One afternoon a neighbor knocked on our door. Anticipating our miracle, we ran to see our bounty. “Grew them myself,” the woman proclaimed, handing my mother a box. “Bless you. Bless you,” my mother gushed. One peek and I nearly fainted. Her blessing was nothing more than a dozen white turnips! To make matters worse, the woman reappeared, week after week, with another batch. And night after night, I’d struggle to swallow her abundance. We ate so many turnips that year, they came out our ears! Yes, I’ll forever bless the woman, sent by God, who saved us from going hungry, but to this day if I smell a turnip, I get sick to my stomach. There’s only one word to describe a turnip—and that’s nasty. (Even Momma agrees with me on that one!)
Through it all, we never grew tired of thanking God for our music. It was, and would remain, the bright, shiny lining of our lives for many years to come. Without it, I shudder to think what would have become of us. One of the most profound lessons my parents taught me through those years was the blessing of singing through our tears. Every note of melody held the power of hope, joy, and prayer. It was our lifeline, and we held on with both hands, especially when our family’s ship started sailing toward new horizons.
Barely settled in DeSoto, our family suddenly left for Colorado, where Daddy had been offered a ministry job. I started first grade there, but for reasons I never knew, we packed up the car and moved back to north Texas a short time later, hovering for a bit in the town of Blossom, where some of Daddy’s kin lived. The Campbell Soup factory was about ten miles away, and Daddy quickly got hired. But that wasn’t enough to keep us settled. By 1969, as I was entering second grade, we were on the move again. This time it was seven miles down the road to Detroit. What exactly was my father looking for? I wondered.
“These are good people with kind hearts,” Daddy declared shortly after we arrived, which proved to be true enough, but I suspect the fact that my Granny lived there, not to mention that my Uncle Joe owned the Detroit Superette—the only store in town—may have helped to sway his decision.
And just like that, our nomadic existence came to an end. Before long, Daddy bought a small farm and started selling insurance. I’d like to say it was like being led into the promised land, but it wasn’t quite like that.
CHAPTER THREE
“Pain is pain; it doesn’t matter where it comes from.”
Two things happened shortly after we moved to Detroit. The first was the birth of my sister, Julie. She was cute, tiny, and loud! My seven-year-old heart nearly burst with pride. Finally, I would have a sister with whom I could share my secrets, though it would be a few years before she’d understand what I was telling her. The second wasn’t such a joyful event.
Although I had my music, a new baby sister, and loving parents, a thick fog of sadness descended on me at times that made me long for my grandparents and the cousins I had left behind in Irving. Even riding my new horse, Peppermint, or running through the open fields behind our house couldn’t erase the homesickness that swept through my heart. In my childish wisdom, I decided there was only one solution: I’d run away. My plan had a few holes in it, but I didn’t see them until it was too late.
If I could just reach the pay phone in town, I knew I could call my grandparents. “Please, come take me away,” I intended to beg, never doubting that they’d rescue me. I set off at a good pace, but steps from home, I realized I couldn’t use the phone in town because one of my neighbors would surely see me. And in our close-knit southern community, that meant someone would call and tell my momma.
No problem, I told myself. I’ll just walk the seven miles to the next town.
There was no lack of determination on my part to get what I wanted. Two blocks from home, though, one entire family spotted me from their front porch.
“Hey, Dianna, where you goin’?” cried the mother, her teeth sparkling like stars against her dark skin.
“Oh, I’m just run’n’ away from home,” I told her, knowing that if I told a lie, I’d get into more trouble.
“Why, you best turn yo’self around and get back to your momma,” she said, all the while shaking her finger like a stick as the crowd around her nodded in agreement.
So I did. I knew there was no use trying to get any farther; she’d just send one of her kids to find my mother. And unlike people today, my mother never would have told the woman to mind her own business. Keeping an eye on one another was a neighborly duty. And that duty cost me dearly. When Daddy walked through the door that night, I knew what was coming.
“Go to your room,” he demanded.
It was a different era, one in which corporal punishment was the norm. In our house, it was also coupled with the biblical logic of “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” My momma even carried a paddle in her purse, so that all she had to do was pull it out and look at us and we’d know to straighten up. I was part of a generation that both loved and feared their parents. When we did wrong, we knew we were “going to get it!” And that day was no exception.
When Daddy would walk into my room, which was always full of other kids—neighbors, cousins, and eventually my other siblings—everyone would see the belt dangling from his hand and scatter. It’s quite comical to look back on it now, but at the time, my mind went into complete panic mode. With that dear-God-please-help-me expression plastered on my face, the crowd of onlookers would stare back, all bug-eyed, before running for the doorway. The logjam, as they tried to exit, was a mass of waving arms and legs as each one pushed their way into the hall. No one wanted to stick around.
“You know this is going to hurt me more than it does you,” Daddy always said.
Are you serious? I’d hear in my head. I’m pretty sure it WON’T.
