Lost and Found: Finding Hope in the Detours of Life (7 page)

“What kind of girl allows herself to get into this kind of trouble anyway?” continued the second girl. Everyone was listening by this point, including my sister.

“Only hos do that!” exclaimed the first girl and laughed.

I sat there soaking in all the thoughts that I knew the world had about me. Instead of standing up for myself, and others like me, I acted as if I were far removed from her subject. Speaking up would only remove my invisible shield.

“WELL, MY SISTER HAD A BABY AND SHE AIN’T A HO!” Cora yelled.

Suddenly, I saw the white light.
This must be what death feels like.
I was
mortified
. Most teenagers experience this moment at least once, usually when their parents embarrass them in front of their friends. But now I was the parent and everyone knew it. Standing in a room full of people who didn’t even know my name, I now was forced to accept that they knew my secret.

As if being the only black students in the class didn’t make my sister and me minority enough, the fact that our father was a nationally known preacher was even more of a separation. Now the fact that I did my homework while burping my son would create another divide.

I felt the separation everywhere. At home, I felt like a black sheep. Not because anyone made me feel that way but mostly because no one else had done anything to place us all under such heavy scrutiny. My father’s ability to effectively minister was brought into question, my mother’s commitment to women marred. The overall closeness of our entire family was being investigated by the outside world because of what I did.

———

My first Sunday back at church, everyone from my brothers to distant cousins came into the service with me. They knew that I was nervous about showing up with my infant son, confirming and enflaming the rumors that were already constantly growing. Some people knew and had been sending letters to the church demanding
I apologize publicly or they’d leave the church. My father made sure they knew where the door was located.

I know what you’re thinking. How blessed I am to have a father who was willing to stand by me at the expense of losing his position. You’re right, but I couldn’t see that at the time. All I could do was feel the shame of his even being placed in that situation. It’s hard to accept pure love when you feel you don’t deserve it. It’s essentially what keeps us from maximizing our relationship with Christ. How can salvation be available to a wretch like me? So instead of feeling the comfort of protection on the Sunday of Malachi’s debut, I prepared for the sting of shock.

“I’d like to welcome back to service my daughter Sarah and grandson, Malachi.” It was all my father ever said about it publicly until several years later, in 2011. Within days the letters started flying in. Some were lending me their strength, others were forsaking my future, and then there were the really ugly ones. The lady who sent me a blanket to wrap my baby in when he died, since she just knew that God was going to take my son from me because he was born out of sin. There were countless more where that came from. Worse than the letters were the stares. The deacon’s wife who had once hugged me each time she saw me now made it a point to turn the other way. Taking Chi to children’s church was like putting him on display. They wanted to know who his father was, and my silence only fueled assumptions.

I’ve always felt like my son’s relationship with his father is private. We were both so young when Malachi came into the world. I knew that he was still finding his way. Just because my process was on display didn’t mean I had to expose his, too. So I’ve remained committed to that stance ever since.

In between studying and caring for Chi, I began honing my culinary skills. I always enjoyed cooking, but I figured furthering my
knack would make me a better mother, daughter, and sister. Without being asked, I began to routinely cook family dinners. I knew on the outside it looked like I was just trying to help, but I also wanted to earn forgiveness. Perhaps if I did so much good on this end, it would make up for the decisions I had made on the other.

There are some people who make mistakes and then immediately confront what hurt them. They do the work because the only way through something is to actually go through the process. Then there are others, like me, who feel like there is no time on their side and they must make the best of what they have left, even if that means driving on a flat tire.

———

My parents were raised in the hills of West Virginia. They pride themselves on their ability to weave through mountain passes and effortlessly maneuver in the snow. When we moved to Dallas, there weren’t any mountains and snow never stayed for long. Instead, they traded mountains for multiple-lane expressways. Most of the major highways that currently exist in Dallas were under construction when we arrived in Texas. It wasn’t uncommon for us to see cars on the side of the road with frustrated drivers calling for assistance after running over stray debris.

When my sister and I were learning to drive, one of our family friends would give us driving tips. Among the many things he taught us, like how to change the oil and replace windshield wiper fluid, was how to handle a flat tire. He taught us the basics of tire changing, but realizing that we might panic in the actual event, he left us with one major tip. He said, “Whenever you get a flat tire, pull over to a safe spot as soon as possible. It will feel like you can continue driving, but just because you can go doesn’t mean you should. Continuing to drive on a flat tire can cause repair costs to increase significantly.”

If only I truly understood what living while damaged would cost me.

So often we’d rather rush our healing so that we can appear to have recovered. From miles away it is nearly impossible to tell whether a passing vehicle’s tire has adequate air. Sometimes, only those close to you can recognize when you aren’t moving the best you can . . . and then there are times when you are the only one who knows you’re damaged. The rhythmic grind of metal against metal serves as a reminder that you’re moving, but you have been punctured.

Having my son knocked the air out of me. I was driving through life on a flat tire. I thought that reaching my goal was more important than checking on my own damage. I didn’t have time to stop because I was already behind. I wish I had known that no matter how much we numb our pain, it never truly goes away. Real pain always seeps through the facade and punctures our mask, forcing us to look at ourselves. Or worse, reveal our truth sideways through bitterness and overcompensation.

I wasn’t bitter about having my son, but I was bitter about the world I was bringing him into. I did not want the church world I could hardly understand to become a part of the village that would help me raise my son. The place I felt the least safe would now have access to my sweetest vulnerability, my baby boy.

I had to grow thick skin for the both of us.

Accepting that I would never fit in their roles, I attended church for direction from God, not affirmation from people. Simply put, when you have your baby at fourteen, you learn that you can’t be
too sensitive. You start telling yourself things before others can beat you to the punch. I assumed that everyone who knew my story was disappointed and pitied me. I didn’t let that hurt me, though. I just decided not to care what people think.

