Lost and Found: Finding Hope in the Detours of Life (3 page)

Once we spent a few days getting settled and adjusting to a Texas summer (heat that took my breath away), our first Sunday rolled around. It would be our first time introducing new local members to our preexisting church family. It would be the first time our family would be interacting with new people in a long time. Even as a child, I could sense that this moment was incredibly important.

When that Sunday arrived, my siblings and I were swarmed by anxious children wanting to meet us, their new church family. Literally hundreds of children came running toward us, and instantly we knew that we were far from Charleston. They were so warm and friendly, but it was still a little overwhelming. I think people just wanted to know who we were, what we looked like, what type of personalities and funny accents we had brought with us from West Virginia.

The feeling was mutual, though, because we wanted to get to know them. We were dying to know what happened to the cowboys, horses, and tumbleweeds. Instantly, we had all of these friends who just wanted to get to know more about us and our family. It seemed quite harmless at that age. We weren’t concerned with determining
people’s intentions. It never dawned on us that people might not care about who we were on the inside and instead be more concerned with how successful we appeared and how they could position themselves close to us.

Something was beginning to shift—in me, in our family, in the ministry—although at the time I wasn’t sure what it was. Later that evening when we sat down for dinner, I overheard my parents recapping their first Sunday at The Potter’s House. Fifteen hundred people joined the church that day.

Most of our new church family had already been following the ministry from their homes. Many had tuned in to see this dynamic young minister, T.D. Jakes, preaching at a conference called Azusa, a contemporary spiritual gathering which honored the Azusa Street Revival that had begun in Los Angeles around 1906. From speaking at Azusa, my father soon became a mainstay on the Trinity Broadcasting Network (TBN). He also started publishing books that became bestsellers.

I wish there was one distinct moment when I could tell you the church went from fifteen hundred to over thirty-six thousand, but from my young eyes all of it was so big. Since an early age, I’ve never understood why some people criticized the size of our church. Were we supposed to put a limit on how many souls could be saved? I used to laugh at the idea of putting up a Closed sign on the main entrance to the sanctuary. I wonder what critics would have thought about that! Were we supposed to turn the people away?

Our greatest challenge in starting the church was not its size. I’m convinced it had much more to do with maintaining tradition in an ever-evolving world. Moving to Texas was so much bigger than starting a church. My father, and a few others like him, had unprecedented access to a world often shunned and called secular. But instead of supporting this progression, many critiqued it. How
do we show the world the power of God’s love when we, as Christians, fail so often to show love to one another?

I grew up hearing people call my father a thief, a liar, and a cheater. Regardless of how many times his books landed on the
New York Times
bestseller lists or how many speaking engagements he booked each year or, later, how many films he produced, critics popped up to insist that our groceries were purchased with money from the church offering plates.

It was so frustrating. We grew up with our father sitting in the family room asking us about our day, so tired from working that he’d fall asleep before we could finish answering. As a family we’ve sat in waiting rooms for back surgeries and knee surgeries necessitated by our parents’ bearing the weight of being human and the demands of being called, caring for others before themselves. I remember my father flying out of town on Christmas Day so that he could preach at a revival on December 26. We learned the beauty in quality, not quantity, so that lives could literally be saved by a word from God. How could you let a birthday cake compete with that?

Earlier in their lives, after they had just married but before the ministry began to bloom, my father was digging ditches to support my mom and older brothers. Three children later, it was no surprise that he had to work nonstop to support his family. I figured if he had to be gone, at least it was helping someone else to become better.

We didn’t get that many walks in the park. It wasn’t very often Dad helped us with our homework. Which probably turned out to be a good thing, in hindsight. We cherished our time with him more and became fiercely protective. We shared our father’s voice with millions, but we were content holding his heart. That intense desire to protect his heart made us more than angry at the criticism—I think it hurt us more than him sometimes.

I constantly questioned our overall goal in Christianity. Much larger than the tradition of church, I wondered who was willing to truly carry out the Great Commission. How can we reach those people we aren’t even willing to acknowledge? The homeless, the shift workers, the children on the street, the single mothers, the addicts and ex-cons, the lonely old people, the widows and orphans. How can we save someone if we don’t hear his or her cries for help?

Are we all not just flesh, bones, hearts, and spirits searching for a purpose greater than ourselves? We may not always get it right, but do we have to constantly infect the wounds of others by picking at their weaknesses? I have no heaven or hell to put anyone in. I just have this belief that God didn’t call me to police His kingdom. How can we be on the same team, yet allow our differences to make us competition? How can we ever show the power of God to heal if we insist on constantly bruising one another? I’ve seen so many people lose their way in ministry because they were unwilling to pretend to have it all together. How can we represent a God who loved us enough He died for our sins, yet undermine His sacrifice by further crucifying those who need Him?

We’ve all watched in shock as people we admire have their darkest struggles and secrets exposed. Yet instead of admitting that we, too, have a weakness that required God’s touch, we leave people in their misery.

I was never comfortable with the isolation of those whose sin revealed their humanity. I would rather be an outcast in a room of hypocrites. Tradition thinks that rebellion is the disease; I know now it’s the symptom. By definition a rebel is someone unconventional. I didn’t feel like the “ordinary” church girl, so I refused to conform to a role that wasn’t genuine for me. I wonder how different things would be if we gave people the room to be who God created them to be and not what we want or need.

One of my favorite stories in the Bible is about the shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine and goes back for the one lost sheep. I have been that lost sheep. In fact, I probably will be again before my time on this earth is done, but I am sure of one thing. My biggest fear wasn’t that I wouldn’t survive being lost; it was that I was alone. The moment I found God, I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, but He knew that. I wonder what was keeping me from Him. I was the one lost, and I knew God had the way out, yet I was still afraid. It’s amazing how the opinions of the ninety-nine keep the one from coming back. I was afraid I’d be judged. My father’s ministry—and my Father’s ministry—was never meant for the ones who knew their place. It was for the ones who had lost their way.

