Lost and Found: Finding Hope in the Detours of Life (8 page)

The human body experiences many pains in life. We can break our legs, nose, arms, fingers, and knees. We can bruise our ribs,
liver, and shins. We can be broken over and over again, but we only experience death once.

The human spirit, on the other hand, is much more sensitive. One big disappointment, heartbreak, or misdirection and we stop living, even though we are far from dead. Instead of seeking the help we would for our body, we let our spirit remain broken, using the pain as a constant reminder of what happened and why it can never happen again.

Can you imagine a patient going to the emergency room with a broken leg, refusing the treatment that could heal him, and instead, asking for a wheelchair to make it through life? Sure he could make it, but why choose to stay broken? Somewhere along the way, I decided that remaining in motion was more important than taking the time to slow down and heal.

Long after the choir leaves the stand, the musicians put away their instruments, and the congregants have closed their Bibles, there is still you, your God, your doubt, and abundant grace. God is not asking us to be crucified for our sins—He sent His Son for that. He’s asking us to make His sacrifice count. How can we honor Christ’s life if we never explore the depths of His forgiveness or the beauty of grace?

I was about to find out.

LAST YEAR, TWO
weeks before my twenty-fifth birthday, my family and I traveled to Australia. My father was due to minister at a very popular conference, called Hillsong, there in Sydney. Although it wasn’t my first time traveling internationally, it was the farthest I had ever traveled from home. From Dallas, the trip to Australia is almost twenty hours.

Australia had always been one of my dream destinations. I heard so many stories about its beauty and wonderful people. More than that, I was incredibly excited to experience the Hillsong conference. My father, mother, and younger brother, Dexter, all spoke so highly of the worship experience. Words often failed them when describing the power they experienced at the gathering. In an arena with tens of thousands of people, there was such a unique opportunity to have an intimate encounter with God.

I did very little research leading up to the trip since I wanted to experience the country through fresh eyes. With the technology that
exists, it’s so easy to “travel” almost anywhere while hardly leaving your home. I suppose I could’ve planned my trip weeks before the plane touched down in the land Down Under, but I wanted to truly explore it for myself, meeting locals and asking for their recommendations about favorite aspects of their homeland. From quiet eateries to the sky lift at the zoo, I tried to see and learn as much as I could.

I learned quickly that there are many similarities between Australia and the States. Although there’s no language barrier, since English is the primary language for both, words there are influenced by the Aussie culture and therefore have different meanings. Sometimes the strong accents and unique vernacular made it a bit more challenging to communicate than I’d anticipated.

For example, our first day out, I went to a local shop to purchase a few items I’d left behind. I was a bit concerned walking into the store that maybe the items would not be available, but fortunately I found exactly what I needed. After perusing the aisles for souvenirs and mementos to take home, I went to the register. The kind lady rang up my purchases, gave me the total, and I handed her my bank card. She swiped it, just like at home, and then asked me, “Charge or sign?”

I gave her a nervous smile and said, “Charge . . . ?”

I thought that’s what I was supposed to say. To be honest, I couldn’t be too sure what she meant. I assumed her question was the equivalent of asking if my transaction was credit or debit. She must’ve noticed my hesitation and decided to help me.

“Your number or no?” she said.

“Oh!” I exclaimed and quickly entered my PIN. Similar exchanges happened throughout the course of the trip. We were all speaking English, but the words had different meanings based on different cultural usage and context. On any occasion I went shopping during our time there (and I confess there were MANY), not once did
anyone ever ask me, “Debit or credit?” I wasn’t foolish enough to try to change or correct their term to fit what I knew. I recognized that I was in a new country, a new land, and therefore if I wanted an authentic experience, it would be necessary for me to learn to communicate their way.

———

During my senior year of high school, I wish I had made a commitment to understand myself with the same cultural curiosity I felt while in Australia. But I wasn’t a very good tourist in my own country. As much as I tried to stay focused on motherhood and schoolwork, part of me longed to be carefree and focused on nothing more than going to the mall with friends. When prom time rolled around, I was surprised how much I longed to go.

