I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (6 page)

Ricky and I started building a life together. We were together all the time. He owned a local motorcycle shop in Pineville, and we’d ride one of his bikes out to local burger joints to find the best-tasting cheeseburger in town. We went to the Bahamas on vacation, and true to both our homebody natures, we’d lie around the pool and beach, soaking in the rays and enjoying the tranquility. Come sunset, we’d spread beach towels out by the surf and gaze at the sky, bold colors of orange, red, and purple overlapping the horizon while lukewarm salt water swept over our feet.

Ricky was my best friend. I had never shared so much of myself, my dreams, my struggles with anyone else. During a particular rough patch Ricky knew how much I needed my mom. I missed her so badly. Mom was a lifeline to home. Knowing I was especially homesick one weekend, Ricky flew my mother and me out to Miami for a few days of rest and relaxation, our schedule consisting only of shopping and spa treatments. It was just what I needed.

Most weekends, Thursday through Sunday, were spent
on the NASCAR circuit. We’d travel to places like Talladega, Michigan, New Hampshire, Chicagoland (fun fact: it’s not actually in the city of Chicago but in Joliet, an hour away), and, of course, famed Daytona. Outside of small distinguishing features among the tracks, city locations, and fluctuating emotions from the team depending on wins and losses, every weekend was pretty much the same. We’d arrive at the race location on Thursday night, Ricky would spend most of Friday practicing on the track, and at night we’d grill out, sometimes hanging out with the drivers and their families or girlfriends. Saturday and Sunday were race days, and when it was all over, we’d fly back home to Charlotte. While Ricky did his business on the track, I didn’t mind being alone on the bus. It was relaxing. I’ve always had an independent streak and enjoyed my solitude. Sometimes I’d watch the races or get together with the wives or girlfriends of other drivers, or if I was feeling particularly motivated, whip out a rag and some Windex or Lysol and clean up.

Ricky and I had talked seriously about marriage on several occasions and even visited the Hendricks’ family jeweler with his mom to pick out a ring. When the NASCAR season was over, Ricky, who wasn’t the world’s best secret-keeper, told me he planned on proposing to me in Saint Bart’s. I think one of the reasons he told me was because I had always feared he’d asked me to marry him at some NASCAR event, which would have been, of course, so unromantic. As much as I enjoyed the racing sport, I didn’t want a proposal associated with roaring engines, earplugs, and the stench of hot dogs and fuel. Ricky respected my wishes and promised he’d wait to get down on one knee until after the season was over. When he mentioned
Saint Bart’s, I begged him to stop telling me his plans. I mean, really, a girl’s got to be surprised, right? Around this same time, we started making plans to build a house nearby in the same South Park neighborhood and moved into a small condo to save some money while the house was being built. Ricky warned me we’d probably be living in sleeping bags for a few months, but I didn’t care. As long as he was with me, I’d do just fine living in a tent in the woods if I had to.

One of the things I admired about Ricky was his faith. While he didn’t shout his beliefs from a rooftop or announce them to everyone he met, he had a quiet but resilient faith in God. He loved to pray with me. Simple prayers, nothing elaborate or long-winded. I remember the first time he took my hand at dinner and said, “Let’s bless the food.” Okay, so initially I thought it was weird, mainly because I’d never done that before. Nor had I been with anyone who would ever consider “blessing the food.” But it felt personal, and real.

Ricky even prayed with me at times outside of meals. I’ll never forget flying on a little plane over the mountains after visiting my grandparents in rural Kentucky. The wind lashed out violently at the small aircraft, bouncing us in every direction but straight. The plane would swing from side to side, then plummet fast and furious a couple of feet. I had never been so scared in my life. I dug my nails into the armrests while Ricky whispered a prayer. “Keep us safe, God.” And almost as fast as those words were spoken, an indescribable peace beset my heart. I was no longer afraid.

At my core, I wanted to deepen my faith beyond “save me” prayers and simply following Ricky’s lead. I wanted to
know God as something other than a whimsical being in the sky. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know what it meant. Ricky and I would sometimes attend church at the track, and when we were in Charlotte on Sundays, we’d accompany Mr. and Mrs. Hendrick to their home church, Central Church of God.

I’ll never forget the life-changing experience I had at a service one Sunday right after I moved to Charlotte. The pastor gave a moving message. I don’t remember what he said, but I’ll never forget how I felt. Goosebumps shivered up and down my spine as the pastor gave an altar call to anyone who wanted more of God, who wanted a deeper faith, who felt His presence. Something stirred inside my spirit, something similar to what I experienced at the youth retreat some six years earlier. As the worship band played quietly in the background and I could hear the soft commotion of men and women, young and old, taking slow strides down the aisles of the spacious church, Ricky grabbed my hand. I gave it a tight squeeze, but he didn’t just want to hold it. He stood up and started making his way down to the aisle, still gripping my hand.

We stood at the front of the altar, shoulder to shoulder with a handful of other people, including Ricky’s uncle John, president of Hendrick Motor Sports, and prayed quietly. I had never before felt any shift of emotion in church. When I used to attend Mass with my parents, I’d always just sit and stare at the priest with a blank expression on my face, thinking about where we were going to go after church or what we would eat or what TV show was on later that night or that I should actually start studying for my math test or whether or not the
boy down the block liked me. Sitting in church was nothing more than a means to an end—usually just getting it over with so I could move on to more fun things, things that actually mattered to me.