Before having my son, all I cared about was what the people in my clique thought. I wanted to be seen as knowledgeable, beautiful, and cool. It was why I even started having sex. I wanted to make sure that I remained on the pedestal they placed me on, even if it was made of broken pieces and childish ideas of popularity.

If I didn’t fit the mold before, how would I now, plus one, ever fit?

I had no intention of giving up. Idolizing successful women like Cathy Hughes and Oprah Winfrey, I dove into my schoolwork. Oprah had a son at fourteen. He passed away not long after his birth, though. Cathy Hughes had her son at sixteen. Both of them went on to create media empires. I kept their stories written in my heart. I had no clue how they got from point A to point B, but I wanted to try. Everyone else could think what they wanted about me. I was determined to prove “them” wrong. I would show them that I was so much more than just a single teen mom.

The people who felt I should be ejected from church and the outside world, like the girl in my high school, who questioned my intelligence, were wrong. I might be driving on a flat tire, but I would still get there. It may take me longer than it takes them, but I wouldn’t stop. I had a plan and the heart to execute it. I didn’t have time to search and see where my plan could fall apart. It simply had to work.

While I spent most days with a book in one hand and a baby bottle in the other, my sister enjoyed the freedom of being able to live in the moment. I lived vicariously through her. So when it was time for her sweet sixteen, I think I was more excited than she was. Cora and her friends gushed about dates, dresses, makeup, and more as they planned for her special birthday party.

“So about this date thing, is it mandatory?” I asked her after overhearing them one night.

“Of course,” Cora giggled. “We’ll find somebody for you.”

I was so vested in completing my education that we had to ask around for a young man who’d be willing to escort me to my sister’s party. It was just for one night, and then I could go back to focusing on what was important.

My sister’s best friend, Brittney, said that her godbrother, Stephen, might be willing to come into town to go with me. After introducing our mothers and explaining the dilemma, we started talking on the phone. If we knew a little bit about each other, maybe the night wouldn’t be so awkward. If Stephen ever judged me for having a child so early, I didn’t know it. While we did continue talking long after the party was over, things eventually faded between us. The greatest gift he gave me was his sister. Each time I called to talk to him, his older sister, Stacia, and I would end up talking for hours.

Literally, there were times Stephen wouldn’t even know I was on the phone. Eventually, I started calling just to talk to her. Stacia’s daughter, Anastasia, was only a year older than Malachi. As teenaged mothers, we bonded over our desire to be better, but confessed to one another that we really didn’t know where to start. It’s ten years later, and the bond we shared has only strengthened. Stacia came to visit me in Texas so many times—a lot more than her brother ever did. We had sleepovers, laughed, cried, and made memories that we still smile about to this day. She’s my sister.

I knew how much Stacia cared about me when it came time for my own sixteenth birthday. In order to reach my goal of graduating early, I had to attend summer school. So the summer I turned sixteen, I was taking chemistry and precalculus in a summer course. There were no plans for a sweet sixteen party for me. Among our friends,
the tradition held that being a virgin was what made a “sweet sixteen.” So I was fine without all the hoopla.

The day before my sixteenth birthday, however, I walked out of our small school building and looked for my ride. I assumed it would be my mom or one of my older brothers. But they were nowhere in sight. Instead, I saw someone motioning me toward a sleek black limo, definitely not what I was used to seeing in the high school carpool line.

Inside the limo Stacia and Stephen grinned back at me. My parents had planned a surprise birthday party for me. It was their way of showing me that they were still cheering for me. I didn’t feel like I deserved the party, so I was never upset at the thought of not having one. I just didn’t realize that when people love you, they pour hope into you. Love embraces who you are and inspires you to become better. So surrounded by my closest friends and family, I was being loved, in spite of my shortcomings. It made me want to excel even further. I wanted to make the people in that room so proud.

With my newfound determination, I graduated two years after bringing my son into the world. He needed me and I needed his motivation.

In many ways, I guess you could say that the idea of not being able to ask for directions when we’re lost (apparently not just men) applies to everyone at some point in life. Instead of pulling over and stopping completely, we continue to make turn after turn, hoping that one of them will put us back on the right track. From the outside looking in, it always appears that the lost person is too arrogant to admit they need help. The truth is, most of the time we have this
feeling, this voice inside of us telling us that we’re too close to give up. The voice makes us believe that we can do it, but it doesn’t always mean we can do it alone.

How often do we get lost in life and never stop to ask God for His divine direction? Instead, we go to church each Sunday to receive more fuel to further our will, hardly ever asking what His will is for our lives. I prayed that God would help me live a life that proved those who doubted me wrong. I pleaded with Him to help me restore and rebuild my relationship with my family. I knew they loved me, but I wanted them to be proud of me. I prayed that God would help me make things right with others; I never asked Him how to make me right. I didn’t think I was beyond repair, but I would have time to work on me after I made things right with them.

How often do we expect others to forgive us when we are incapable of forgiving ourselves? How do we teach others that we are worthy when we don’t genuinely feel it? Our sin and shame become a filter that we believe the world sees us through, when really we just reflect onto people what we believe about ourselves.

Until we forgive ourselves, we will always see ourselves through the shattered pieces of the dreams we can no longer have. Nothing can be seen clearly through broken pieces: no future, no hope, no faith, no love is capable of being seen properly until we admit that we are driving on a flat tire. We have to stop believing that just because we are damaged we are irreparably broken.

Anything that breaks the structure of our hope must be repaired before daring to be whole again. Otherwise, we risk becoming susceptible to people’s opinions, requiring their permission and acknowledgment to live and dream our own lives.