One Heart at a Time

by Delilah

  And I have to believe that the chubby little girl who fell jumping across a mud puddle up Coos River while wearing steel braces on her legs was being prepared to love on these children who couldn’t jump across a puddle, either.

  Dad had charged me room and board the last few years of high school. His reasoning was that I was earning an income at KDUN, the radio station, and I needed to help contribute to the household expenses. A ridiculous notion to me, and one I resented deeply. Today I thank God for the lessons I learned about being financially accountable and paying my own way through life. I’ve never expected or depended upon another person to pay my bills. I learned early that you do not buy luxury items or things to please yourself if you owe money to someone else, and to never owe money to someone else! Mom and Dad did not use credit except to buy our eighteen-hundred-square-foot family home.

  When friends and peers bought new cars, skis, motorcycles, hot tubs, Hawaiian vacations, designer heels and bags with their credit cards, I ate Top Ramen, bought clothing and household goods at thrift stores, and drove used cars that I purchased at auctions. I had a roommate in college named Suzie who was on public assistance and received financial aid for school. She spent the cash she was able to come by on weed and booze and other self-gratifying purchases. I was so frustrated when she used her food stamps at the grocery store, knowing she’d picked up a case of beer just an hour before.

  Dad told me once, when I was about thirteen and making fifty cents an hour babysitting, “Sis, don’t ever use credit or go into debt. If you go into debt, you owe the man. If you owe the man, you have to work, no matter how much you hate your job. If you want to quit, you can’t because you have too many bills you have to pay. But if you never go into debt, you can tell the man to kiss my ass and walk out the door.” Best. Lesson. Ever.

  Fortunately, the same principle applied to getting fired, which was good, because I got fired a lot. But Dad’s financial education and my somewhat obsessive work ethic allowed me to buy my first house at twenty-one, my second at twenty-six, and my third at thirty. If there is one piece of advice I would give to every young person, it would be the same as Dad told me. Don’t ever go into debt or use credit. When you agree to buy something you can’t afford, you may think you are getting an amazing thing in the short run, but in the long run you are giving up your freedom to say “kiss my ass.”

  Mom also taught me financial wisdom, but by different means. She married young, at nineteen, to a charismatic blue-eyed man, and agreed to stay home, be a wife, and raise kids while he worked to support the family. By giving up her options to have a job or career, she gave up everything. My dad controlled her and her purse strings as well as her choices, her options, and her freedom. My father even shopped for my mother’s clothes. He once spotted a polyester pantsuit from a flimsy mail catalog, and since the suit came in tall, he ordered two of them, blue and gold. Any time she had an occasion, my mother wore one of these two pantsuits, for years and years and years. Most of her other clothing were gifts from her parents or she made herself.

  My dad decided what appliances we would have, and if they needed service he decided when, or if, he would fix them. My dad made every single decision in our family. My mom had no voice whatsoever, except of which food acceptable to Dad’s palate she would make for dinner. We were fortunate in the fact that our grandparents owned a small farm and grew most of our food, including the beef that we ate, but my mother still needed to do the weekly shopping for bread, milk, and staples. She was a good and thrifty shopper who always cut coupons and looked for bargains. But if she came home and she had exceeded her weekly grocery budget, my father would take the ticker-tape receipt from the grocery store and go over each one of her purchases, questioning her about every dime she spent. If she had purchased something he did not agree with, he would circle it in red. Then he would subtract the amount of all the items in red from the next week’s allowance.

  Mom was extremely resourceful and talented. She took an upholstery course, with my dad’s permission, from the college extension program and set up a shop in our family room; even this money was expected to be turned over to my father. Since Mom had no financial independence, she looked often to her children to give her money. Actually, give is not the word—Mom would take our money. It became an unspoken game that we never talked about. I would put my babysitting money on the left-hand side of my top drawer beneath my socks. If I earned ten dollars, I might find two or three dollars missing by the end of the week. It must have been so shaming for her. She had no cash available and had to resort to stealing from her children. My brother, my sister, and I would discuss this behind closed doors. We came up with a way to hold on to some of our money without embarrassing our mother. If I earned ten dollars, I would put some of it in my sock drawer, knowing that Mom would take two or three, and the rest I would squirrel away in an old black leather purse hidden in my closet.

  When I got a little older and my father asked me to pay room and board, I did the same thing. He asked that I pay half of my income, so I lied. If I earned $200 in a month, I would tell him I earned a hundred dollars and give him fifty. I’d put the other fifty in my bank account. And the rest I would hide in the old black leather purse.

  One day Mom was sitting at her sewing machine working on some upholstery when she began talking to me about financial independence. She said, “Sis, you and your sister are smart and you’re beautiful, but please don’t get married and have children when you are young. If you do, you’ll have to depend upon your husband to support you, and you’ll end up in the same mess I’m in.”

  Over and over and over she drilled into my head that I should never be dependent upon a man, because to do so means you give up your freedom. I have always been fiercely independent—I was born that way. So when I took my father’s commandments about not being in debt and married them with my mother’s commandments about not being dependent upon a husband, I made up my mind that I would always be able to take care of myself.