Like most girls, I held the dream of attending prom as the closest to becoming Cinderella that you could imagine. Even if I did decide to attend, there was just one slight problem: I would never find a date. My son and my school were my primary focus. I wanted to go and have fun with friends, but I didn’t want to be the only girl there who couldn’t find a date. I didn’t need a boyfriend, just a friend. I hoped I could find someone to share some laughs with friends and take a few pictures. Stephen, who had escorted me to Cora’s sweet sixteen, now had a girlfriend, so he wasn’t an option.

I’m naturally pretty shy, so there was no way that I would’ve approached anyone. It would’ve literally taken a miracle for my lips to separate enough for me to even broach the subject of asking someone to take me to prom. I shared my frustration with my mom. She understood the part of me that wanted to have a normal prom experience, but she also recognized that I couldn’t risk any distractions.

However, she discreetly made it her mission to allow me an evening to just be a regular high school girl going to prom. After speaking
to a few family friends, she found a friend from out of state who was willing to escort me to prom. He and I started conversing over the phone to ease the awkwardness of our first encounter, and he understood the importance of prom night for most girls my age.

Wanting me to enjoy my special night, my mother didn’t explain to my date that my curfew had less to do with her and more to do with my baby-sitter. He had no idea I was a mother. We had a few conversations over the phone about general topics and interests, but I wasn’t sure when I should explain to him my situation.

On one hand, our conversation was so normal. But there was an unspoken barrier between us that I didn’t know how to overcome. It should have been quite simple, to just share my truth, but I couldn’t get the whispers out of my head. How could I present the “new” me when everything else felt so incredibly familiar? I had no difficulty discussing how I managed to graduate early. Words never failed me when I spoke about my violin training or fluency in Spanish. It was so easy to share the things I knew were great, but how do you share your vulnerability?

How do you make yourself available to be embraced by others when you have yet to embrace yourself? So I fed myself a steady diet of negativity about others. Rather than risk judgment and rejection, I mostly isolated myself. Sometimes it’s easier to call someone an enemy than to admit that you’re afraid. When you choose to believe others can’t handle your truth, you only give away the pieces of you that are universally acceptable—which only reinforces that other people can’t handle the real you.

After I spent a couple weeks getting to know my prom date by phone, my mother asked me if I’d told him about Malachi. I told her I hadn’t, and that I didn’t know how. What would he think of me?

When I had my son, being a teen mom wouldn’t get you instant stardom from a television show. When I was pregnant, there was no Facebook or Twitter to help spread the news. You could find some information on the Internet, but a lot of it was subjective and speculative. It would be up to me to tell my truth. I was afraid, though. I didn’t think it was possible for someone to not prejudge me for becoming a mother before I could even drive a car.

I was very proud of the work I was doing to create a better tomorrow for my son and me, but I didn’t want to be judged until my process was over. I just didn’t want that to be the end of our story. The old whispers about girls who had gotten pregnant at a young age echoed in my mind. People shook their heads and talked about how their lives would be ruined forever. No matter how much good they had done before their pregnancy, or what they attempted afterward, it was apparently all inconsequential.

I figured that someday I would present my story when I was finished making it pretty. Someday I would proudly announce that I was a teen mom and that I had gone on to become successful despite what others said I could not do. I just wasn’t there yet. I was still building.

———

Before any construction can begin, an architect draws a picture of what will be the completed structure. It is by this guide that they determine what supplies they will need, how long the process will take, and the labor required to transform the picture into a building. In my mind I knew what I wanted my life to look like. I had mapped everything out and estimated how long it would take me to get there. At the time, however, I didn’t realize that nothing, including my idea of a perfect life, would just appear by itself.

Construction doesn’t just require time; it makes quite a bit of noise. No matter how much we would like to work on ourselves quietly, sometimes we can’t avoid calling attention to ourselves. No more than you can stop the clang of a hammer or the buzz of a saw can you hide the pieces of your life necessary to become whole. We want to be under construction, but we don’t want to be noticed in the midst of our growing pains.

How do we embrace the process of not having it all together? How can we allow ourselves to make the noise necessary to construct our new life?

