Vengeance Is Mine: The Key to Peace and Freedom from Injustices

Contents

Dedication

A Special Dedication

Introduction

CHAPTER 1

Painful Beginnings

CHAPTER 2

Victor-mized

CHAPTER 3

All for Love

CHAPTER 4

New Adventures

CHAPTER 5

My Love of Europe

CHAPTER 6

Sunshine and Pain

CHAPTER 7

Uncovering the Truth

CHAPTER 8

Mental Wars

CHAPTER 9

Options

CHAPTER 10

Drill Sergeant School

CHAPTER 11

An Unexpected Challenge

CHAPTER 12

Modulation

CHAPTER 13

Final Presentations

CHAPTER 14

The Wheels of Injustice

CHAPTER 15

Expectation of Trust

CHAPTER 16

Power from the Pits

CHAPTER 17

Graduation Day

CHAPTER 18

A Drill Sergeant: Tough and Proud

CHAPTER 19

Juvenile Injustice

CHAPTER 20

Unique Victory

CHAPTER 21

Never Prepared

Dedication

My Father in heaven, I thank you for my life, its challenges and accomplishments, and for my ability to see it all from a unique perspective. I trust you to strengthen and guide my efforts to share my experiences and views with the world through my writings.

My children, at your births, you fueled my determination to succeed. Every choice I made in life was made with your best interest in mind. In return, you fill many pages in my books, and for that, I thank you.

Mother, it has been a long, hard journey for you, I know. I thank you for all your sacrifices. May God grant you comfort and peace.

Father, I have loved you and missed you since your death. Your spirit has strengthened me through all my adventures. I thank you for never leaving me.

U.S. military, my military experience has been the single most important contribution to making me complete. Nothing will ever outweigh the positive effect the service has had on me becoming the person I am.

I SALUTE YOU!

A Special Dedication

Your brief appearance brought us all so much joy. Your absence will always be felt and so will your presence.

My father: James E. Collins: 1937–1962

My husband: George A. Miller, Jr.: 1963–1998

My brother: Anthony Glenn Woodard: 1957–1987

My granddaughter: TyKeria Collins: 1998–2000

Introduction

Vengeance Is Mine is based on the true story of my life. The details are not exact, and the names and places have been changed for obvious reasons. Nothing, however, can diminish the impact of my determination to succeed. I decided early in my life that I would not allow the acts of others to negatively affect the direction of my future. I was committed to gaining control over my life. Well, that must have been a personal challenge for some evil force because, one after another, the struggles came. The challenges began early, and they were relentless. It was as if the evil forces were saying, Now take that, and let’s see if you can handle this. For a while, I thought it was personal against me, but I later realized that this was a challenge between good and evil, God and Satan, as with all things. I was, as we all are, the trophy.

Vengeance Is Mine is an introduction into the life of Karah Woodard. It tells the story of Karah Woodard’s determination to overcome hardships and adversities. Since the death of her father, she longed for someone she could trust. Trust is essential for Karah. She yearns for it in every aspect of her life. Time after time, however, despite any accomplishments, the trust factor is missing or damaged. Her childhood, her love life, her friendships, even her military career all betrayed her trust. During her challenges and struggles, an amazing relationship developed between her and God. The loss of her biological father guided her to her heavenly father, and theirs would become an inseparable relationship. Trust in God was attainable, and that would become the only reliable force in her life. Through his written word, he guides and directs the lives of many, but through her spirit, Karah felt his undeniable presence. He was her confidant and her friend. He guided and protected her through all dangers. He would be her avenger, and she believed and trusted in that with all her heart.

Vengeance is mine was the one promise from God that helped Karah deal with the many injustices she faced throughout her life. That promise prevented her from taking matters into her own hands. That promise allowed a full recovery from those betrayals. That promise allowed her peace despite the pain. Most importantly, accepting that vengeance truly belongs to God allowed Karah to forgive.

CHAPTER 1

Painful Beginnings

FROM MY EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS, I faced the most significant challenge ever: the death of my father. I was two years old when a boating accident took my father from me. Surely I could not understand much at that age, but I clearly missed him.

As I got older, stories of my dad became the topic of many conversations. My grandmother, his mother, told of how he would walk to her house every Sunday morning with me on his shoulders. My mother often told me how much he adored me and how much I looked like him. She talked of how we would feed each other across the table at mealtime, and for a while after his death, I would still extend my spoon across that table.

My father’s absence guided my every thought. Anytime I felt lonely or sad, I thought of my father. Every birthday, I thought of how great it would be if he were there. Every wrong would be all right if he were there. I felt lonely and confused most of the time, and through my frustration, I became a dreamer. So while most kids in the neighborhood played games in the large open lot across from our house, the front porch was my place of peace. It was nothing fancy; there were two large chains hung over the rafters that held a wooden swing. I would lie there for hours, looking up at the rafters, past the peeling paint, the sparkles of sunlight shining through the small holes of the shabby roof. In the distance, I could hear the grinding of the machinery at the nearby concrete plant, or the banging together of the boxcars on the train tracks a half mile farther down the road. I would lie there and drift away into my fantasy world. There, it was beautiful. There was my penthouse in the city overlooking the ocean. It was filled with elegant clothes, designer perfumes, fine wines, and soft music. My car was a European convertible with personalized plates that read Wildflower. Dates with important people filled my calendar, and I enjoyed life to the fullest.