———

School presented a different set of circumstances. It seemed like the least cool profession for a child’s parent to have was being a pastor. My classmates’ parents were doctors, firemen, lawyers, policemen, corporate executives, flight attendants, and restaurant owners. When I couldn’t avoid the question any longer, I would say, “My parents are in ministry.”

At that time, there was no clear frame of reference to explain full-time ministry. This was before the days of Joel Osteen, Joyce Meyer, and Rick Warren. This was long before my father’s name became well-known to most people. The Internet wasn’t a huge phenomenon accessible to most kids yet. They couldn’t just Google my father’s name and learn the full scope of our ministry. Most kids didn’t even realize that there was a need for the doors of a church to be open on any day other than Sunday. So in school we were just Cora and Sarah.

Some of the parents and teachers knew, of course, but hardly any of the kids seemed to know or care. Most of them did not attend our church, nor did they spend their time watching television broadcasts of other churches. There was no way they could understand what it was like for people to stop us in the halls at church on Sunday and tell us our dad said something that literally saved their lives.

I’m not sure I fully understood or appreciated our parents’ ministry myself. I just knew that I often got tired of going to the church to do the same thing over and over again. Sure, it was nice spending time with our friends and making jokes throughout the services, but the heart of our family’s mission was often lost on me. I just felt like we went to church for a living. And despite the fact that my parents loved helping people, it was hard work.

Few understood the work that goes into ministry, the preparation necessary to prepare a safe place for people to come and have a corporate encounter with God. And even though our church was larger than ever before, at the time it only meant there was more to do. When the doors of The Potter’s House opened, my parents had to make sure the lights were on, the bathrooms were stocked, and the vans were gassed for the homeless ministry.

Someone had to run background checks on the volunteers in children’s church. The sanctuary must be cleaned and cleared of the
remaining tissues from the funeral last week. The carpet must be vacuumed from the wedding on Saturday. The women’s ministry must raise funds to host an event for the ladies in the church.

Then there are all the ministries outside the church. Ministering in our communities throughout the greater Dallas–Fort Worth area is a full-time job in itself. Preparing for international mission trips to extend help and share faith around the world required more than just a Sunday meeting after church. While they had lots of help, my parents were ultimately responsible.

They knew and taught us through their example that to whom much is given, much is required. The larger their stage grew, the more they were intent on serving. And our stage was definitely growing. Hundreds of new people, and eventually thousands, began joining our church.

The ministry’s growth didn’t keep us from finding a way to wreak a little havoc. Cora and I, along with our baby brother and older twin brothers, spent most of our summers roaming around the church while our parents worked. Too young to be trusted with anything important around the church, we found our own way to further our entrepreneurial endeavors. My good ol’ partner in crime, Cora, and I were soon back to our usual scheming.

Early one weekday morning, before all the staff of aunts and uncles came in, we were at the church with our mom. As she prepared for her day, we grabbed our backpacks and went to the kitchen. Usually we would watch television, color, or play games for a while, but not this time. With our backpacks in tow, Cora and I emptied out our piggy banks and bought all the snacks out of all the vending machines.

Our plan was simple. We were going to raise the price and sell them back to the staff. Other kids had lemonade stands; we had vending machines. Of course, our profitability was short-lived, even if our ingenuity was well respected.

In the quiet hallways of our church, surrounded by the fifty families from West Virginia that relocated with us, we were reminded of home. Unlike Sundays, when thousands of families swarmed us, these familiar faces knew us too well to be mystified by our presence. They understood that we were just kids, my parents just people.

———

Like most children at that age, I understood the basic fundamentals of our faith, but its necessity wasn’t always apparent. I wouldn’t learn until much later that the value of constantly going to church as a child is to remind you where to go in times of trouble as an adult. But when you are young and go to church more days in a week than you attend school, church becomes a competition. Who dressed the best? Who could shout the loudest? Who could sing the best? Who was the best at imitating this elder or that deacon? These were the games that we played all service long.

One of my first true encounters with God came on a Sunday evening service when we hosted a guest pastor. Toward the end of the message, the congregation was visibly moved. After engaging in intense worship, the visiting pastor looked at one of our family friends and spoke directly to a situation in her life. There was no way he could have known those things, as their paths had never crossed.

The moment he pointed his hand toward her, everyone around us stretched out their arms to them, signifying corporate prayer. Something about that moment made me stretch out my small hands, too. I wasn’t sure exactly what the sermon text had been or even the title of the sermon. I did understand, however, that the atmosphere had completely shifted. Something was different.

It was as if, for the first time, I understood what it was like to be connected to Someone greater than myself. I felt the presence of God before I knew it was Him. Of course, we would laugh and maybe
joke about it later, but I knew that what I felt was real. I just didn’t know the day would come when it wouldn’t be so easy to find Him in my life.

Even those times when we didn’t understand our parents’ praise, we could feel their worship. Those were the moments when the soil of our souls was tilled, and God honored the prayers of our family by placing a seed inside of us. It would be many years and many battles before any of us would see whether our giggles turned into silence, silence into whispers, and whispers into prayers.

When you grow up in church, you never know whether those seeds will actually develop into anything. Will they fall on rocky ground? Or will they take root and send a tender shoot peeking through the ground? Over the course of the years, I’ve seen so many of our friends lose their way and never come back to church. We publicly play into the speculation, wondering where things went wrong for them, but secretly we know it could just as easily be us.