Walk to Beautiful: The Power of Love and a Homeless Kid Who Found the Way

by Wayne, Jimmy

  Going down the mountain with a headlamp on my hat, I was “pulled over” by Arizona state trooper Eric Lamb. He was concerned for my safety. “This is the deadliest state route in Arizona,” Officer Lamb told us. I believed him. Besides the many sharp curves, twists, and turns coming down the mountain, there were numerous snakes lying on the warm asphalt. Officer Lamb kindly followed me in his patrol car with his emergency lights on as I made my way down the mountain.

  On July 30, just two days away from the finish line, I walked thirteen miles, much less than usual, but that was as far as I could go with the excruciating pain in my foot. Every step hurt. I had caught a cold and had a fever as well. I was miserable at a time when the adrenaline should have been pushing me past my abilities. But the pain was unbearable. I don’t think I can take another step, I worried.

  At one point that day I lay down on the concrete because I was in so much pain. Barrel Boy picked me up and carried me to the support vehicle. Barrel Boy said he knew a bit about icing and wrapping ankles from back in his sports days, so he did an excellent job using plastic trash bags to form an ice-sock, icing and taping me up at the end of the day. My foot was so numb from the pain that I barely noticed the ice. The finish of the walk was definitely in doubt.

  About the time I was ready to quit, two foster parents brought their son out to meet me on the road. We took some photographs together, and when that boy shook my hand and looked into my eyes, my heart leaped, and I knew I could take another step, regardless of the pain.

  THE NEXT MORNING THE SWELLING ON MY FOOT WAS worse. I was sad, angry, and determined all in the same mishmash of emotions. I can’t believe this! I thought. After all these miles, here I am five miles from the finish line, and I can hardly walk. This is unreal!

  But God was still connecting the dots. Officer Lamb, who had escorted me down the mountain a few days earlier, had a squadmate whose brother was a podiatrist. Dr. Brian Allen came into his Mesa office on his day off and X-rayed my foot. He looked at me and said, “Jimmy, I’m sorry to tell you this, but the bone on the back of your right foot has broken. It is as though one part of your heel has broken off. More than likely, it was a progressive injury, getting worse the farther you walked, but the worst probably happened as a result of walking down the White Mountains.” He estimated that I had walked more than fifty-seven miles on a broken bone.

  The doctor suggested I keep my foot in a boot cast and stay off my leg for six to eight weeks. I knew that wasn’t going to happen, even if I had to drag my foot across that finish line. So Dr. Allen gave me a protective boot to wear on my right foot and some strong pain medications to see me through the next few days.

  “Thanks, Doc; how much do I owe you?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.

  “No charge,” Dr. Allen responded without blinking. “I read about you in the People article, and this is my contribution to Meet Me Halfway.”

  I thanked him and left his office, literally on my last leg. I still had five miles to go to get to the Phoenix city limit sign and then on to HomeBase, where we planned a celebration and concert. With three miles to go, it started pouring rain, but I didn’t care. I was determined to get there.

  A number of people who had followed our walk, from various locations around the country, joined us for the finale. Lauren returned from Sacramento so she could cross the finish line in her wheelchair shortly after I did. She was incredibly courageous, and I felt awful when she turned bright red from the hot desert sun. But I was honored that she felt compelled to be there. Barrel Boy stayed with me, and Alanna Conaway, who had written so many articles about my journey, was there at the end as well. Dreama Gentry came to celebrate with us too. Dreama had facilitated the Meet Me Halfway website from the very beginning, and it was deeply meaningful for her to join us for the culmination of the walk.

  On Sunday, August 1, 2010, the Bear regiment of the Basha High School Marching Band led the parade of several hundred supporters as we walked through Phoenix to HomeBase Youth Services. Wearing my usual combination of khaki shorts and a green Marmot T-shirt, I burst through the welcome banner and raised my arms and walking sticks high in the air. I smiled broadly but was nearly overcome by emotion as an enthusiastic group of foster care kids greeted me. It had taken seven months—213 days—to walk from Monroe Harding to HomeBase.

