by Jen Bricker
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My VIPs
My Best Friend: Krine McDaniel
Jen is not like the rest of us. She is from somewhere else, somewhere suspended in air, which makes her profession so fitting.
She always knew how to pinpoint happiness in her life and re-create similar moments. She didn’t believe we needed eight-hour school days. It literally made her laugh to think we were there for so long each day. After we each got our driver’s licenses, we would skip study hall and extend our lunch break by about forty-five minutes. We would drive to the next town, have great conversation on the way, then go to a Chinese buffet and eat and laugh until our extended lunch was over. That was happiness, and Jen created it. It was simple for her: “Do what you love with the people you love, and know that you are fortunate.”
What Jen does physically is incredible. But who Jen is as a person and the way her brain works is what is really astronomical.
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My mom went out onto the stage and talked with Maury, and then I came out. Maury asked a lot of questions, mostly about how I got to be so good at sports and tumbling. I chatted with him like he was sitting in my living room—I felt perfectly natural in front of a live audience and thousands of TV viewers. People ask me all the time how I learned to be such a good public speaker. I have always been able to do it with ease, and a lot of times, especially when I’m talking about faith and trying to lift people up, I feel like God is speaking through me. It truly is a gift I was born with. While my classmates stumbled and stuttered over oral presentations or stared down at their feet, I could wax poetic on most topics and look folks straight in the eye. Maury shook my hand; he was impressed. I was pretty poised for a little girl from a small town.
Then that was that. I went back home, back to being me. I made other TV appearances—one on the talk show Arabella in Munich, Germany, when I was thirteen, and I also gave interviews with newspapers and magazines all over the world. I was nervous to go to Germany at first because I’d never been outside of the United States and wasn’t sure how foreigners would react to me. I remember people staring more than I was used to. It really bothered my dad, but not me so much. I was too excited about being somewhere new. But I do remember once we were in a German mall and a woman became so distracted staring at me that she almost fell down an escalator!
When I got back to school, some of my classmates were a bit standoffish, and I couldn’t figure out why. I had always had so many friends, but now I felt like an outcast. After lots of frustration and hurt and talking to my mom, I realized they were jealous of the things happening in my life. One appearance led to another, and I was becoming something of a local celebrity. For a while my peers held it against me. I get it: I was doing things they’d never dreamed of. I was getting all sorts of attention and privileges. I understood why they were reacting the way they were, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.
“I don’t think I want to do this,” I told my mom.
“If you can help one person and change one person’s life, then it’s worth it,” she insisted.
I let that sink in for a while. Why? I wanted to know. Why should I do this? Why does it have to be my job, my responsibility? It wasn’t until years later that I was finally ready to accept that responsibility and realize that I did have something important to say. I don’t ever travel around holding microphones, being on stages, or performing in front of audiences because I think I’m “so awesome.” I don’t do it for the glory or the fame or the money. I don’t tell people, “Here are ten steps to happiness. Just follow what I do, and you’ll be happy forever!” That would be saying I have it all figured out—and I don’t. I believe this is what I was born to do. The reason my roller coaster of a life has had so many interesting twists and turns and ups and downs is so I can share those experiences with others. The reason I’ve been given a platform is to share my heart, my stories, my passions, and my love in order to have a (hopefully) positive impact on others.
You too have talents, gifts, and abilities (I like to think of them as your personal superpowers) you were born with that are unique to you. They are equally as important—and abundant—as mine or anybody else’s. The beauty of how God made us is that we don’t have to be jealous of someone else’s superpowers, because they weren’t meant for us. This is one thing I would tell you to keep in your back pocket at all times: know that you are significant, you do matter, and what you have to offer is powerful. How powerful? Just like I do, you have a platform and an audience. Just think about the people you interact with every day: your co-workers, your family, your significant other, your kids. They’re watching you, noting what you do and don’t do. We all have an opportunity every day to have a positive impact on the lives of others in both big and small ways.
My mom has always kept a journal—stacks of them with every page filled. Every night while I was growing up, she’d sit in her chair in the living room and write away. Then one day she handed me a blank one of my own. “One day you’ll thank me,” she said.
Okay, Mom. Here’s what you’ve been waiting for all these years: you were right. That journal became a place for me to write about my feelings and work out my frustrations. I wrote when I was ticked off at something and/or someone, when I had a crush on someone, when I was confused or afraid or simply lost. She knew the words would come easily, and I would never ask, “Why me?” I feel like God is the real author of this book. He’s giving me the insight and the experience and the words to explain how and why He has shaped my life.
Writing a book was a choice I had to make, to allow God to take me to and through this place. God shows us the opportunities and puts them in our path, but we have to be strong enough to grab them and then hold on for all our worth. My family says I’ve always been stubborn as a mule, and I can’t help but think maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all.
BELIEVE IT!