  I judged my mother harshly when I was a young woman, because I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t just leave my father. She was smart, strong, and capable. I believed she could have easily gotten a job and supported herself. When I got a little older and a little wiser, I realized my mother did not view herself as others viewed her. Where we saw her as strong and beautiful, she saw herself as awkward and clumsy. Where I saw her as talented and creative, she saw herself as uneducated and ignorant; it was a combination of the times, the stigma of her Ozark background, and self-esteem issues. She always felt the need to apologize for just being who she was and always felt somewhat awkward in social settings.

  Sadly, I see this in my sister, too. DeAnna is strong, beautiful, and far smarter than I will ever be, but she doesn’t view herself in that light; she always feels that she’s just not quite enough. And now I have a young adult daughter who is the same way. It must be genetic, this trait that my grandmother passed to my mother and my mother to my sister. It somehow missed me, but it passed through to my daughter. All four, stunningly beautiful women, are differently gifted but ingenious, and none see themselves in that way.

  And then there is me. My sister, DeAnna, said to me one time that it didn’t matter whether I was having a million-dollar day or looked and felt like dog poop, “You always act like you look beautiful and other people always believe you!” And it is true. Beauty isn’t just in the eye of the beholder, beauty is about how you project yourself. If you feel beautiful, powerful, and strong, that is what people see, even if you aren’t a fashion model or as perfect as the airbrushed women on the cover of magazines.

  The night I graduated high school, in June of 1978, I’d already saved over $5,000, hidden in the old purse. I felt liberated! I had a good job making $3.50 an hour in radio and I owned my own car free and clear. It was an old green Pinto purchased at a state surplus auction for $500. I was dating a handsome, blond young man named Jim, and I was on top of the world. I thought I was the queen bee a
nd felt like nothing would stop me or slow me down. Little did I know I was barely living above poverty level, and it wasn’t until many class reunions had come and gone that I realized how my folks had struggled financially.

  The past fifteen years I’ve enjoyed financial success, but even before I signed a lucrative contract with my current syndicator I never knew I wasn’t wealthy, because I applied the rules my folks had taught me. I never used credit cards, I never went in debt, and I never became dependent upon another person. Those rules, coupled with the thriftiness that I learned from my parents and grandparents who had lived during the Great Depression, made me feel quite rich.

  All too often I speak with people who mourn their past. And I get it. My past wasn’t full of rainbows and unicorns. I wasn’t served up opportunities on a silver platter. (In fact, any silver platters I’ve ever had, I found for a bargain price at a thrift store or garage sale.) I can’t deny or reject the hard times in my past, because they shaped me into the person I am today. And I don’t think it does any good to yearn for different memories. Why look back and wish for something different? You’re not going that way. That’s why the windshield is wide-open and the rearview mirror is small, my friend. Because what’s behind us doesn’t matter nearly as much as what’s in front of us.

  I had braces on my legs during the most impressionable years of my youth. Because of that, I developed a thick skin for criticism, a sharp tongue that bites back at bullies, and a compassionate heart for people who suffer from disabilities. I call that a win. I firmly believe God had a plan for that gawky tween with leg braces to grow up a strong defender of disabled children who have no voice or resources to help themselves.

  I could be bitter I had to pay my parents to live under their roof while still just a youth. I could be mad that my mom stole my cash. At the time, I was resentful, believe me! Do you know the adventures I could’ve had with that extra money? But today, I am a grateful woman for those lessons. They were harsh at the time, but they turned me into a resourceful, frugal, independent person—capable of making it as a single mother who can dress up Top Ramen a hundred different ways.

  Have you ever considered that the hurts in your past are meant for something greater than you? God hurts with you. He didn’t, nor doesn’t, want bad things to happen to you. But here’s the really interesting fact: God can redeem anything, and anyone at any time. Your pain and suffering of the past can be healed, and not only that, it can be used to heal others. Have you ever stopped to consider how someone else may need your story? That’s exactly the point of this book, in case you forgot. Changing the world one heart, one story at a time. That means you telling your story of redemption and offering hope to the next person going through some tough stuff.

  If you’re feeling crushed by the weight of your past, by abuse, by guilt, by shame, by something you’ve wasted good years on, you need to ask God to redeem your pain and use it for good. Don’t spend another moment feeling sorry for yourself, because you are stronger than you think. I know it. God knows it. It’s time for you to take that heavy brick off your shoulders and use it to lay a firm foundation for your future.

  CHAPTER 10:

  A HEART THAT EMBRACES

  I held on to the handrail, wearily walking up the stairs from my basement studio to the kitchen. I had been busy all day with chores around the farm, taking care of kids, and then five hours in the studio doing my nightly radio show. I was tired, looking forward to a cup of herbal tea and clean sheets on my bed. I was looking forward to sprawling out on the bed with my schnauzer, Sophia, and getting some rest. I anticipated finding a sink with a dozen dirty cups and glasses, maybe a greasy bowl with popcorn kernels and butter stuck to the bottom, and a teenager putting homework in a backpack.