  That night, hobbling around on my designer boot, I performed for a packed house at Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar and Grill. The following evening I did a special performance, especially for the foster kids and our supporters, at Hard Rock Café in Phoenix. Despite the pain and my lack of mobility, it was one of my most enjoyable performances ever! I felt as though Bea was sitting in the front row—and it was Beautiful!

  Forty-four

  FIRST STEPS TO A NEW JOURNEY

  RETURNING TO NASHVILLE AFTER THE WALK WAS ALMOST anticlimactic—until I reached the airport waiting area. I couldn’t walk well and had to be pushed in a wheelchair from the plane to the concourse, with my large Marmot clothes bag on my knee. I was looking for my drummer, Johnny, whom I had contacted to pick me up that Tuesday. But when I turned the corner, I heard a loud cheer and saw about sixty people—the majority of whom were foster kids from Monroe Harding, the foster center from which I had set out more than seven months earlier—carrying signs and banners welcoming me home and thanking me for doing the walk. It was emotionally overwhelming. I had to fight back tears through my smiles. I was home at last, full circle.

  POURING SOME GOODBEAN COFFEE INTO ONE OF MY FAVORITE mugs, topping it off with hazelnut Coffee-Mate creamer, in my comfortably air-conditioned Nashville townhome in the heat of August, I wondered if I could ever be the same. The obvious answer was no. I still enjoyed my coffee and the comforts of life, but the walk had changed me, deeply transformed me within.

  As I sipped my coffee, my mind drifted back to Bea’s funeral. I remembered standing at the front of the church, looking into the faces in the crowd. Bessemer City was a small town, and most people were familiar with one another, but there were several families in the congregation that day I didn’t recognize.

  After the funeral I asked Sandie, “Who are those people?”

  “Oh, that’s Cynthia and her family,” Sandie replied without hesitation. “When Cynthia was a teenager, Mom took her into their home. She lived with Mom and Dad for several years.” I nodded toward another group of strangers across the room. Sandie smiled. “Yes, them too.” She looked at an adult man and mentioned his name. “That’s his family; Mom took him in, back in the early 1980s.”

  Clearly, I was not the first young straggler whose life was influenced by Bea and Russell. They had never mentioned a word about how they had helped other kids like me. Bea and Russell didn’t talk about loving God and loving people; they just did it.

  Several weeks later Sandie and I were at Bea’s house; we were going through Bea’s belongings and cleaning up. I pushed back the bedroom door and took Bea’s housecoat off the hook. Beneath the robe, a few old calendars were still hanging on the back of the door. One of them was dated 1980. I flipped through each month and saw where Bea had written a note on every page, including the name of various children’s orphanages that she and Russell had donated to each month.

  Beautiful.

  IN SEPTEMBER 2010, THE CALIFORNIA BILL PASSED, RAISING foster care to age twenty-one. I was juiced! If they did it there, we can do it in other states as well.

  The positive response in the California legislature encouraged me to press harder. Tennessee state treasurer David H. Lillard Jr. introduced me to Heather Sczepezenski, legislative assistant to Representative Mark White from Memphis, a strong child advocate, and Doug Overbey, a state senator. They asked me to show up at the state legislature every time the issue of foster care came before committees. The major issue, of course, was money. With the help of a number of researchers who knew the facts and figures, I studied to prove that it was actually less expensive for the state to keep kids in foster care longer than to kick them
to the streets at age eighteen. I went in armed with statistics about drug usage and sales, premarital pregnancies, and prison incarcerations, all of which took state money to deal with. On the other hand, it was relatively inexpensive to allow an eighteen-year-old a few more years to mature and set some feasible goals. A bill to change state funding for foster care from eighteen to twenty-one years of age finally made it to the House in the spring of 2012.

  I showed up. Monroe Harding brought some children over, and they sat in the balcony during the vote. I saw an African-American boy looking over the balcony as the votes were cast. It was his eighteenth birthday. I knew that one way or the other, this boy’s life was going to be affected immediately. Given an opportunity to speak on the House floor, I pointed up at the young man and said to the representatives, “Please pay attention because if this bill does not pass, that young man’s life changes—today!”

