was, I could say, “I am fine, safe in my Little Room.” But that was an illusion too, for it was never mine. My safety must be eternal as my soul.

My Landlady was a seemingly nice, Christian grandmother whom I called Abuela. She read her Bible and went to church, but she did watch me almost every time I came out of my room and especially while I was in her kitchen (she’s an amazing cook, and that was her profession). I sometimes caught her listening to my conversations with the male Hispanic renter on whom she had a crush. She gave me only a little space for my dishes, pots, and pans–and less space in her refrigerator for my food. Nevertheless, I spoke with her and tried to share the amazing love of Jesus (yes, this Gringa speaks good Spanish).

I had to stand up for myself about space in the kitchen, though, for I need to eat well to stay healthy. I am, after all, an English teacher!

I was close enough to my fiancé, Jose of Mexico, for whom I am waiting to get out of prison. In fact, that’s why I moved to Bakersfield–for love. I was closer to Jose’s prison, and I visited him every weekend and holiday that I could–until his birthday last March, when he called to tell me that they were shutting all Visitation in the prisons because of Covid.

Jose and Me

I feel that, if I’m closer to him physically, I can drive quickly to the prison in case of Apocalypse or Civil War or the Great, Global Reset–or they finally set him free . . .

When Abuela told me I must leave, I was blindsided. I did not see that face-slap coming! Her son-in-law Miguel also told me that I should act more lady-like and be quiet. It’s funny how some people think: “I can do whatever I want, but you can’t.” I told Miguel that I must stand up for myself, and his attitude is machismo and sexist! He didn’t care. Abuela didn’t care that I have no place to go and no family to help me, and it’s almost Thanksgiving and Christmas in 2020, the world’s first Modern Global Pandemic Year that we would all like to be over, so we can never, ever remember those images of hospital hallways filled with dead bodies and rows of coffins and people weeping for their loved ones . . . We’ve all been through trauma. We all have PTSD. Shouldn’t we be kind to one another and willing to practice hospitality again and share our home with someone in need, who is not sick, who isn’t part of our family but is also human? Jesus told us not to just love those who love us in return–but to love the stranger who is really our neighbor–and to love even our enemy.

Does anybody care anymore? How can the family dogs have more rights than I do?

The skies are cloudy again. Gone are the sunshine days I shared with Jose in a prison courtyard, where we sat across from each other, held hands, kissed over a green metal table, and shared our dreams of being alone in our own home somewhere, anywhere . . . I saw my reflection in his brown eyes. He saw himself in my blue ones. His brown skin made a beautiful contrast to my white. He has handmade many colorful cards for me these past 2 years. I have poured all my childhood art classes into my photographs and words, like the favorite of the books I’ve written, “Selah of the Summit.” My daughter Jessica is Selah One, and I am Selah Two. Jose and I are the heroes in my newest book, “Selah and the Prisoner.” Someday, if I live long enough to write it, Selah Three will be a Spaceship Captain, her home a starship, her love someone who is not even human.

Me with Jose’s cards, our photo, my books . . . in a place I thought was home but wasn’t

In his most recent letter to me, Jose wrote, “The skies are gray, and I miss you so much. But gray is a color too.”

Yes, winter–and harsher lockdowns–are coming. But our life must continue! I recently talked on the phone (for business) with a nice woman from South Dakota. She told me that everyone is friendly and helpful there–and they have no face mask mandates, forced quarantines, controversial school closures, or lockdowns like Governor Newsom has dictated. And, of course they can meet for church inside a building and sing freely to Jesus! She couldn’t believe Newsom had made even those 2 things illegal.

I thought of moving to South Dakota, Utah, Nevada, or anywhere out of California. But I don’t want to be far from my daughter Jessica who lives near Los Angeles. And I need to feel close to Jose who is my Epic, Soulmate Love I searched for all my life. I have written our amazing prison love story into my newest book, which is almost finished. So, if you have a room or cheap apartment available, please email me at selahtrilogy@yahoo.com. I am not kidding. I wish I were. It’s true that real life can be stranger than fiction. It’s also true that fantasy novels help us understand reality.

An appropriate little Statue of Liberty outside a California Motel

Psalm 23 means more to me now: “The Lord is my shepherd . . . Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil. My cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will live in the house of the Lord forever.” And so, like David, the Shepherd Boy who defeated a Giant with just one stone and became a King, I began to understand my Enemy better. She is a bitter old woman who was not happy with her husbands (she once told me this in Spanish). Her last husband died a year ago. I, however, have found True Love. May I NEVER, EVER be like her. May she not triumph over me, like David wrote again in Psalm 30. May the Lord have mercy on her. May we all remember that:

“Weeping endures for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

A long-lost relative once told me that Psalm 30 was my Grandfather’s favorite Bible passage.

Jose and I posing in front of a prison Visitors’ Room Wall Mural

Jose and I have written those words back and forth to each other. He has not been able to call me for several days now. The last time we spoke, I was so angry about being blindsided, losing my second rented room in just 6 months. I was grumpy on the phone with him. I made him feel bad because he can’t do anything to help me other than call, write, pray (which is a whole lot, actually). Now there is this terrible silence. I want to call and tell him to remember what I said: “Never forget that I love you, and I’m forever yours.” He sent me handwritten letters and colorful Thanksgiving cards he made with his own hands–with all those rainbow colors like my book covers that I designed–and they sounded sad and doubtful of my love for him during this difficult Pandemic. I have mailed letters to him, trying to reassure him that I was just being a lost little girl or a grumpy woman. I wish I could recall the words I spoke on the phone. Maybe I’m not so different from Abuela after all . . . Sometimes all Jose and I have together are written words, mailed through the Postal system, taking time to be read and answered. Though all doors seem shut now because of Covid-19, they will open again–even the prison doors. I am praying Jose understands that I was just being weak for a moment. Darkest (and coldest) is that one night hour before the dawn!

Jose and I against one of his handwritten letters. Does anyone write by hand anymore?

I also came to know that my only real home is one Jesus prepares for me in Heaven. When He walked among us in dusty sandals and called fishermen and tax collectors to follow Him, Jesus did not have a home. I, too, must live on this Hostile Planet. We used to have castles and private homes, but with our jobs shut down for coronavirus, we have to rent out rooms. That makes us grumpy, for a spotlight shines on our private lives we may want to keep hidden. But does that give us the right to be mean? What happened to our planet? Has it always been this Hostile? What turned people’s hearts cold like ice in winter? I feel so brokenhearted. How do you feel? I am grieving for more than just a home. I miss my daughter Jessica. I miss Jose. Are you also on the verge of tears? Are we all just watching our whole world die?

Yet Jesus is the Good Shepherd who will lead us home.

Some sheep pastures in New Zealand

Jessica and Mom 2

My daughter Jessica is Selah One, and I am Selah Two

Family Collage

One good thing about the Covid-19 forced quarantine we just re-entered here in California is that I finally took old family photos out of their box. Here are my distant relatives, grandparents, and little shots of my mother as a child at our old house on Gimghoul Road. She liked to dress up as I do!