  Instead I was greeted with a cheery “Mom?” and the smiling face of my daughter Blessing. I have learned over the years to have a very discerning ear when it comes to inflection and enunciation. I can tell when a listener says, “I’m good” if they really are good, or if they are calling because their marriage or their life is falling apart. And I am even more adept at discerning what is about to come each time I hear, “Mom,” “Mama Bear,” or the shortened version “Ma-bear.” If the child has a slight lift in her voice on the final syllable, then a question is about to come that may or may not require a resounding no. If there is a higher uptick at the end, I know I am about to be manipulated with big eyes and a sweet smile. If the final M of “Mom” drops down or ends in a quiet tone, I suspect it’s confession session time and I am about to hear something I would rather not have known about.

  This particular “Mom” had a definite uplift at the end, punctuated by huge brown eyes, wide-open in their pleading expression. I steeled myself for the question, knowing I was about to be asked something by a professional argument winner. Blessing had just turned twelve, but her maturity level was far beyond her actual years. And when it came to getting her way, she had studied hard under the tutelage of her older sister, Shaylah. Shay was and is the master charmer. Blessing had determined by the time she was five or six that she would not follow in her sister Angel’s footsteps when it came to trying to sway my opinion or decision through confrontation and argument.

  Angel comes out swinging. Her method of approaching any topic with me was to demand her way and then argue for hours until I either left the conversation angry and frustrated or relented out of sheer exhaustion. Blessing took mental notes and decided to try Shaylah’s approach—come in soft, be charming, adorable, and prepared with facts to back up the request. And if all fails and my answer is no, relent gracefully (if not a bit sullen and silent), because I still may be apt to change my mind.

  Blessing is the very essence of her name. She shows no scars from her first few years as a malnourished child born on a rusted bed held up by rocks in the dirt-floored clinic of a refugee camp. Despite the trauma, abuse, and lack of food in her toddler years, my daughter is brilliant, well adjusted, and beautiful. She’s also a tad bit cunning and prone to figuring out how to get her way. This particular night she poured on the charm, and I was so exhausted I didn’t even see it coming.

  “Mom? Um… I was wondering if we could get an exchange student again, like Fiona and Jackson?”

  In previous years, we’d hosted foreign exchange students for six to eight weeks during summer break. Our first student, Jackson, was a terribly shy thirteen-year-old from China. His father was a successful businessman and wanted Jackson to learn English so he could succeed in his academic studies. He was shy and prone to homesickness, but a sweet boy who loved pizza and fried rice. Angel was about the same age and had herself only been in America a year when Jackson arrived. The two became fast friends, and the tears flowed like rain when it was time for him to return home.

  The following year the same woman at our church who had arranged Jackson’s stay with us asked me to host another child, this time a young Chinese girl, Fiona. At fifteen, with a broad smile and musical laugh, Fiona was delightful. She fit into our family and learned English quickly. It was Shaylah who bonded with Fiona—both were going through that awkward teenage stage and both loved the same Disney movies. For seven weeks Fiona went with our family to the beach and the mountains, played in the ponds at the farm, and fell in love with Captain Jack, Shaylah’s pet bantam rooster. The three were quite a sight—Shay with long blond hair flecked golden by the summer sun, Fiona with straight jet-black hair, and tiny Captain Jack, strutting behind the two as they ran around the farm each summer day.

  When it was time to take Fiona to the goodbye gathering, our entire family was sobbing like fools. We had learned about her family and traditions. Unlike Jackson, who was part of the one-child system in China, her family had been allowed two children. She missed her sibling at home but confessed they were not close like my kids. She said she felt more like a sister to my kids than she did with her brother.

  I assumed it was this same exchange program that Blessing was speaking of, but I knew it was
too late in the year to be a part of the program. School would be out in less than two months, and the families that agree to host are usually identified and given training much earlier in the year. I explained this to my twelve-year-old.

  Her convictions were not deterred, however, and she insisted it was not too late. I gave her the name of the woman I had worked with in the past and told her to go online and look into the program. If it wasn’t too late, we could consider hosting a girl for their summer program. And with that I turned out the lights and sent her to bed; she followed me up the stairs grinning.

  As the next few days passed, Blessing didn’t say a thing about the exchange program, and after a week I completely forgot about it. I figured she looked into the program and discovered that indeed we had come to the table too late in the season.

  Two weeks later I opened my email and found a letter whose sender I didn’t recognize. It began, “Dear Miss Rene, thank you for your interest in hosting an AFS student for the 2016–2017 school year. We are excited to let you know we believe we have identified a young boy from Spain…”

  I reread the letter. Top to bottom. It was instructing me how to get a security background check for myself and my husband and any other person over the age of eighteen living at the farm. And if a good match was determined, our student would be arriving in August to begin his stay.