  As the votes came in on Tennessee House Bill 2337, all but one person voted for the bill. That was marvelous, but I could not imagine anyone voting against the bill. The legislator who voted against the bill had felt the additional money was an unnecessary handout.

  The following day I reached out to Laura Bond, Representative White’s legislative assistant, and asked for the name and address of the legislator who had voted against the bill. I sent the legislator a letter, including the story about Bea helping me and changing my life.

  The next day that legislator went back to the House floor and changed his vote to yes, making it a unanimous vote.

  The vote in the Tennessee Senate followed suit. I put on one of the three suits I owned and sang “The Star Spangled Banner” to begin the session. I figured, Whatever it takes! Doug Overbey led the charge, proving to his fellow senators that they could save money by changing the program, and the Tennessee State Senate passed the bill unanimously. On May 29, 2012, Tennessee governor Bill Haslam signed the bill into law, one of the first in America.

  Was walking across America to raise awareness of foster kids worth the sacrifices? Oh, yes.

  I could fill several books with stories of people such as Anna, who became a foster parent after hearing Bea’s and my story. She has already directly and permanently changed the lives of six children placed in her care. Plus, she sought out and was hired in a position training other foster parents. Bea’s influence continues to multiply.

  Foster parenting came full circle in my family when my sister, Patricia, remarried and established a safe, happy home with her new husband, Tim Looper. During a transitional season in Patricia’s life, she got a job working as a fund-raiser for the Cleveland County Kidney Foundation in North Carolina. You can guess who received most of her requests for gratis benefit concerts. Yep, and I was always glad to help her. Hey, I was thrilled she was out of the textile mills and working at a desk job!

  At several shows in North Carolina, I noticed a vivacious little girl dancing in the audience. Who is that little girl? I wondered.

  She attended with her foster parents, and she fell in love with Patricia. When the foster parents said they had to send the little girl back to the system, Patricia and Tim cringed. “No!” they protested. “Please don’t put her back into the system.”

  “We’re sorry; we have to,” the foster parents said.

  Patricia and Tim were not about to let that happen, so they took immediate steps to adopt the little girl. Her name is Charleigh Storm, and although she has no blood relationship to our family, she looks almost identical to the way Patricia looked at that same age. She is now my niece, and she is the light of my life.

  “HOW DID WALKING ACROSS AMERICA AFFECT YOU?” I AM often asked.

  For one thing, I was pleasantly surprised at how many really good people I met in America—salt-of-the-earth types of people who would go out of their way to bring me a cup of coffee or allow me to stay in their homes. Sure, I met a few strange folks and a few mean, cantankerous types. But I met far more good-hearted people, people who care about others and are willing to lend a hand.

  In many ways the walk was cleansing for me and brought me back to reality. The walk brought my life back into focus. It opened my eyes to what really matters, what is important, and it gave me perspective on my own purpose and significance.

  It also allowed me enormous amounts of time to think about my past, especially my relationships with my family, about being hungry and homeless. Through it all, in a much more effective way, I found the grace to forgive my mom for rejecting and abandoning me and for doing so many harmful things during my childhood.

  While walking through the desert all by myself one evening, with the big, orange sun setting in front of me, I was thinking about how Jesus felt, hanging on that cross. But I was still feeling sorry for myself too. I thought of Mary, the mother of Jesus. I looked skyward and asked, “Jesus, why can’t my mom be more like Your mom? She was there for You to the bitter end.”

  Almost immediately He spoke to my heart and mind. I’m not trying to get your mom to be more like Mine. I’m trying to get you to be more like Me.

  That placed the emphasis right where it needed to be—on me—and made it easier to forgive my mom. The FTW initials on my chest immediately took on new meaning. I had “Found the Way.” I can honestly look at my mom now and say, “Mama, I love you. I forgive you. Let’s move on together.”