But standing next to Ricky at the front of Central Church of God, I felt the love of God wrap around me. It wasn’t just an emotional feeling. I actually felt squeezed tight. I knew the Spirit was moving in me, beckoning me in His gentleman way to dig deeper. To get to know Him.

Looking back, though I considered myself a Christian, sadly it was more of a label I pinned loosely on my identity than an actual relationship with God, a genuine faith that takes root in your spirit and guides your every decision. I mean, I was living with my boyfriend, for Pete’s sake, not a very spiritual thing to do—and not a decision I’m proud of.

But I know now that even when we plod through life, making mistakes along the way, trying to figure out what faith is and what it means and why it matters, God uses each and every circumstance, and yes, even every mistake, to plot a course that ultimately will lead straight into His arms.

Anne Lamott opened her book
Traveling Mercies
this way:

My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another. Like lily pads, round and green, these places summoned and then held me up while I grew. Each prepared me for the next leaf on which I would land, and in this way I moved across the swamp of doubt and fear. When I look back at some of these early resting places . . . I can see how flimsy and indirect a path
they made. Yet each step brought me closer to the verdant pad of faith on which I somehow stay afloat today.
^*

Oh, how I can relate! Crying in a sleeping bag on a gymnasium floor, holding hands with my soon-to-be fiancé as the Spirit of God slowly began to build an awareness of His presence in my heart—those were just a couple of my resting places. I’d bounce and slip my way through more lily pads—making a ton of mistakes along the way—but even in the moments when I didn’t make the best choices and opted for the easy path instead of the narrow one, God would always be with me, waiting until I finally surrendered wholeheartedly to Him. Until I finally realized and confessed that my life, my desires, and my ultimate identity would never be complete until they’d be found in Him.

That Sunday I remember saying thank you to God over and over and over. Those were the only two words that came naturally, easily, from the depths of my heart. As the pastor prayed over us, I remember feeling strongly that God had given me Ricky as a gift. And I felt in that moment—I’m not sure why—a strong and comforting sense of God saying to me,
Emily, everything is going to be okay
.

In October 2004, after a race in Charlotte, Ricky, his mom, and I headed off to beautiful Maui for a break. It was great to be able to spend some quality time with Mrs. Hendrick, to
continue to get to know her better. Together the three of us enjoyed some great dinners and occasional sightseeing, and Ricky and I spent a lot of quality time just the two of us.

This trip included some of my most memorable moments with Ricky. When we had spent time together in Key West or some other vacation spot like the Bahamas, we were lazy. We didn’t do much other than lay out on the beach or by the pool. This trip was different. We did it all.

We went snorkeling, holding hands with our faces plunged into the water, where we could see schools of rainbow-colored tropical fish brushing past us along with bright pink, orange, and gold coral reefs rhythmically swaying with the current underneath us in an underwater paradise. We even woke up one morning just before four—okay, so I didn’t really “wake” up; more like Ricky pounded on my door and dragged me out of bed—so we could take a sunrise helicopter tour of Haleakalā, Maui’s inactive volcano. As the aircraft whirred off in the dark about an hour before dawn, I was half asleep, forcing myself to stay awake and show some enthusiasm, especially since Ricky was beside himself in the sleek machine.

Sometime after 6:00 a.m., we approached the rim of the volcano, which climbed an impressive 10,023 feet above sea level. It was then I was jolted awake by the sky’s majestic beauty. I cannot even put into words how I felt as dawn began to unfold with multiple shades of morning glory. When Mark Twain visited Haleakalā in 1866, he wrote it was “the sublimest spectacle I ever witnessed, and I think the memory of it will remain with me always.”
^**
Preach it, brother!

At one point, the helicopter hovered a little too close to the edge of the volcano for my comfort. Convinced we were going to hit it, I started having heart palpitations. Knowing my fear of flying and without me needing to say a word, Ricky grabbed my sweaty hand, loudly reassuring me over the deafening engine with a wide grin on his face, “Relax, Em. The pilot knows what he’s doing. We are not, I repeat not, going to crash into the volcano.” He squeezed my hand tight and with an encouraging grin he shook his head and laughed this time, putting to rest my obviously silly fears. “Trust me, that would never happen.” On the flight back to the hotel, we enjoyed a bird’s-eye view of lush rainforests and towering sea cliffs along the rugged coastline.

Looking back on this vacation, I realize what a gift from God it was. Trips like this were few and far between, and every memory captured was special. I know it’s impossible to live every day on vacation, free of stress, worry, and rocky roads. Life isn’t a fairy tale; I would learn that soon enough. But to have shared pieces of paradise, which in the big picture were as fleeting as a breath, means the world to me. Since the beginning of our relationship, and particularly on this trip, Ricky had brought out in me a sense of adventure, of possibility, of hope—parts of me that would soon disappear in a slow fade.

On October 24, 2004, Ricky, who was taking helicopter lessons at the time, was scheduled to fly a copter to the Martinsville Speedway. The weather wasn’t cooperating and so he, along with his uncle John and his twin cousins, Kimberly and
Jennifer Hendrick; general manager Jeff Turner; chief engine builder Randy Dorton; Joe Jackson, a DuPont executive; and Scott Lathram, a pilot for driver Tony Stewart, boarded a private plane piloted by Richard Tracy and Elizabeth Morrison and took off for the short flight.