The Con Man's Daughter

by Candice Curry

  I left the food on the stove and raced to the hospital. On the short car ride there, I begged God to spare her life or to give us the peace that passes all understanding if he chose to bring her home. The truth was, if he called her home none of us would be able to find peace. We had already faced more than we should when our dad chose to leave this life by his own hand. After searching the floors of the hospital for what seemed like hours, I finally found my two younger brothers huddled in a room with their mom. Traces of tears were left on all of their faces, and fresh ones were starting to form. I couldn’t decide whether to yell and scream at them or wrap them up and try to comfort them. I knew something like this was coming. She was too out of control and defiant to make wise choices. It wasn’t the single act of getting in the car that day that I was angry about; it was a series of decisions that had put her where she was.

  My brothers and I did our best to smile at each other and hug without sobbing. Victoria’s the baby of the family, the one we all try to protect like lions. She’s the one we tried to keep small and not allow to grow up or face the hard parts of life. But here we were, sitting helplessly in a waiting room, unable to see or protect her in any way.

  After we settled down and went over the details of what was going on with our sister and what we might be looking at when she got out of surgery, my stepmom leaned in close to whisper something to me. Though the others already knew what she was going to say, she whispered it in an effort to make it not real.

  “Her friend didn’t make it.”

  “Oh God, she’s just a child. Does Victoria know?”

  “Not yet.”

  The Lord called her friend, the passenger in the car, home the moment they hit the tree. The Lord called her home on her eighteenth birthday. She was celebrating her birth the day she died.

  What my family had to face sitting in that room that day was nothing compared to what the other little girl’s family was facing in the small room where they gathered. After her surgery, we comforted my sister and once again had to tell her that a precious person in her life had been tragically taken away from her.

  My sister recovered from the wounds she suffered in the wreck but not from the loss of her friend. Her loneliness consumed her. No one could possibly understand the dark places in her heart or the burdens that weighed her down. Our efforts to bring sunshine and happiness to her only made her recoil to deeper and darker places. Her addiction spiraled completely out of control within months, and she left us no other choice but to seek help from professionals who understood her pain in ways we couldn’t. She spent the summer between her sophomore and junior year of high school many states away from us in a dual diagnosis facility where she was treated for PTSD and addiction. It was a lonely place for a sixteen-year-old. Even though I knew it was the best thing for her, it wrecked my heart to have her gone. I had failed at saving her. Unlike protecting her from our father in his custody hearing, I had no one to save her from this time. She needed saving from herself, and I wasn’t capable of doing that for her. She had to face this without me, and as desperately as I wanted to run to her and fix everything that was broken, I left her there.

  Her sadness and loneliness brought up old wounds for me. I started to feel resentment for my dad that I thought I had long let go of. This time I wasn’t hurt for what he had put me through. I was hurt for what he was putting her through even in his absence. I knew that she was desperate for the true love of a father. I knew she wanted to be loved like a little girl should be loved. It confused and hurt her. She built a wall. I knew the wall all too well. I had built my own and spent many years behind it. I wasn’t capable of saving her, but I begged God to give me a way to tear down her wall before it completely destroyed her.

  Full-Circle Redemption

  Every day I begged God to help her. I asked him to use me however he needed as long as she would be okay. I didn’t know what was going to happen to her or if God even wanted to use me in her recovery. I just wanted her to heal. While she was far away from me, I pulled down the box that held our dad’s belongings. I had gone through it hundreds of times. I had gone through it every single day for almost a year after his passing, checking to see if I missed anything. I had his driver’s license, social security card, and Sam’s Club membership all tucked away in his wallet, the very wallet they had taken from the back pocket of the jeans he was wearing the day he died. I had his autopsy report, a portion of his ashes, and his reading glasses. But something was drawing me back to that box, so I balanced myself on a chair and pulled it down. I thumbed through his death certificate and several other papers that I refused to throw away and came upon his small black wallet. It was soft from years of use and the leather was cracked in several places. My hands shook violently and tears streamed down my face, completely out of my control. It happened every time I went through the contents of what he left behind that day in room 101. My head always told me not to look at them, to put them away and let them be. But my heart needed the closure, and it had failed to get it. I tortured myself with those items more than I should have. Even though I had read every word on every paper, license, or club card, I reread them each time I opened his wallet.

