“I will rent to you.” My heart smiled; relief washed over me—for an instant—until I remembered my bank was closed on Saturday. He reached in his pocket. “Sorry, will you take cash? Apparently, I’ve misplaced my checkbook.”
This was one of so many instances when our needs were met in the most unexpected ways. Another incident that stands out as the absolute work of God was when my daughter was headed to UCLA. To my astonishment, she had graduated from high school at age fifteen. By her sixteenth birthday, she would be entering college because of her academic status. I was not ready for the transition either financially or emotionally. But I could not hold her back.
I was standing by the mailbox awaiting a very large payment due for a magazine story. This would take care of the deposit on my daughter’s dorm room. The day before she was to leave for the university, I had bitten my nails to nubs, and my nerves were frayed. The check had not arrived. Where would she lay her head on her first night there if I didn’t get them the deposit? I suppose some folks would have advised that I budget more wisely and save more money. I was doing my personal best as a single mom.
As I focused on washing the dishes to drown out my thoughts of whom I could borrow from, for some strange reason my good friend Chris dropped by unannounced. She said she came to say good-bye to Kellie. She and I had known each other more than eighteen years. She was a wonderful woman with a sweet heart, sensitive to everything around her. Her daughter was going to begin university with my daughter.
Chris said, “I know it costs a lot to put your daughter in university dorms, and you’re all alone. I’ve been thinking; why don’t I give you this and you can pay me back if or whenever you get extra cash.” I looked down at the number written on the check—$1,000. It was the answer to my prayer. It would cover gas for the drive down to Kellie’s Los Angeles college and back, lunch, and her dorm deposit. One thousand dollars was the number that puzzled me. How could she have known how desperate I was? Only God could have known because that was the number I had prayed for. My client’s check arrived the day after my return from UCLA, and I repaid my friend, but God’s generous timing was everything.
Another example of God meeting my needs is how He provided places to live despite the tedious process of looking. As I mentioned earlier, for an African American, house hunting even here in California can sometimes be overwhelming. Racism is rampant. Sometimes I have had a white friend follow up after I’ve been turned down just to find out what was really at work. After I’ve been turned down, the landlord is welcoming, and the apartment or house is available to my white friends.
One agonizing experience of this house-hunting trap that I endured happened just after a lengthy article appeared in the Sunday edition of the local newspaper, covering how I had been chosen Woman of the Year. I saw a condo I thought suited our needs. I called ahead to say I was a young woman, a businesswoman, and a single mother with a daughter.
When I arrived, the woman who opened the door first had a smile, and then a familiar scowl came over her face. “You speak beautiful English,” she said. What she really meant was, “I couldn’t tell you were black on the phone.” Then her expression changed back to a smile as she recognized me from the newspaper article.
She invited me in for tea. She questioned me about my accolades and achievements and then, with that same gusto and enthusiasm, said she was sorry, but the condo had been rented during the hour between my phone call and my arrival. When I left, I was angry because she had wasted at least a half hour of my time in answering her questions.
I called Elana, a white friend, who was waiting down the street, standing by to do a follow-up. Sure enough, when she spoke with the landlady, the apartment was available. The same landlady urged her to apply and promised she could move in right away.
In the process of apartment or house hunting, I have several times collected enough evidence to sue but have never done so. I always trusted in the Lord that I’d find a home and a landlord who would welcome me with a smile. It has meant I have had to start the moving process earlier than most people; I must expect it will take me longer to find this smiling landlord.
Some of these encounters are more complex. I was heartbroken when the deed of one California house I purchased read, “No Negroes can ever own or reside in this house or this neighborhood.” I called the real estate people, and the woman who answered said it was not their fault. The ban had been in place for years and years. She said it was just a tradition and that I should let it go—and I did. I decided it was merely words on a paper. The fact was I now owned the house. No matter how much the neighbors complained, they couldn’t kick me out.
Through my faith and obedience to God’s plan to meet all my needs, my housing needs have been fulfilled. Take, for example, my latest house. I had looked at forty-four places prior to running into this one. Houses in California at reasonable prices are as rare as hen’s teeth, but much rarer for those with skin of color. Competition is ferocious no matter who you are.
I came upon an advertisement describing a lovely house with a view. The broker had urged me to come immediately. I was the first one to see the house. I was surprised to see a pleasant expression on the rental agent’s face and no judgment in that smile in response to my color. It was extraordinary to me. Because I was tired of looking, I said to the woman, “I’ll take the house now.” It was dusk, the curtains were closed across the panel of windows, and I did not want to take the time to go through the downstairs. As people were lining up behind me, I just wanted to sign on the dotted line.
The rental agent who represented the management company was kind and sympathetic. She said, “I do not know how the landlord would feel about this.” She was hesitant. “I am supposed to check with him on any nonwhite,” but she would take the risk. She turned out to be a real angel. She signed me up without getting back to the landlord. Once she signed the contract on the owner’s behalf, I felt secure.