One. Two. Three. With each strike, my mind revolted against what was happening. I was terrified. Outraged. And indignant. My father’s good intentions to purge me of disrespect and misbehavior did nothing of the sort. Instead, my will to prove that I was in control, not my father, grew stronger. That didn’t stop me from crying out in pain (often before the belt even hit my skin) in hopes that if I cried loud enough, Daddy would think I’d had enough punishment for one day. He rarely took the bait, so when he finished and walked away, I’d stare at his backside wondering why he disliked me so much. He didn’t, of course. It was just my mind trying to make sense of two strong-willed people with opposite ideas about the parameters of discipline and obedience.
Ten minutes later, wounded and tearful, I’d be asked to come out of my room and join everyone at the table like nothing had happened. Then I’d listen to Daddy say grace over the food. “Lord, bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies…” My fiery temper simmered with resentment and the sting of disappointment grew more intense over time. I was Daddy’s girl, and I didn’t want that to slip away, yet my very existence seemed to plague him in ways that confounded me.
Not everyone reacted to the “whippin’s” we got like I did. In fact, my brother Joey was once given the ultimatum of Daddy’s belt or giving up his rifle for a year, and he didn’t waste a second thinking about which was worse. “I’ll take the whippin’,” he shouted. But I would have parted with my right arm before consenting to my father’s punishments.
Truth was, aside from his punishments, I adored my father. Still do. He has always been a good man—a loving, hardworking provider for his family—and I know he loved me as much then as he does now. But something about being punished flipped a switch inside my brain. By sixth grade, I was striving so hard to be good … be perfect … be loved … that eventually I developed an eating disorder. Those same inner mantras that pushed me to excel in sports, academics, and music also drove me to starve myself. Perfection became my goal, and every effort to attain it reinforced my thinking that if I just worked hard enough, I could earn the love and support—from my parents, from the community, and from God—that I so desperately wanted. Dinnertime seemed like a good place to start.
Always the last to finish eating, I had to clean up after everyon
e else was excused, which provided the perfect opportunity to brush most of my meal right into the trashcan. By my early teens, food was so distasteful to me that every morsel got stuck in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. As odd as it sounds, the minute someone said, “You’re too thin,” a choir of angels started singing in my head, confirming that I was on the right path toward being loved and admired by everyone around me.
My eating habits became my own dark secret, and one that I would carry with me for many, many years. Obscured in my darkness were factors I couldn’t even imagine—such as genetic tendencies toward eating disorders that ran in my family and the poor example I’d be setting for my children in the future. Becoming aware of all that would take decades. And a good deal of therapy.
* * *
I still don’t understand all the forces that drove me to stop eating at such a young age, but I do know that I felt compelled to be perfect. Perfection seemed to be the only way I could avoid my father’s wrath and escape the clutches of hell. At the same time, though, I loved my independent spirit and pursuit of adventure. With no bridge to link such opposite pursuits, limiting my food intake offered me the sense of control I needed to juggle the yin and yang of my existence. It was a way of focusing on a solution rather than the problems that were causing so much anxiety. More important, it put me in the driver’s seat of my life.
Before long, I viewed my eating restrictions as a badge of honor that boasted of self-control. With every lost pound, I felt more perfect … more admired … and more beautiful. Somehow, all my twisted logic got bundled into the hope that someday I’d look and act just like those glamorous stars filling the pages of the glossy magazines I liked to read.
Let me be clear. I don’t blame my parents, the church, or God. It’s just the way I was wired. No one forced or coerced me into an eating disorder. I chose that behavior to ease my own inner turbulence. It wasn’t a wise decision. But without safe avenues to express the confusion inside of me, the stress eventually affected my thinking, my behavior, and my health.
Thanks to new research, the medical and social-service communities are finally beginning to recognize that traumatic events in childhood—everything from the death of a parent to living in poverty, from being punished to being bullied or witnessing domestic violence—can damage mental health and even change brain development.
But we didn’t acknowledge this back in the ’60s, ’70s, or even ’80s. Had it been a different time, someone might have suggested I seek professional help or at least talk about my feelings with my parents, but issues like that weren’t discussed back then. It was all on me to find a way to deal with the troubling thoughts in my mind, and I did that by hiding, alleviating, and ignoring my emotions. Act like everything is perfect, I told myself. And I became quite good at it, no matter what was happening in my life.
CHAPTER FOUR
“It was like a baby parade—they just kept coming.”
According to the church, children are a blessing from the Lord. And, my, oh my, how we were blessed. Two years after my sister Julie arrived, Kathy appeared, and the year after that, we welcomed Brandon, another brother. It was like a baby parade—they just kept coming. As the eldest daughter, my responsibilities multiplied with each new addition, especially after Momma decided she wanted to take some college classes and pursue a degree in home economics. Although I still had a dream of becoming a star, I threw myself into caring for my siblings like I was mother of the year. I soothed sore tummies, changed diapers, and prepared bottles like a pro. So familiar with my siblings, I learned to read their moods better than my parents. It was training I’d eventually put to good use.