  I carefully set his wallet on my desk and got up and shut the door to my office so that my kids wouldn’t accidently walk in and see how pathetic their mother is. The wallet was once again heavily weighted in my hand, and I felt something sturdy behind one of the pockets. I pried my fingers in it like a can opener. I felt something that I hadn’t noticed before. Barely able to grip it with my fingers, I wedged out a laminated picture. Looking back at me was a set of chubby cheeks and the sweet smile of my sister in her third-grade picture. It made me want to reach through the picture and touch her precious face. I would give everything to erase the years between that picture and now so that she could still wear the innocent smile that didn’t know the hurts she would one day face. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her face and then, like a ton of bricks, it hit me: I’ve never been the little girl in my father’s pocket.

  It’s always been my sister.

  She’s always been the one.

  She’s his love.

  She’s his little girl.

  My hand once fit inside his pocket, but she’s the one that belonged there. My picture wasn’t in that worn leather wallet—it probably never was—but I’ve never been so thankful as I was to see her face that day. She gets to be his little girl forever. Her relationship with him ended with her adoring him and him adoring her. That’s her story with him. My story with him looks vastly different, and I’m at peace with that. I don’t want her story to mimic mine. I want her to have a story that is more beautiful than anything I could ever write. It gives me great comfort to know that all along he really did have the ability to love his little girl, even if that little girl wasn’t me.

  It is not me.

  It never was.

  It is she.

  It always will be.

  She’s the little girl in my father’s pocket.

  I sat my gentle husband down that night, terrified to even have the audacity to ask him to make a choice that would not only change the dynamics of our family but change our lives on a daily basis. My request carried a heavy weight, and I knew it would take more out of all of us than we would be prepared for. It wasn’t going to be easy. It was going to be the right thing, at least for a little girl who needed what we had to offer.

  “We have to help my sister. She needs me. She needs us.”

  “We’ll do whatever we need to do.”

  “But she needs to come live with us.”

  “Then tell her this is now her home.”

  “But do we have room for her?”

  “We’ll make room.”

  “It’s not going to be easy at all; it’s going to be very hard.”

  “We have five kids in our home, what’s one more? It won’t be easy but it will be what’s best for her. Tell her this is her new home.”

  It’s strange to s
ay that my dad’s suicide and my sister’s fall from grace were perfect timing, but had it happened before Brandon and I knew Christ, nothing would look the way it does now. We wouldn’t have the courage or capacity to love and care for my sister. When people find out that my response to my dad’s suicide is that it has become one of my biggest blessings, they always look shocked. But it’s true. Something happened after that day that gave Brandon and me a new outlook on life. We saw how short it can be and how easily tomorrow can be taken away. It opened our eyes to what happens when you hold a grudge or stand in stubbornness. It changed us. My dad’s suicide, although tragic and devastating, gave me courage and taught me how to be a better and stronger person.

  After several family therapy meetings and many private one-on-ones with counselors, a mutual and loving decision was made between me and my husband and Victoria’s mom and stepdad. We agreed that our home would be her home. We all knew that, for the time being, it would be the best place for her. The day she walked out of rehab, my husband and I became her guardians. At the sweet and vulnerable age of sixteen, my sister unpacked her bags in her new room at our home, the one we vowed to raise our children in.

  Even if only for the blink of an eye, for two short years I get to parent my little sister in a way that our father couldn’t. I get to wake her up every morning and see her off to school. I get to listen to her stories at dinner and kiss her goodnight. My husband not only gets to be her brother-in-law, but he also gets to set an example for her of what a father’s love should look like. He gets to model the behavior of a husband and teach her what to look for in her husband. Just for a moment, we get to stand in the gap my dad left behind. Each day she gets to look at me for some trace amount of our dad and gets to experience all the good stuff about him in the reflection of my eyes. I get to be the start of God’s redemption story in her life, and I thank him every day for the redemption story in mine. I get to raise the little girl in my father’s pocket.

  Epilogue

  God doesn’t make mistakes. He takes the hurts and the messes and redeems them to make this crazy life into something raw and usable. Giving my life to him changed everything about me and how I see the world. I’m going to walk through many fires in my life, there’s no doubt about it. I lived most of my life with a selfish pride. It wasn’t considered cool to claim God as my Father, and I honestly believed he was ashamed of me. I thought I was protecting myself by building a huge wall and not letting anyone see the struggle behind it. I thought I could make it through alone.

  But then Jesus.

  My sweet Jesus.