But in reality, who was I? Would I ever overcome this heart-wrenching loss? I searched deep within myself to find strength and guidance. In the quest for my true identity, I learned that my maternal ancestry is Paiute Indian. I don’t know much about them, but I choose to believe they were fighters, a trait I hoped I’d inherited. My dad’s ancestry is more identifiable. He was a strong black man of African descent. He loved to fish and would swim the width of the Warrior River for entertainment. He loved the water; there is where he spent much of his time, and there is where his life ended. He had a gentle spirit, which was always displayed through his affection for me. On the other hand, he could be mean, and he took crap from no one.

A story often told left an indelible impression on me. It seems that my dad once got into a fight with a man twice his size. The fight lasted so long the ground was completely trampled. Apparently, he could be a real bear when he was riled up. The bear represents power, fearless determination, supernatural strength, and the ability to resist pain. The bear knows only one direction, and that is forward—and the bear fights to the death. It can also look deceptively harmless, as zoo bears often do. But when a bear is poised for the attack, it makes even the most sizeable human look like a flyweight. That was my dad!

Apparently, I was a lot like him. I too had a gentle spirit, and family was most important to me. People often commented that I looked mean, but that was primarily because the corners of my mouth turned down, a feature I’d definitely inherited from my dad. Our smiles, however, would light up a room. I missed my father every day. I was his first child, and he adored me. Everyone who knew him would attest to that. That love would become my comfort, my strength, my hope, my peace, and most importantly, my guide. Many nights, I would lie in my bed looking up at the light fixture, and his face would appear. He’d always say, Be a good girl. Remember, Daddy’s always watching over you. So I was pretty much convinced that I had a father in heaven watching over me, long before I knew who God was.

CHAPTER 2

 Victor-mized

THERE WERE FOUR OF us kids. Stan was the oldest, then Tony, me, and Dominique. We were all two years apart. Mama (Maxine) was a strong woman, but she was unlucky at love. Her first love yielded two sons. Their father lived in Michigan, and when she moved back to Tuscaloosa, Alabama, where she was born and raised, their relationship and communication ended. She met my dad, James, at a community baseball game where he was playing. He fathered me and Dominique, but he loved my brothers as his own. They were older and boys. He could do more with them. He taught them many things, especially how to swim. We were a happy family when tragedy took him away.

It was primarily my father’s absence that fueled my relentless desire for a strong male role model. The hope that such a man would enter my life started with my stepfather. His deplorable behavior, however, was the first and the hardest disappointment I would have to endure.

I don’t know where Victor came from or how he met Mama. I always assumed that Mama was so distraught after Dad’s death that Victor was able to weasel his way into her heart. I just know that from my earliest recollection, around five or six, he was there creating problems in our life. I can’t recall any happy time with him. Even his all-day fishing trips with the family were torturous. It would be blistering hot and not a shade tree in sight. Dominique and I didn’t fish, and there was nothing for us to do. We would wander around the area, picking up rocks and playing among ourselves. We knew not to say a word about being bored or tired; complaining from us would send Victor into one of his tirades.

Victor was vicious; the sound of his car coming into the driveway sent a chill through our small house. I would go to the corner beside my bed and gathered my paper and pencil. I would always write when I got nervous. I guess everyone had a special place to seek refuge, because soon after he arrived, the area would be empty. Everyone was afraid of him. He was very abusive to Mama and us kids. I still bite my nails because of the effect his abusive behavior had on me. He was a selfish gambler who would steal the monthly Social Security check left by my father and gamble it away, causing Mama to scrounge for food for the rest of the month. Then he’d take it out on her if she didn’t cook what he wanted. I vividly remember him throwing a pot of string beans across the kitchen. I don’t want no damn beans, he said. Then a vicious fight ensued.

Aunt Mae heard the commotion and made the short walk across the driveway between our houses. She crept along slowly with her cane to assist her. She tried to hurry, but she was about eighty years old, and speed was not an option. Once she had made it up the two concrete steps onto the porch, she halted to catch her breath. Mama screamed, Don’t you hit me, Victor, and Aunt Mae tried to go in the door.

Go home, old lady, Victor said, and he slammed the door on Aunt Mae’s hand.

I never will forget her little wrinkled, fragile fingers as we tried to comfort her. Victor came out, slammed the door, got in his car, and sped out of the driveway like a madman. His tires were squealing and dust and gravel from the driveway got all over us as we cared for Aunt Mae on the porch.

Most days after taking Mama to work, he would stop by gambling houses with me and Dominique still in the car. He would leave us with strict instructions to leave the window cracked and not to unlock the doors. We would be there for hours, playing with our imaginary friends. Occasionally, some rough-looking characters would come out of the house and bring us cookies or chips to snack on. We never said a word to Mama because we knew we would all suffer the consequences.

Victor was also a whoremonger and had no respect for the sanctity of marriage. He played the keyboard and always got a gig in juke joints or small nightspots. So on Friday evenings, everything would be quiet. He’d be there walking around in his boxers and wife-beater T-shirt, preparing for his night out. He had a striking resemblance to Morgan Freeman, especially the nose and hair. He would lay out his clothes and spread stinky shaving cream on his face. The entire house reeked of the foul odor. He’d get dressed and go out, leaving Mama there with her mouth poked out.

Whenever he returned, usually just before daybreak, they argued. Lipstick on his collar or the smell of perfume on his shirts would always be the words echoed through both their blame and defense. Sometimes, things would fall silent as I lay there nibbling away at my fingernails. Then, there were those times when all hell would break loose and a relative or neighbor would have to come to the rescue.

Mama was always home with us