God Has a Plan for You
Giving up control is not easy, especially for a control freak like me. But I’ve learned that the more I surrender and let God take care of things, the better off I am. I get out of my own way, I get out of His way, and then I let Him do His work. Because I have allowed Him in, I have more peace now than I have ever had in my entire life. I have given more and more areas of my life to Him, trusting that His plan and His way are the way for me. My dreams are laughable when compared with God’s plans for my life! His gifts, ideas, and blessings are so much bigger and better than anything I could possibly imagine! All because I let Him drive and stopped trying to grab the wheel every five seconds. It was humbling to realize that I might actually not know what is best, even for myself. I am and always will be a work in progress: always teachable, always growing, and always trusting that God will never steer me wrong.
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CHAPTER THREE
Can’t Is a 4-Letter Word
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Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.
—Proverbs 3:5–6
I thought a lot about my future from my perch in my backyard apple tree. I’ve always been an old soul who likes quiet contemplation. I remember sitting up in that tree, listening to the sounds of the crickets chirping and birds singing and leaves rustling. I could feel the wind in my face and smell the scent of fresh-cut grass wafting in the air as the sun gently warmed my skin. Being so tiny, I also loved being up high, looking down on the world from a totally different vantage point. It was a place where I could breathe, where I could take in God’s miracles without being distracted. I spent hours and hours in those branches, sometimes so relaxed and happy I’d fall asleep. As I grew older, it became my pondering place, a spot where I could read, write, and reconnect with my feelings. A place where I somehow felt closer to God, physically because I was high up and spiritually because my soul was so at peace there.
Clearly, I get my way of thinking—and my appreciation of the simpl
e things in life—from my parents. They are blue-collar, easy-going, plain-living, salt-of-the-earth people who don’t know how to take no for an answer.
My mom was one of eight children, the second to the youngest with four older brothers. She learned from a very young age how to wear many hats. She led a cooking, cleaning, sewing, grow-your-own-food, catch-chickens-for-your-meat-and-eggs type of childhood. She was taught to always work and provide for herself and her loved ones—laziness was not an option. One of her first jobs was working the line at the Heath factory, which is now the Hershey factory, in Robinson, Illinois. Her mom was a homemaker, and her dad worked at the local pottery factory. It was a true small-town Midwestern upbringing in the ’50s—the stuff Norman Rockwell portraits are made of.
My mother had recently broken off an engagement to be married and was essentially over the idea of dating when she met my father. He was twenty-seven at the time, somewhat rough around the edges, and a looker. Like my mom, he came from a large family—he was the baby of eleven kids! He moved around constantly as a child, from one place to the next, because his dad liked to experience different places, and his mom followed suit. They landed in St. Marie, Illinois, where my dad went to high school and his dad owned a bar. My dad started working when he was just nine or ten years old and fully supported his family at seventeen. He was a “pumper,” one of the men who checked the wells for Marathon Oil.
Both my parents wore a lot of hand-me-downs and did hard labor, but they learned the value of a strong work ethic and a deep love and appreciation for family. No matter what, family came first. This philosophy became the backbone of my childhood. Anything worth having is worth working hard for. Nothing can stand in your way if you have people who love you on your side. My parents always told me to be my authentic self, never to try to impress anyone or put on airs—just be who I am because that was the way God made me. My dad is rock solid and consistent. He doesn’t care if you’re the pope or the president, he isn’t going to put on an act or be anything other than himself in his button-up flannel shirt and jeans. He’d give you that shirt off his back if you asked him, and I’ve never seen him pass someone stranded on the side of the road without stopping to help. Growing up with kind people like my parents for role models, I naturally developed a giving heart and an expectation that people should help one another.
As I grew up, I kept asking my parents, “What do you want me to do or be?” The only answer I ever got was “We want you to be happy.” Come on, guys, give me a clue! Many of my friends’ parents had strict plans and rules for them. Mine let me be me and make my own choices and mistakes. They gave me the power to have my own mind and my own dreams. They raised me to be strong and to stand behind my convictions. They had absolutely 100 percent faith in me, and that helped me feel the same way about myself. They let me be who God made me to be, not who they wanted me to be or thought I should be. They didn’t believe in doing things because others did and never were impressed by money or titles or status. They were impressed by work ethic, character, empathy, honesty, and how you treat others. They never missed a sporting event, a school recital, or a church program I was in. Ever. Those things mattered to both of them. Family mattered. My brothers are the same way. They are very involved dads, braiding their girls’ hair and painting their nails. Cooking. My parents did a great job raising all of us!
For the longest time, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I loved animals, especially dogs, and was set on pursuing this career until I realized part of the job was putting animals down when they were old or sick. I didn’t have the heart. I could never kill a living creature. Then I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. My parents always told me I was good at arguing, so I figured I’d be a natural. I’d seen the movie Legally Blonde and could envision myself before a jury being “legally brunette” and rocking a pink suit. Then I heard how many years law school is . . . pass! Patience has never been my strongest virtue.