Indeed, within a few days, the landlord did demand to see me. He claimed the house was not rented because he had not approved the agent’s choice. He protested by asking for a larger deposit, which I gave him. Then he threatened to have the agent fired. Fearing he would destroy her career, I offered to relinquish the house to save her job. She, however, was willing to walk away from her job because she wanted me to have the house. I prayed; she insisted we remain.
On the fifth day of these discussions, I returned to the house and opened the curtains. For the first time, I saw an extraordinary view of the countryside, the bay, and the city that inspired me. I knew the space and the view would nurture our family. They would become an inspiration for all the love we could muster. My need for housing had been met.
It has been my experience that there is no free lunch. We are all responsible to work. A productive work ethic is our responsibility, but when there is a glitch and you have faith, all needs are met.
God meets our needs, sometimes in unexpected ways, when we have faith in God as our boss—our protector and provider.
Sixteen
Age Is Just a Number
The early 1990s were an exciting and comfortable time in my life. For the first time, Kellie and I were enjoying abundance. We had developed a good relationship with our church, and we attended every Sunday and often extra activities on weekdays. By 1994, I had earned most of my higher academic degrees and written a critically acclaimed book, Warriors Don’t Cry. Kellie was doing well in her university studies, and I had founded a successful public relations business.
Kellie had recently left for school. I was lonely for her company and the role of mother. I also felt I had too much time on my hands; there must be something more of value for me to do beyond writing, promoting my book, socializing, and working day and night.
I meandered through obligatory committees, church duties, and nonprofit fund-raising galas, but I felt lost. I was not really contributing. I was not doing what Grandma called God’s work. I tried desperately to figure out what that might
be. I felt so lonely and disconnected that I filled the void with meaningless busywork.
Not a day went by that I did not pray for the son, Christopher, I had lost at birth so long ago. Mother had said repeatedly there is no loss in God’s universe. For everything taken, you will receive much more than you ever anticipated in return.
It felt as though I had climbed to the top of a mountain once more, but was it the wrong mountain? Now what? I missed the struggle to achieve, the stress of the professional climb, and especially, I missed being Mom. Friends called me a workaholic as I continued to make lists with ten things still to do. I had faith, but it needed renewal.
One day, I sat in front of the TV, staring at the screen, feeling lost. Suddenly, a face came on the screen that looked very much like my daughter, Kellie. I walked closer to the TV, hypnotized by the face that reminded me of her. I could not contain myself—rushing to the phone, I called to ask for information on the child being offered for adoption.
The person on the other end gasped when I answered her age question by saying, “I am turning fifty on December 7.”
“You cannot qualify,” the voice said.
“You’re wrong,” I replied. “Send me the paperwork,” I demanded. “I have studied law for a year. I know all my rights.”
Her answer startled me. “It’s not one child; it’s a set of three-year-old twins,” she cautioned. “Would you split them up or keep them together? At your age, can you afford to raise two toddlers?”
I filled out the application, and over the next six months, I was concerned about qualifying. I did not mention my application to my daughter, who was attending college in Los Angeles. I went on with my stodgy, robotic life. Then one day I got a call from the agency telling me they had completed the elimination process and four families had qualified. I was one of the four. “We want you to court.”
“Court?” I asked. “What does that mean?”
“It means you show up in three days at this address bringing toys you’ve purchased for the boys.”
I don’t know whether I was serious or just kidding myself and God about this adoption. But the reality of seeing these children stressed me and paralyzed me with fear. Couldn’t I have another five days or a week? Instead, they said I would meet in three days with the current foster mother, “who will introduce you to the children.”
I asked God, “What am I doing? Is this crazy? Please show me which way to go. All my friends say I should not.”
A social worker arrived to question me. She introduced herself by saying her husband said hello. I had worked with him as an intern at a CBS television station during the year I was at San Francisco State University. I accepted his wife’s visit as a positive signal from God that I should move ahead with the adoption.
So I went toy shopping. I was truly taken aback by the prices. The price of toys had quadrupled since I had purchased toys for my now grown-up Kellie. I collected two little Polaroid cameras and two trucks and prepared myself to go and see the boys who might possibly become my sons.
I fell in love with them at first sight. They were like tiny, matching teddy bears, the most gorgeous teddy bears. They were so sad, so dear, and so lost. With a Russian mother and an African American father, they had an exotic appearance. They were much like little old men, edgy, savvy, and a bit rambunctious. They were almost four and had changed foster homes four times. They were aware another change was coming, that they were being looked over, and they looked me over too. Then they asked, “Why are you talking to us? Adults never talk to us.” By the end of the visit, they had my heart. I wanted to take them home, never mind the other three families who had qualified.
