Lost and Found: Finding Hope in the Detours of Life (4 page)

———

In youth service we sat in a circle, said a phrase, and passed it on. By the time the phrase reached the last person, the original message was almost always distorted. It was how we learned the danger of rumors. At the same time, this game was being played in the adult service. Except there, the messages weren’t always distorted. During group trips with friends to the bathroom, I’d overhear that the lady on the front pew just got out of jail. Or while helping set up for the
next service, I’d learn that one of the deacons had just left his wife. Sometimes they were shameful truths, like mine would soon become; they were the secrets we tell and the crosses we bear when the hymns are over and the benediction has come to an end.

Because of those moments of whispered half-truths, I always had one desire:

Avoid the tales of the pews.

At a young age I learned that people smile big, hug tight, and then go home and drown in their tears. I learned that sometimes you go to church to be healed, but if you aren’t careful, the people’s approval can become more important than the message. As much as I didn’t want to be a whisper, a rumor, or a stare, I soon discovered this would be very difficult for me to avoid. I didn’t want to risk exposing an inevitable flaw and being observed under such intense scrutiny.

But it wouldn’t be long before my name would be the one passed around.

———

When we were all children, singing in the choir was par for the course, but when we got into our teenage years, they held auditions for solos and even the choir itself. Turns out I’m not much of a singer. Once while singing in the youth choir, I couldn’t remember the words for the life of me. It was okay, though; since I knew it had to be about Jesus, I just hummed along and made up my own words. This plan worked beautifully until the song ended abruptly. There I was still singing words that had nothing to do with that song’s lyrics in a pitch that would make the quietest of dogs bark.

To this day, I haven’t reconciled that I honestly and truly cannot sing. I don’t mean that I just shouldn’t have a solo, either. I mean that I shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred feet of a microphone. Yes, it’s that bad.

As if my lack of vocal talent wasn’t enough, it turns out my rhythm wasn’t that great, either. That ruled out anything music-related; and honestly, reading the Bible didn’t seem all that interesting at that age, so I couldn’t imagine myself preaching like my father.

I was content to fade into the background of the spotlight.

There in the shadows backstage, I stuck with the people I knew, the ones who were like me, still finding how they could fit into the roles that we saw played before us each Sunday. We looked at ourselves. Our thoughts, emotions, and feelings accelerated us toward young adulthood. It became difficult to understand how we could play church
and
conquer temptation. So instead of fighting the flesh and rising to the standard of what it appeared Christianity required, we chose to be ourselves. We began the mission to explore fully the limits of our humanity before sacrificing them for the politics of church whispers.

Having only been exposed to our limited worldview of church and adolescence, we had no way of knowing that the whispers would come anyway, even outside the church. Isn’t it amazing how we can hear the booming voice of the preacher, the sound of instruments blaring, and our choirs singing with gusto and still all we hear are the whispers?

We focus so closely on the whispers that we miss the overall message. As Christians we must strive to be like Christ, never forgetting that the word
strive
suggests struggle. We are all imperfect and no one is without flaws, and fortunately, ministry isn’t about leading people to ourselves. It’s about leading them back to the One who saved us. How tragic that we often allow the image of perfection to cloud the need to show where His strength was made perfect in us.

Entering adolescence, I was the least likely of the five Jakes children to ever be in ministry. I saw the toll it took on my parents to
subject their lives to the needs of other people. I heard the things they said—usually what other people were saying about them—when they thought we weren’t listening. And as their ministry reached more and more people, and their stature in the public spotlight grew, we read the stories in the news. I couldn’t imagine how the long days, lengthier nights, and relentless scrutiny of people were worth it.

———

In 2001, my father was named America’s Best Preacher by
Time
magazine. I was thirteen years old, and suddenly there was only one question everyone wanted to ask me: “Are you going to be a preacher like your dad?” I hardly knew what I was going to wear to school the next day, much less whether or not I ever wanted to become America’s Best Preacher.