  I returned to writing and performing music, but my motivation was different. I wasn’t concerned about promoting an image or a product, nor was I concerned about being a country music star. I want to do something that will matter a million years from now. Something like what Bea and Russell did for me.

  COMING THROUGH THE AIRPORT ONE DAY, I SAW MY SONGWRITER friend Pat Alger. We’d been talking about writing songs together for years—and had even written “Summer of ’85,” one of my most meaningful songs—but now it was time to write something really special.

  Pat and I got together and wrote an entire concept album based on stories surrounding the walk. We worked together for eight months and wrote about Pea Patch Ranch, Billy the Kid, my dog Ruby, and so much more. Pat, the master songwriter, finessed the physical journey into a musical story par excellence. We wrote the song “How Jesus Felt,” a song that encapsulates what I’ve learned, especially in relationship to forgiveness. How did Jesus feel on the cross? Even after people had hurt Him so deeply, He didn’t feel like condemning; He felt like forgiving.

  Each day during my walk, as I got off the ground and rolled up my sleeping bag, I remembered why I was doing it, not simply for troubled kids but for all kids. Whenever I felt like quitting—which I often did—I remembered Bea and Russell Costner and how they sacrificed for me. And how Jesus sacrificed for all of us.

  The walk also reminded me not to give up, regardless of other people’s opinions. People responded in various ways; some shook their heads in amazement or amusement while others lent support. Some turned their backs; others turned around their lives.

  I know the walk changed me. I grew closer to God in many ways I am still only beginning to understand. But one thing I know: I’ll never be the same. I’ll never again let time slip by without getting involved in life—not merely in my life but in the lives of others who need a helping hand, who need someone to meet them halfway.

  I THANK GOD FOR THE GIFT OF MY EXPERIENCES—BOTH the good and the bad. They have changed me forever, and I can no longer tolerate any phoniness or fakeness in myself. I live transparently: when I’m happy, you see me smile; when I’m sad, you see my tears; when I am angry, you hear it! But I’m attempting to do as the book of James suggests: get real. Don’t just talk about how much you love God. Do something. Take care of the widows and orphans (1:27). Looking back on it now, I don’t think it was an accident that my mom named me James.

  Nor do I think it is coincidence that the first three letters of Bea’s name are also the first three letters in beautiful. Bea Costner changed every cell in my body; she was a living, breathing example of Jesus in my life. If you have trouble figuri
ng out what Jesus would do, ask yourself, “What would Bea do?” You will likely find yourself close to the heart of God.

  And if you ever become “weary in doing good” (Galatians 6:9), think of Bea. When you are tempted to think your life is insignificant, remember the little woman who took in a homeless teenager and saved his life; ask God what He wants you to do. When circumstances drag on you, weighing you down to the point you think you can’t take another step, muster your courage, stay strong; keep walking.

  Don’t walk only when it is convenient; don’t merely walk till you get tired; keep walking through it all. Walk to Beautiful.

  Epilogue

  BE SOMEBODY!

  NEARLY EVERYWHERE I GO NOWADAYS, I ATTEMPT TO RAISE awareness for at-risk kids, especially foster kids who are soon to age out of the system with nowhere to go but the streets. Inevitably, when I tell tenderhearted people about the circumstances of these kids, somebody will say something like, “That’s awful! Somebody needs to do something.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “Be somebody.”

  The response often comes, “How? What can one person do?”

  There are several ways you can help if you want to be somebody in a foster child’s life. Certainly you can begin by becoming aware of the issues involved for these kids. You can become a youth advocate; you can mentor or even adopt a child. You can open your home to a kid like Bea and Russell did for me. You can donate to an organization that helps children.

  One of the most important keys to helping foster kids is to elect public officials who have a heart for children and the courage to take the necessary stands that will truly make a difference, especially for the forgotten foster kids aging out of the system. Certainly, this is true on a national level, but you may not be aware that each state within the US sets its own standards regarding foster care. Presently, a handful of states have raised the age that children transition out of the foster care system to twenty-one. That’s great, but we need every state to do something similar. That can happen if we elect people who genuinely care about foster children.