I was on edge in the days that followed, praying constantly for the opportunity to raise them. Three visits later, I was told by a social worker I had never met before that I was a new mother. When that word came over the telephone, I was more frightened and more joyful than I could remember. I could hear Grandmother’s words in my head: “Age is just a number. It is not God who attaches labels to us. It is we who burden ourselves with the stereotype linked to numbers.”
In the beginning, many church members rejected me and my boys, saying how content they were to be empty-nest parents. The more time I spent with people who told me I should give the boys back, the more grateful I was for the new energy and purpose in my life. I lost a lot of friends who complained of their toddler exuberance and noise.
I replaced friends by spending time with Barney, Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop, and Mr. Rogers and his neighborhood, all members of the Public Broadcasting Network. I also began to network with the young parents at the playground and at my twins’ school. All my days became new, fresh, and wonderful as I resurrected my mom instincts and learned to collect delicious hugs and tiny, wet kisses. I was so in love that I felt reborn.
With all the education and experience raising Kellie that I had attained by that time, I was able to address their upbringing with dedication and time and without panic. Still, in no way had I anticipated the energy it would take to raise four-year-old twins; least of all could I have anticipated that I would have to consult a therapist to learn that speaking to boys was different from speaking to girls. Yes, boys are different from girls in their thought patterns, even at the earliest stage.
For a time, my life was full of household chores, chasing my boys around, and keeping them in order. I would fall into bed with them before 9:00, totally exhausted. I thought to myself, There must be some place in heaven for me because this is truly God’s most challenging and robust work. Now I understood why God did not usually give toddlers to older people to rear.
Adoption was a life-changing experience. Because of expenses with my boys for therapy and readjustment to family life and their need for private schools, I needed to seek other employment. I became a part-time professor and began earning my doctorate in International Multicultural Education at age fifty-five by going to weekend classes. As a result of that degree, I became a full-time professor. As the boys grew older, I was able to invest in their education and launch their lives. By the publication of this book, they will both be college graduates.
Adopting my twins made me a better Christian, a better teacher, and a better human being. Raising them was a daunting task that tested every aspect of my personhood while providing growth experiences for my body, mind, and spirit. It was an undeniable gift from God.
Not a day goes by that the words of the Bible don’t come to mind: “The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD” (Job 1:21 KJV). I still think of the son I lost more than fifty years ago, but now I also love two images of what he might have been like. I see the twins as God’s gifts, a restoration of the loss I had suffered with the death of Christopher. It is a wonderful opportunity to nurture two of God’s souls.
It took spiritual, physical, and mental growth for me to have the capacity to raise my young men in a way that will give them what they need to compete in the world. They bring forth the best from me and the highest gifts I can endow them with. I pray I have raised my young men to be children of God, Jesus’s disciples.
People point to the fact that my financial situation and health might be better today had I not adopted. I respond to them, “There is nothing to replace the joy, peace, and pride I have in my sons.”
“The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised.” (NIV)
Seventeen
God Is as Close to You as Your Skin
The Presidio of San Francisco offers a vast area of recreation that is extraordinarily beautiful. Its expansive walking path lined with sand dunes stretches seemingly forever along the many views of the bay, which glistens as it rolls out to meet the gray-blue skyline. Sparkling boats with water skiers following and extraordinary ships in the distance paint a picture that cannot be captured in one visit.
On this particular morning, I was taking my five-year-olds, Matty and Evan, for a long walk. It would be a family memo
ry I would hold in my heart forever. They were so happy, pointing out the boats off in the distance and kicking the sand in the path with the toes of their shoes. As they darted back and forth, their glee was almost out of control.
Devoid of people for the most part, the area was splendid in its cleanliness and the pristine way its wooden benches and fauna emerged when one needed them. The one aspect of this trip that made me nervous was people who brought their dogs for a walk and thought it an appropriate place to unleash them.
As a young professor in my thirties and forties, I had walked this pathway a hundred times and enjoyed the scenery with no concern about the animals I saw. But now at age fifty-two, I moved slower and had my twin boys with me. Those dogs seemed much more treacherous because some of them were so much bigger than the twins were.
As the boys circled around me, running at breakneck speed and tumbling in the sand, I warned them repeatedly to stay within my sight. Suddenly, there appeared a dog that caught my attention because of his great size. I wondered whether it was a Great Dane or an Irish Wolfhound but decided on Great Dane because of its short brown hair. I felt my heart start beating rapidly. As I got closer, I saw the dog was even larger than I imagined. He was the size of a small pony.
“Matty, Evan,” I called out loud. I wanted to get them and get away as quickly as possible. I wanted to feel their little hands in my hands. All of a sudden, Evan was skipping toward the dog with his right hand up to greet it. I screamed at him, “Evan, stop!” Then I heard the voice of the owner coming from my right side saying, “Lady, stop. Tell your son to stop. Dante has been trained to hunt and destroy. Be careful. Don’t move. Stay absolutely still.”
What did he mean by that? I had to get my son Evan.
“Lady, grab your other son by the hand and put your hands at your sides and don’t move.”
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