Issue 1| 2023

YO U
H AV E
PURPOSE
THE STORY OF JULIANA MCFADDEN
It was Christmas morning 1982, and my phone would
not stop ringing. I snuggled up in my warm bed, willing
the phone to hush. But it kept on until finally I gave in,
grabbed the receiver, and muttered an irritated, “Hello?”
It was my mother, and she got straight to the point.
“Can Charlie stay at your place for a few days? The cops
are looking for him. They want to talk to him about some
murders that happened last night.”
I was horrified and tried to clear my head. “Murders!
What? Oh, Mom, I can’t.”
“Juliana, he didn’t hurt anyone.” She took a drag off
her cigarette, but not even the nicotine could hide the
shaking of her voice. I agreed to come over and meet
with Charlie but committed to nothing more.
This was not my brother’s first brush with the cops.
He had already been to prison twice. My gut was telling
me which way to lean.
But we did what most families would do—we protected
our own. Charlie came to stay with me while my parents
arranged to send him away. We didn’t talk about what
had happened; we couldn’t. The dark cloud hanging over
us was too thick. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Dad and I took Charlie to the airport, and he boarded a
plane for Dallas. I took a train to the city.
I rode the entire day aimlessly. I didn’t know what to
do or where to go. I desperately needed to talk to someone.
I thought about going to the church we’d attended
growing up, but those people had not been part of our
lives since Charlie’s first time down. Besides, all they’d
do was tell me to pray. Forget that!
But then I remembered Father Baseheart. He had given
me my first holy communion at St. Gregory’s Church.
I bussed my way to the old neighborhood, walked to the
parish, and knocked on the door.
Father Baseheart reached out and welcomed me. He led me to an
office, and I sat down. “Now, how may I help you?” he asked gently.
Tears flowed as I passed him a tattered newspaper containing
the story of the murders. “My brother did this, and I don’t know
what to do.”
Father Baseheart read the article. “We need to pray,” he said.
I left the parish soon after, walked to the nearest bus stop, and
rode home. “Pray?!” I yelled internally as the bus bumped along.
“Did You not see what happened, God? Why didn’t You stop it?
Where were You? Nowhere to be found, that’s where! And now, I’m
supposed to pray to You? I don’t think so.”
I was so angry. My family had been falling apart for years, and I
had asked God to step in more than once. He didn’t seem to care
enough to intervene. And now this? I couldn’t wrap my head around
the pain and horror of the murders and the hopeless reality of my
life. And so, for the next 16 years, I cut off communication with God.
It didn’t matter that I hadn’t hurt anyone. My brother had, and he
was family. We were the same. I deliberately set out to escape my
reality. I was embarrassed and ashamed of my life, my family, and
of what my brother had done. I had no one to talk to.
I tried to blend into society. I didn’t want to be identified as the
sister of a murderer, yet I felt such remorse for Charlie’s victims.
PHOTO BY ARIZONA PORTRAITS PHOTOGRAPHY LLC
20 Issue 01 / 2023 VICTORIOUSLIVINGMAGAZINE.COM