With no visible route into ministry, I dedicated myself to my studies and hanging with my friends. Though some of them possessed the talents displayed throughout the church, many of them weren’t comfortable fitting in traditional molds. Sometimes it’s easier to never go down a path than to risk being rejected. But just because it’s easy doesn’t mean it’s right.

I have seen countless people hurt by church because they didn’t fit the acceptable roles. Whether it was the things they whispered to themselves or what they heard whispered about others, some people stifled their voices, talents, and ideas because they knew their ideas were too innovative. When our youth ministry wanted to take popular songs we heard on the radio and give them a Christian twist, the older members of our congregation looked like they had been personally attacked. It seemed like the idea of updating our traditions so that we could attract a younger audience was out of the question. No wonder we doubted ourselves and our contributions.

Our insecurities create holes inside us that make us believe we can’t be used. In our everyday lives, change is celebrated. Manufacturers remodel their vehicles to create sleeker and edgier designs. Cell phones once considered a luxury have become a necessity and home landlines seem like quaint antiques. The world is constantly evolving around us. Creativity brims in every area of our lives, but it isn’t always accepted within the traditions of our church walls. So often people cling to ideas of perfection and lose the innovation that someone who recognizes their areas of growth can bring.

How, then, can we teach a generation that transformation doesn’t come overnight and that the process may be difficult, but with God we never struggle in vain? This message has been lost on so many people who have the heart to serve but then also carry the shame of mistakes that makes them hide.

I know because I was one of them.

———

In 1973,
An
American Family
debuted on PBS. The television show was revolutionary for its time. It centered around the Louds, a seemingly normal family that had sensational secrets. Over time, the show covered a range of situations the family encountered, from the parents announcing their decision to divorce to their son revealing that he was gay. This show is often considered the first foray into reality television.

It was undoubtedly the beginning of a phenomenon. Millions of people were enthralled with the idea that people who looked relatively
normal on the outside struggled with these incredible secrets behind closed doors. Now more than forty years later, reality television has documented almost every aspect of a person’s life. From
Survivor
to
Swamp People
,
Big Brother
to
The Bachelor
, and
Sister Wives
to yes,
Preachers’ Daughters
, we have found a certain comfort in realizing that, in spite of all the nuances that divide us, trouble does not escape any of us.

If our favorite celebrity or our next-door neighbor has their own set of problems and crises, then it helps us see that we are not alone. Unfortunately, we don’t always share this message when we talk about our walk with Christ.

As an adolescent, I didn’t see anyone serving in ministry who vocalized how I felt. I wanted to understand how you get from point A to point B. I wanted to believe that there were other people like me in the pews of the church. People who ached with intense emotions and didn’t always understand why they did what they did. People who made mistakes even while longing to do the right thing.

It was easy to find someone to create mischief with. It proved to be a bit more difficult to find someone willing to admit that they wanted to do right, to be a better person, but had no idea how to start.

When you’re a teenager, how do you determine what being a Christian looks like if someone doesn’t offer to be as transparent as the reality television world we live in? If we are to make it easier for others to find God, we must be more diligent about sharing our stories—openly and honestly. As I looked around our weekly church
gatherings, I couldn’t find the trail of bread crumbs between the two worlds, church and reality.

If we discuss only our victories and not our struggles, we allow others to believe that you can win a war without engaging in battle. In fact, it is winning the small fights that allows us the grace to win the ultimate battle: finding a way to use our insecurities and pain to fuel God’s purpose for our life.

Like others who were unclear on where they fit in the world or how they could squeeze into the preconceived notions of what a Christian should be, I had to find my own way.

Outside of being T.D. Jakes’s daughter, I still had yet to discover who Sarah was. Fortunately, when it came down to guiding me, my parents were my parents first and my spiritual leaders second. I know this must seem completely reasonable from the outside looking in, but so many pastors’ kids get lost in the shadow of the church. Somehow, though, I think my parents understood that forcing God on us would not be nearly as effective as our finding Him on our own.