Looking back, it’s hard to picture all of us squeezed into a two-bedroom house, but that’s how it was. Much like a dormitory, the girls slept in bunk beds on one side of the room while the boys slept on the other side. Thankfully, the bedroom door always stayed open, which afforded me the nightly pleasure of hearing Johnny Carson’s voice floating through the air before I fell asleep as my father watched his show. It was a ritual I grew to love.
Although our family may have been constrained by tight finances and strict religious rules, we also enjoyed our share of good times. One thing is certain: Two adults and five children under one roof made life interesting. Every aspect of those growing-up years—the good as well as the bad—shaped and defined me in countless ways. By the time I was a teenager, the tapestry of my life was full of colorful threads. Sturdy, blue cotton strands, born from the grit of survival, reinforced with my parents’ philosophies of “work hard, don’t give up, and do your best.” The bright red and orange patterns reminded me that love and laughter were sprinkled on our days to lighten the load. But it was the bold, purple threads of faith, spun from years of reading the Bible, praising God through music, and expecting miracles, that tied all the other components of my life together. For us, faith was more than just a set of beliefs, more than a set of rules. God was very real and tangible, especially when our prayers were answered in magnificent ways.
One evening when my brother Brandon was just a baby, he rolled across the kitchen floor in his walker. No one thought much about the deep fryer, sitting on the counter. As Brandon cooed and smiled, we clapped and made funny faces at him. Momma was behind the counter and so was Daddy. For a moment I was lost in the heady aroma of my mother’s fried chicken, but something made me look at my father, just as he placed a quick kiss on Momma’s cheek. The intimacy of the gesture made me flush with a warm, fuzzy feeling.
Someone, maybe it was Julie, suggested a silly game, and we all joined in. Voices fired from every direction. “Over here, Brandon.” “No, no, over here,” shouted another. But Brandon had other ideas. He ignored our pleas and headed straight for the electrical outlet, where a cord dangled like a magic snake. None of us could stop him before he gleefully pulled that cord, causing the fryer to topple over and unleash a stream of hot, bubbling oil that cascaded over his head and face.
Brandon screamed and so did my mother. Horrified, we watched as Momma grabbed our baby brother and wrapped him in a blanket, smothering and obliterating him from our eyes. All the while, her lips never stopped moving. “Dear Jesus,” she said over and over, “protect my child.” Daddy leaped into action, firing off directions. “Dianna, watch the kids,” and “Momma, get in the car.” His last words, as steady and calm as though he were talking about the weather, were for a miracle of healing.
Now, we knew as sure as we had five fingers on each hand that Jesus had turned water into wine and that he had fed five thousand people with nothing more than a loaf of bread and a few fish. We also knew that if miracles had happened in the days of the Bible, they could happen today, too. But saving my baby brother from scalding oil seemed a bit out of reach. While Momma and Daddy prayed their way to the hospital, we kids added our own pleas as we huddled together in the living room. I did my best to calm everybody down, while at the same time, I tried not to imagine how bad Brandon’s face would look when they took off that blanket.
When my parents finally returned, they were still holding my brother in a blanket, though this time he was fast asleep. “The doctor’s face was full of fear,” Momma started. Then Daddy chimed in, “He warned us that Brandon’s skin might fall off when they removed the blanket.” But when the nurse unraveled my brother from his protective cocoon, his skin was as pink and soft as the day he was born. No burns. No blisters. “A medical miracle,” declared the doctor.
Some years later, my other brother, Joey, had a God moment of his own, and I was his witness. While walking to school, Joey impulsively darted across the street and ran straight into a moving car. I watched as he sailed through the air, some five feet off the ground. When he landed, he cried out in pain. “God help him!” I screamed. “Don’t let him die!” As I ran toward him, Joey suddenly jumped up and started darting in circles. He was in shock, dazed and confused, but I couldn’t find a scratch on him. The doctor who examined him concurred, saying, “No co
ncussion, no bleeding, and no scratches—he’s one lucky boy.” But we all knew that luck had nothing to do with it.
Faith was so ingrained in me that I never questioned if God was real. I just knew it was true, though religion is no longer a term I like to use. These days I prefer the word faith because to me it doesn’t matter what religion you practice; it’s faith in a higher power that’s important. Call it walking with God, call it spirituality, or call it moonbeams—whatever. Positive attracts positive.
I’m not going to say that one religion is better than another. I just know which one works for me, and that’s the tradition I was raised in—being a Christian. But if you believe in everything the Bible talks about—like angels, miracles, and burning bushes—then you also have to believe in Satan. You can’t pick and choose. Demons are part of the package, too.
Back before our family’s music ministry really took off, we used to go to something called “a sing’n’,” though it was pronounced more like “sang’n’” with our Texas drawls. Today, we’d probably call it a talent show or karaoke, and it came with all the fix’n’s, like drums, pianos, and guitars. One particular night, the four of us—me, Daddy, and Momma, who was holding my baby brother in her arms—walked up to the door where there was a sing’n’ under way. Loud voices and fervent praise floated in the air as we approached, but the closer we got to the door, the more violently I started to shake.
Falling with Wings Page 3