  How could someone possibly love me so much that he was willing to give his life for me? He knew me the day he took my sins on as his own and willingly carried his cross to the top of the hill. I can’t imagine a love like that. I don’t possess it for anyone, not myself or my family. I’m incapable of a love like the one he has for me, but I will spend the rest of my life trying to honor it.

  I’ll never be good enough to be worthy of what he did for me or what he does in my life every day. That’s not what being a believer is about. That’s a hard lesson to accept. It’s almost impossible for me to truly grasp the fact that God can look on me and claim me as his. But he does. He uses my greatest hurts to show others how big his love is. I think that’s the most beautiful thing about my life.

  I finally came to a place of peace, not because everything all worked out but because there’s this strange thing that comes with being a follower of Jesus. I know the path leads to him, and I will gladly embrace the dirt on my feet along the way. It may not be comfortable or smooth walking, but in the end it’s worth it. I want to spend the rest of my life honoring God, who chose to use my messes for good. I want to teach my kids to be servants and pour out love where love is needed. I want to take all the years that I spent consumed with my own hurts and somehow use them to help heal the hurts of others.

  My worth was never held in my dad’s hands, and no matter how hard I tried I was never going to find it here on earth. My worth was always in the palm of my heavenly Father’s hands and always will be. Nothing that I went through while trying to sort through my life was a waste. God used every ounce of it to redeem my story and, hopefully, show others what it looks like to be his child.

  None of our stories are pointless. None of us are a mistake. None of us are worthless. Every season of our lives serves a purpose. Even when we are walking through the fires of life, his plan is always perfect and always leads to redemption. His love for us is beyond anything we will ever be able to understand here on earth. But it is real, and it is ours.

  Acknowledgments

  Brandon Curry—Thank you for letting me be me and loving me unconditionally. Thank you for trusting me to tell our story and for never trying to edit what our mess looked like. Thank you for being my strong foundation.

  Victoria Snell—Thank you for showing me what real strength looks like. Thank you for sneaking peeks at our story and encouraging me along the way. Thank you for letting me tell Dad’s story honestly, no matter how painful it may be. Thank you for allowing me to be your sister and stand-in mother.

  Heather Knell—You’ve always been the sunshine in my life. You know my deepest and ugliest scars, and you still tell me I’m beautiful. You praise me even when I haven’t earned it. You saw in me what I couldn’t see in myself. Over all these years you’ve never left me. You’re my person. I adore everything about you and am so thankful that God gifted you to me.

  Lisa Snell—When your best friend becomes your sister and her kids are your niece and nephew, there’s no explanation other than God is the coolest. Thank you for letting me kick and scream at you through this entire process. Thank you for never walking away even when my mess was more than most people would accept.

  To my kids—I’m just a shell without each of you. You are the reason I can see God in all the little things through life. You are my beginning and end. Thank you for simply being you and giving me my reason to be better.

  Jana Burson, my agent—I can only imagine that you get a little nervous each time you put me on a conference call with important people. Thank you for embracing my lack of a filter and need to insert comedy into every detail. Thank you for your unending patience through this entire process and for having complete faith that God’s timing is perfect. Together we have seen firsthand how he has worked this whole thing out, and it’s been nothing short of amazing. Thank you for taking a chance on the crazy Christian who had a story to tell. I owe you a big bowl of chips and salsa with a side of queso.

  Rebekah Guzman, my editor—You have the patience of a saint. Thank you for the massive amounts of grace you have given me and for showing me how to be a better writer. Thank you for not only guiding me through edits but also giving me heavy doses of encouragement along the way. I didn’t expect to gain such a talented and loving friend through this, but God is just cool like that.

  Baker Publishing—Thank you for letting me share my story. I hope I make you proud.

  Candice Curry is a born and raised Texas girl. She is Brandon’s wife of ten years and together they are raising their children to love the Lord, be kind, and give back. They are the parents of four daughters and a son and, just when they thought they were done having kids, they welcomed Candice’s teenage sister into their home as one of their own. Several years ago Candice put her faith in God’s plan for her life and gave up her career in sales to stay at home with the children and share her faith through speaking and writing. Her dream is to one day own an ice cream truck and travel around Texas selling ice cream and French fries while spreading her love for Jesus. Candice started her blog, Women with Worth, in 2011 as a form of therapy after losing her dad. She uses her space in the blog world to write about anything and everything that is on her heart.

  CandiceCurry.com

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