For many who grow up in the church, the moment they recite a Scripture, sing a hymn, pick up drumsticks, or hit a note on the piano, they are thrust into ministry. Yet so many of these same children end up resenting ministry as adults. When they encounter the kind of trouble that often leads others closer to God, they can’t admit their struggles because of their position
in the church. Instead, they feel they have no choice but to forsake their position and the church.

How can we learn about grace every Sunday, but when the teacher needs it, we send them away? Surely if doctors can catch colds and lawyers can be sued, ministers must find themselves needing grace. To say that pastors’ kids can’t get in trouble is like telling a policeman he should never have to call 9-1-1. Just because you help others doesn’t mean you never need help yourself.

And I was about to need a
lot
of help. So much that it would take my family’s faith to the breaking point. Not yet fourteen, I discovered I was pregnant.

WHEN I WAS
thirteen, I felt trapped in between worlds. Not just the worlds of church life and real life, but the worlds of being a little girl and being a grown woman. Of being a Jakes and being just Sarah. Sometimes I still liked watching kids’ shows or even cartoons. Other times I was fascinated by adult dramas featuring complicated love triangles. Sometimes it was still fun to play video games with Cora and my brothers. Other times, I wanted to shop for perfume at the mall. And, of course, like every teenage girl, I worried about what to wear. I didn’t want to look like a kid, but there was no way my parents would let me dress as chic as the models in
Essence
,
Allure
, and
Seventeen
.

Our family’s sheltered lifestyle probably made me more curious about life outside of the pews and our home. I was intrigued by how life seemed to mold people into thinking and living a certain way. So I read novels about peer pressure and the journey of finding yourself and often envied the liberty their characters enjoyed. The
girls in these stories weren’t held to the standard of perfect Christlike behavior. It seemed like they were allowed to just be normal. To make mistakes and have arguments with their parents and date the school bad boy and to then learn and grow and just enjoy their lives. I wanted so badly to be this kind of normal, free of judgment and the constant evaluation of others.

One of my favorites was the Sweet Valley High series of books, which chronicled the lives of twin sisters Elizabeth and Jessica. I was immediately drawn to their characters because, most of my life, Cora and I were confused for twins. When you grow up close in age with someone, people often expect you both to grow into the same type of person. While my sister and I were close, we both yearned to be recognized as distinct individuals, like most young adolescents as they leave childhood behind.

The Sweet Valley High books represented the life I thought everyone was living except us. For me, it was a glimpse into the “normal” lives we could have had if our parents had “regular” jobs. Maybe we would still be liked and even popular—not because we were part of the America’s Best Preacher’s family but because of our radiant personalities and impeccable fashion sense. Or maybe we could fade into the background without anyone ever realizing we disappeared, just doing whatever we wanted without everyone scrutinizing our every move.

I was too young to realize that when you try to live someone else’s life, you just trade one problem for another. At the time, the American dream only looked one way—perfect but never boring, innocent but also glamorous, sophisticated but uncomplicated. Almost everything I remember viewing on television or reading in a book centered around this concept that white picket fences should just appear and envelop your life with predictable but never boring happiness.

Once you reached a certain age, pursued higher education, and landed an above-average job, everything else was supposed to just fall in place. In this serene existence, there is no need to look for love or affirmation, because you had your childhood sweetheart, a boy you had watched grow into manhood even as his love for you only grew deeper.

It seemed so attainable for everyone else. As my parents’ ministry transformed them into national leaders and international celebrities, I wondered how this preacher’s daughter could ever fade so quietly into the background that I could become just a normal girl living a normal life. Like the ones in my books or in the movies, the ones who had it all together, with no one outside of their loving family to answer to, all inside the security of that white picket fence.

———

“Does he eat dinner with you?” “Does your mom cook?” “How does he talk at home?” “Does he pray all the time?” “Does she really speak so softly?” “Does he have the entire Bible memorized?” “Does he really know Oprah?”

The questions were endless. And they rarely had anything to do with me.