My next career goal was fashion—either a personal shopper or a buyer or an editor for a cool Christian fashion magazine that inspires and uplifts women instead of objectifying them. I was going to go to a community college after high school, then fashion school. But God had other plans for me. For the record, I might revisit this goal one day down the road, because I believe someone should create a magazine without Photoshop and airbrushing that shows real women in a realistic light. I also thought I might be a shoe designer—how hilarious is that? I was obsessed with shoes and thought I’d be able to create some serious shoe art with wild and unique designs. My mom always jokes that she never could have afforded me if I could have worn shoes—the Brickers would be bankrupt. I am, however, a shoe enabler. Anyone who goes shopping with me is not leaving the mall without buying at least a few pairs.
Living without Limits
Sometimes the only thing that could get me to come down from my perch in my tree was to tell me the Olympics were on TV. One day I was completely absorbed in the gymnastics competition when I turned to my parents and announced, “I’m going to be an Olympic gymnast when I grow up.” There was a brief pause, then they nodded. “Wow, okay,” they said. To them it was okay. They would never dissuade me even if the idea seemed far-fetched. I used to think they were pretty crazy, but now I realize they were always ten steps ahead of any wild plan I could dream up. They always saw the potential in me. They always believed I would live an extraordinary life that defied all odds. They taught me how to look past my circumstances. They taught me to be brave, for which I will be forever grateful. A life without fear is a life without limits.
I was six years old the first time I saw Dominique Moceanu on TV. It felt like a lightbulb went off in my head: Aha! I want to be like her. She was tiny; I was tiny. She was fiery; I was fiery. She was born to Romanian parents; I knew I was born to Romanian parents. We even looked alike, with the same tan skin, huge dark eyes, and thick jet-black hair. I was drawn to her but couldn’t say why. I remember a poster in my gym of the Magnificent Seven, Dominique’s 1996 US Olympic gymnastics team, and one of her on the beam. I told myself, “One day, that will be me.”
I’m not sure what it was about tumbling that appealed to me, but I do know I was always attracted to activities that required strength, technique, and focus. I also loved the speed and sensation of flying across a room. I felt like I had been shot out of a cannon. From the time I was in second grade, the gym at Beth Allen Power Tumbling was my second home. At that time, the gym was in Newton, which was about twenty minutes away from my house. I didn’t complain though, because there was a Hardee’s on the way, and I got to eat hot ham-and-cheese sandwiches (they used the white cheese instead of the yucky orange cheese, which made me so happy) on the way home. I might have loved those sandwiches as much as I loved learning how to power tumble. I wasn’t in that building long before Beth moved her business to a gym that was conveniently located by my school. But no more ham-and-cheese sandwiches!
When my mom first called Beth, she explained my fascination with gymnastics and asked her if she’d take me on as a student.
“Sure, we can try,” Beth said. “But honestly, I’ve never helped anyone like that. Let’s see what she can do.”
I wanted to do it all. My very first day, I did a forward roll. I had such drive and passion for tumbling, there was no stopping me. The gym had a Tumbl Trak, one beam, some floor mats, and a long rod spring floor that we competed on. Between the track and the rod floor were rainbow-colored mats where we would practice handstands, cartwheels, and round offs. We used to have handstand contests to see who could hold a handstand the longest. Big surprise, I always won! I could stand on my hands for hours if I had to. When it came to tumbling, I didn’t need as much of a running start as other kids—why waste time when I could just get down to it?
“I want to do a back handspring,” I told my coaches one day. I could tell Beth was a little unsure. It was not an easy move, even for a kid with legs. But I was determined and wouldn’t even let them spot me. I never let anyo
ne spot me for the longest time, and I’m not sure why. I just wanted to take on the challenge all by myself, to prove to myself I could do it without anyone’s help. Looking back, it was crazy—I could have killed myself! But I was strong-willed and stubborn. I hated feeling needy.
I remember I also didn’t like my mom watching, so I would ask her to leave, especially when I was working on something new. I was pretty hard on myself. If I didn’t perfect something immediately, I would pitch a fit. My coaches, Beth and Karen, always had to remind me that I was human.
“Practice makes perfect,” they’d tell me. But I wanted to be perfect right out of the gate. If they said I did something well, I didn’t accept that either. I had to feel it was good, and not just good for me, but good for any able-bodied gymnast.
My biggest challenge was getting the height other gymnasts with legs could achieve. As my skills grew, height became exceedingly important for mastering the more complicated moves. I couldn’t get the height on the rod floor to do a full rotation of a full twist, and it was holding me back from going up in levels. But I never allowed anyone to give me special treatment—ever. I just stayed at the level I was at because I didn’t want to advance by having people make exceptions for me.
Most of my fellow athletes accepted and respected me. I had only one incident in the four years I competed. One of the girls I competed with called a meeting with her mom and the coach. She didn’t think it was fair that I was placing higher than her—how could that be possible when she had legs and I didn’t? Legs or no legs, I was just better than she was. But she and her mom didn’t want to hear it. Also, audience members occasionally stared at me when they saw me on the sidelines, but for the most part, everyone was extremely positive and encouraging. When people did stare, I didn’t notice them too much. I was too focused on the competition.