Speaking our secrets: Mary DeMuth spills the down-low on her new book “The Muir House”

Posted on November 3, 2011 by elizabeth

I met Mary DeMuth at the Relevant blogging conference. A prolific Christian author, Mary understands the difficulty of healing from a traumatic childhood. Her new book–a work of fiction called “The Muir House”–draws on her real life-lessons and struggles. She wrote this post for me and my readers. Enjoy. xo, EE. p.s. Mary will be giving away a copy of her new book to one of my readers on Monday, 11/7! Don’t forget to check back for the book giveaway!! :)

I wrote the novel The Muir House because of a secret. Although it’s a risk for me to share it, I feel it’s important, and it will deepen your experience of the book.

Those who have read my story in Thin Places know I endured some trauma in my childhood. Sexual abuse at five, several parental divorces, the death of my father. All these things served to help me see my gaping need for Jesus. While it’s painful that I had to endure what I did, I can now see those trials as the very means God used to bring me to Himself. To put it simply, my daddy-shaped-hole made me yearn for the Daddy who would never leave me.I’ve been on the journey of healing many, many years now. Although I’ve grown so much, there is one thing I can’t seem to get over: a hole in my memory. Even writing it scares me. What will my extended family think? Will this cause more friction? What if my empty memory is nothing?

The weird thing about my brain is that I remember everything. I have a clear memory of being about two years old, extremely vivid. And then nothing until I am four. Normally I would just chalk this up to being a child and forgetting or simply not remembering, but when I’ve asked my relatives about it, the answer never comes. Some have started crying. “Why would you want to know that? Why go back there?” Others are adamant that nothing happened to me. Others think I’m crazy for asking. But always, there is never a satisfactory answer and lots and lots of evasion. Rumors have flown around about homelessness, but nothing I can pin down.

I need to know. It’s this ache inside me, this agony to know what was missing from my life. What happened? Why won’t anyone tell me?

This search has driven me to become an investigative reporter. I’ve dug up old acquaintances from the past, written letters, sent emails, hoping to unfold the mystery. Nothing. I’ve prayed, but no insight has come. I’ve tried to settle myself, but I’m still antsy.

What has helped me with my need to know was remembering something my husband Patrick told me years ago. With words, he painted a picture. He said my distance (at the time) felt like I was pacing the high dive, deciding whether I would jump into the pool.

Mary DeMuth

Down below were my children and him, all beckoning me to jump. But I paced. And worried. And fretted. I didn’t jump. Instead, in the word picture, I came off the high dive, then sat on the side of the pool and dangled my feet. Our later discussion helped me see an important truth. No matter what may make you pace the high dive (for me it’s this missing memory conundrum), you can still make a choice to live, to enjoy, to engage with people. You don’t have to be trapped up there or be relegated to the side of the pool.

This is why I wrote The Muir House. I wanted to explore the idea that we may never know the exact truth of things. We may investigate until our heart is raw. But even if things are left unresolved, we always have the choice to grow and live anyway. Willa had that choice. I have that choice. Even you have that choice.

We can let the past be our excuse to live crippled lives.

Or we can leap into the halcyon air, and jump footfirst into life.

Which will you choose?

Curious? Here’s the book trailer:

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We’re doing a crazy blog experiment with The Muir House and we’d love for you to be a part. In addition to several folks around the world blogging about their emotional reaction to the book, you have a chance to be involved as well. Simply CLICK HERE to find out how you can receive all the posts in your inbox, have a chance to help me write a novella based on the book (Yes! You get to help!), participate in a webinar where I answer your publishing questions, get several novels and ebooks, and have one page of your work critiqued.

With joy,
Mary DeMuth

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  • http://faithandfood.morizot.net/ Scott Morizot

    Qui est veritas?

    While Pilate almost certainly had the wrong answer to that question in mind (truth found in the iron of a Roman sword), it has always struck me as the right question to ask. Even when we remember something, our memories tend to be more malleable than we often like to believe. They start filtered through our perceptions and then we tend to fill in gaps. (That, of course, is why an eyewitness and even a victim can be both absolutely certain in their identification and completely wrong if the one they are identifying is not someone already personally known to them.) Of course, in John’s gospel, by the time the question is asked, we know Pilate is asking the question of the one who has already identified himself as the truth.

    Our minds tends to shield us from trauma through dissociation. I remember watching my Dad relive a Vietnam memory in a flashback from which he had dissociated. (And it’s one of the few he did share with me.) Sometimes the memories return. Sometimes they don’t. I’ve never had a deep compulsion to fill in the gaps from my childhood. The things I do remember, starting with my first clear (vivid even) memory are enough. I’m not sure how much more I really want to recall.

    But then, I often seem to have been one who looks at things as they are and asks: Well, what now? Given this is how things are, how do I deal with it? I tend to focus on what I do next more often than not. I grew up to be pretty good at crisis management. It’s “normal” life that can be more of a challenge.

    It’s odd how trauma and difficult life experiences can help some, as you say, see their gaping need for Jesus. I wouldn’t say I ever experienced that dynamic. Of course, my whole life shaped me into the person who by a circuitous route eventually became however much like a Christian I am, but it was never to fill a gaping need. It was almost in spite of the things I had experienced over the course of my life than because of them.

    Just a few random thoughts that popped into my head this morning as I read. Peace.

  • KatR

    I remember everything about the night my parents told me they were getting a divorce, and nothing about the next day.

    I know that I went to day camp, because I had asked the night before to stay home and was told I had to go. I know that my dad wasn’t home when I got back, because that was the day he moved out. But I don’t remember going to camp that day, I don’t remember coming home. I don’t remember if my mother and brother and I had dinner at the table or if she took us out or if we ate in front of the tv. That entire day is lost to me.

  • http://www.marydemuth.com Mary DeMuth

    Wow, it sounds like you’ve blocked it because it was just so painful. I’m sorry you had to walk through that.

  • http://www.marydemuth.com Mary DeMuth

    Great thoughts here. And I freely admit I’m a bit neurotic about having to know. And thus far, God has kept that memory away from me, probably for good reason.

  • Nancy

    Memory is tricky, particularly traumatic memories, and can be triggered by the strangest things.  A friend of mine adopted her daughter from Moldova, and they traveled home when she was 14 months old.  Fast forward 7 years, when they took a trip to Florida.  On the plane, her daughter asked where the stairs were, and grew upset and nearly hysterical, insisting that there should be stairs on the plane.  Her mom’s intuition kicked in, and she thought of the only other time her daughter had flown — on the international flight home from Moldova, where indeed, they had spent time on the steps between decks with their crying daughter.  Somewhere, her little baby brain stored the memory of those stairs as she flew to her new home.  My friend had never talked about those stairs, and there were no photos of those tear-soaked hours, but her memory insisted. 

    I pray that you find some answers for your gap years.

  • Pingback: Book Giveaway! “The Muir House” by Mary DeMuth | Elizabeth Esther

  • Anonymous

    This must be such a tough thing, to know there is something buried in the past and not be able to know what it is. There are many situations in life that are hard to find peace with, but that must be the toughest of all. I’ve really enjoyed all the books I’ve read so far–loving the opportunity to connect!

  • Anonymous

    It’s hard to know. I struggled with the not-knowing when we were suffering infertility for three years.  But eventually, when my second child was born with Down’s, the light bulb came on–God had spent all this time preparing me to accept His will when it didn’t at all jive with my own. Sometimes it’s a “you’ll be better off not knowing,” but sometimes it’s just a “in the fullness of time” thing.

  • http://www.marydemuth.com Mary DeMuth

    That’ll preach, as they say in the South. Such a beautifully written comment! And so true.