I know it may not seem like a big deal on the outside looking in, but imagine your own journey of trying to find yourself as a young adult. By far, more people began asking me, “What’s it like being T.D. Jakes’s daughter?” than asking me, “How are you doing?” No matter where we went, the script was the same. In grocery stores, chats never centered around our favorite subject in school, the latest ball game, or who our friends were. Instead people wanted to know if my father would be preaching on Sunday and, if so, about what. If not, who was the visiting pastor and would he be as good as Dad.

A large part of me continued to hope that people wanted to get to know me because of something funny I said or an intriguing insight
I had. I wanted to share my love of writing and my favorite dishes to cook, to talk about the ending of that movie I just saw or about the exotic places I longed to visit. Having someone interested in your life is one thing, but I grew tired of having entire conversations about what my parents were like at home.

Right around the age most teenagers believe the world should revolve around them—which I was working hard to make happen—the
Time
cover story on my father hit the stands. Our teachers at school smiled and buzzed about the latest celebrity children in their classrooms—me and Cora. Somehow I missed the part in Sweet Valley High where the teachers ask Jessica or Elizabeth to pray for their grandmother. Or when their parent-teacher conferences turn into counseling sessions about the teacher’s own childhood issues.

Before you label me an ungrateful brat, please understand. I know that being a pastor or a preacher is a gift. I’ve always felt like it was the ability to translate God’s Word to His people. When you’re bogged down with your own life dramas, speaking to someone who hears so clearly from God can make a huge difference. The only problem is that when your father is named America’s Best Preacher, the world becomes his congregation—one which seemed not only to surround me but to close in on me a little more each day.

It’s unfortunate and quite sad that some people occasionally step on a pastor’s family in an attempt to touch the hem of his garment. Many of them mean well (and some don’t) as they seek to improve their own self-worth by associating with someone they perceive as God’s solution to their problems. I became instantly leery of those people. I didn’t want to believe that the only way God could heal them was by hurting us.

On Sundays at church, adults would stop us in the hallway to deliver a message to our father. Often confusing me with my sister, they would yell, “Cora!” and then chastise me for not answering. It
was becoming clearer that I hardly fit into the church machine, yet because of my family’s ties to the church, and my father’s newfound fame, I couldn’t truly fit in with my school friends.

So there I stood. Not just in between two worlds but on the verge of a whole new solar system.

———

We once had a man visit our church who spent decades in prison for a crime he did not commit. As he gave his testimony in church one Sunday, he talked about how difficult it was for him to adjust to freedom again. When he was first imprisoned, cell phones did not exist. Technology hadn’t advanced to the heights it had reached by the time he spoke at our church. He entered prison as part of one world and left it to return to another world he barely recognized.

The incredible thing about his story is that he never gave up. He knew he was innocent. He knew he didn’t belong there, but he did the best he could to keep going. Every day he had a choice, he said, to be grateful for life or to despair and die. He chose to live and to make the most of his life even behind concrete walls and iron bars. I listened as he talked about the friendships he formed, the positive mentality he adapted, and the irony that he was among those incarcerated but more liberated than any of them. He said that inmates were not the only ones imprisoned in our world.

In many ways I understood. Growing up in church can sometimes feel like a prison. I’m not trying to sound irreverent or disrespectful. It’s simply that many people in church expect you to conduct yourselves according to their rules. If you break them in anyway,
you are subject to a punishment of their choice. For some, it’s having to apologize in front of the entire congregation. Others are told to be seen and not heard for the remainder of their life. Usually, their rules and punishments are accompanied by a claiming of the authority of God.

Despite my parents’ best attempts to make our church a place of healing, freedom, and joy, there were still some people among the thousands of members committed to their own agendas. And of course, the church leader and his family were held to the highest standards and levels of scrutiny by these people.

On the outside it may not seem that bad. Once a week you’re alienated for a couple of hours, but it is so much more than that. The people who punish you are usually the ones you thought would help you to get back on your feet. It’s a tricky thing to watch strangers come to the altar and receive a hug and prayer, but when it’s your turn they tell you to hide your pain.

So when it was me who needed the prayer, I didn’t say a word.