I had the plan in my mind, and I was acquiring the tools necessary to put everything together, but I was yet under construction. Telling my story so early would risk exposing others to my building process. I would be asking them to look at the wood, the paint, the nails, the shovels, and the glass and see a finished structure.

It’s not always easy to trust others’ eyes to see your dream the way you see it. When you’re under construction, everyone becomes an architect. They want to rearrange your dream to fit what they think it should look like or what they believe is more attainable. They say things like, “Don’t dream so big!” and “You can do better,” or, worse, “You’ll never build a life like that.”

I kept my son a secret not because I wasn’t proud of him but because I was trying to protect him from those who wouldn’t see his life, or mine, the way I did. You can’t grow by hiding, though, so I finally told my prom date about my son. I explained to him that I was excelling in school and applying to the best universities within driving distance because underneath it all there was a young, precious life that was my foundation. My son was keeping me grounded so that I could build something stronger than shame, prejudice, or fear.

After a few polite questions, our conversation basically returned to normal. In that moment I realized that my goal shouldn’t be helping others to see that a teen mother can go on to be great. The best thing for me to do is to accept the direction of my life and dare to let that acceptance flow to others.

The most important part of any building, person, or plan is the foundation. No matter how well the framing is done, electricity wired, plumbing installed, or fixtures selected, if the foundation is weak, nothing can stand. The foundation is the least visible but the most necessary.

Who are you at the core of your being?

Outside of your education, finances, occupation, or achievements, underneath all the material things that the world can see, what makes you get up in the morning?

What do you tell yourself about your destiny in the stillness of night?

I had a foundation, but it was built on wanting people to accept me, not my accepting myself. I continued building until I graduated with my diploma at sixteen. I applied to college after college so that I could add a degree to the materials with which I was constructing my life. Because of my age and the fact that I couldn’t stay on campus like most freshmen because of my son, it was not easy finding a university that would be flexible with my situation. Finally, I
was accepted to Texas Christian University, less than thirty minutes from home. Since I didn’t have my driver’s license yet, my mother or another relative or family friend would have to drive me to school.

I was excited about beginning my college career at a school like TCU. My siblings and I had been homeschooled in the years leading to my pregnancy. Then my parents placed us in a private school where we could interact socially but still remain focused on our schooling. My senior class had twenty-one students in it. My sister and I were the only African Americans in the entire school. Outside of church, it was very rare for us to be in a social setting where we were not the only blacks. So while others at TCU complained about the lack of diversity, I was excited to have a “normal” experience.

I decided to study accounting, but first I would have to get into the business school. My college education was a pivotal part of my plan. I wanted to become an accountant and eventually become chief financial officer for the church. What better way to complete the process of forgiveness than to be trained to help my dad? When I first shared my plans, my parents were both so excited. I led them to believe that it was what I truly wanted, because I didn’t want them to know I was still seeking their forgiveness.

My first day in college, I packed my backpack, found a cute outfit, and waited for my mom to get ready to drop Malachi off at day care and then me off to college. I was hoping that since my class was still in the morning, not many people would see my mother dropping me
off. Let’s face it, having a chauffeur is nice, but not when it’s your mother and not when you’re in college!

Nervous wasn’t even the word for it.

After turning seventeen over the summer, here I was on a college campus. A part of me felt like everything might end up being okay. I remember thinking,
Perhaps I really can
pull this off: become successful and care for my child
in a way that makes both of us better people
.

I got to campus about fifteen minutes before my class was scheduled to begin so that I could navigate the building where my class would be held. Discreetly reaching for my map, I tried to find my way to Beasley Hall.

My first course for the day was communications; it was a diverse class with a mix of students from across the country. As far as diversity goes, there seemed to be a lot of it. Even though there was only one other black female, my class was about 40 percent black. I overheard that the guys in the class with me were football players. I sat quietly in the back of the classroom, trying to keep to myself.

Danielle, the other black girl in the class, was the first to speak to me. We became fast friends and created a bit of a ritual. We’d go to class, then walk together to the student union until our next class began. She knew some of the football players and would speak to them after class when they gathered on the steps of Beasley.