———

For what felt like a long time, I searched for myself in the eyes of other people, hoping someone would ask me the questions I so desperately wanted to be able to answer: “Who are you?” “Who are you apart from being the daughter of Bishop Jakes and the First Lady of The Potter’s House?” “What are you really like inside?” “What do you want to do with your life?”

I had found a temporary home straddling the fence of the familiar roles of church, even while peeking at the allure of the mysterious world that seemed to beckon. But finally I began to take those first few steps of exploration. This new place offered freedom. No expectations of perfection. No whispered judgments and knowing eyes. If I wanted to discover who Sarah was, then I knew it would be outside the walls of our church.

So in an effort to find myself, I did what most teenagers do: tried my hardest to become everything I saw as grown-up, mature, adult, and independent. If I was no longer a little girl, then I must be an adult. Which meant rehearsing the experiences that make you a grown-up, at least according to my friends. Little did I know that peer pressure very rarely has an age limit. So many of us spend our whole lives trying to become who we think everyone else is. We hardly ever realize everyone else is just pretending, too.

I didn’t get to maintain my secret rebellion against church members’ expectations for long. Time would quickly tell my truth. Soon everyone would know I was pregnant just weeks before my fourteenth birthday. With each tiny flutter in my stomach, I knew that soon I would be falling on my knees at the mercy of the church court.

———

Today, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have my son. From the moment I held him in my arms, it was like everything that happened before him was lost in the hopes of his future. Before I reach the age of thirty, I will have spent more of my life as a mother than not. And while I wish that I could’ve honored the beauty that is his soul with a more traditional entrance into the world, the truth is . . . he saved me.

My son forced me to find myself. Because of him I learned that there are worse things than not fitting in. Living a lie is much worse.

These realizations didn’t come easy, though.

When I was a kid, I used to wonder why adults always hugged children when they got hurt. It seemed so silly. Why would you use your arms to wrap them around someone’s torso when they hurt their toe? It seemed like it would make much more sense to pay attention to the specific area that absorbed the trauma.

When I was thirteen, I learned why. A child finds pain to be momentary. Within minutes, children’s cries can turn from a bloodcurdling scream to heart-swelling laughter. For children, the hug shows them that we’re sorry they got hurt, but we know they’ll be okay. As you grow older, the hugs take on quite a few more meanings.

When you’re dealing with death, we hug as a way to show our sympathy. It shows that we recognize that we are incapable of touching the hurt. Still, with arms wrapped around a broken heart, we hope that just for a moment we can hold someone together at a time they feel like they are falling apart the most. Unlike when we were children, we can no longer leave someone with the reassurance that things will go back to normal within minutes. Instead, all we have to offer is a drop of love in a drought of despair.

———

One of my greatest fears when I first learned I was pregnant was that I would be in trouble with my parents. I assumed that my pregnancy would be like bringing home Fs in all of my classes. Up to that point I had never done anything that would alter the trajectory of my life. Sure, Cora and I got into mischief from time to time, but that was a long time ago, kid’s stuff. Flunking classes on your report card can hardly compare to an unplanned teen pregnancy, but at that time in my life I did not have much to compare it to. Despite my best efforts, I was still that girl trying to find her place among the many worlds circling around her.

As much as I longed to be an independent woman, free of the opinions of others, I was still a child myself, struggling to navigate
bridges between worlds. I wanted to be the girl everyone loved. With very few recognizable talents at that age, I depended on the popularity of who I was. As you may remember, I couldn’t sing. I wasn’t the best dancer. I liked to talk, to get to know someone, even if they only seemed interested in asking the same questions about my family. All I had was the superficial clout of being the Bishop’s daughter, the child of a man making history. It was all that I knew about myself. It was all that others seemed to care about. So I took on the role, but not the responsibility.

I had a small group of friends who, like me, were too cool to be in church, too naïve to be in the world. We laughed at our peers who were so on fire for God because we didn’t understand the exact moment when we were no longer playing church. Little by little, though, our large group dwindled down. The laughs and giggles once shared on the back pews murmured down until it was just about six of us.