Step Out on Nothing

by Byron Pitts

  I wish I could say that was the beginning of a wonderful relationship. It wasn’t. We talk from time to time. He still asks for money, and my answer remains about the same. But things are dramatically different. I am no longer angry at the man. I see him in a different light. I can see God’s goodness even in him. I finally accepted that his relationship with my mother was their relationship. They were right that day in the car, when I was a boy, outside his girlfriend’s house. I had nothing to do with their troubles. He is no longer the fuel that gets me going in the morning or drives my personal or professional ambitions.

  Admittedly, it was tough letting go of the anger. It was like the first few weeks of wearing contacts after years of wearing glasses. I felt naked without my glasses. That thin piece of glass provided a nice wall between me and the outside world. Anger had provided the same kind of protection. It kept the world at a distance and a frightened boy safe. I even worried for a time whether I could function without it. I had never considered my own anger as destructive but rather as instructive. I knew God was the real source of my strength, but anger was like a set of jumper cables. It provided a boost in the moments when I felt estranged from God. When I finally said the words “I forgive you” to my father, it freed me.

  The Bible speaks of the power and the necessity for forgiveness. Jesus said we should cast the wrongs of others “into the sea of forgetfulness.” I’m not there yet, but I’m gaining ground. I still keep score but no longer feel compelled to punish my opponent or relish their struggle. I’m not angry today; I’m grateful, fully grateful for the many blessings God has given me. There’s a banquet of blessings for all of us. I still have my struggles. As a minister I know is fond of saying, “We all have skeletons in our closet, and some still have meat on the bone.” Some of mine are still fully dressed. That’s okay too. What are the things you struggle with? Where in life do you feel inadequate? Whom would you like to forgive? If you step out on nothing, you may be amazed at what you may find.

  My wife remarked once with a smile in her voice, “Don’t tell me God ain’t good. He took a boy who couldn’t read and put him on 60 Minutes.” We laughed. We laughed in part because hearing such terrible diction coming out of the mouth of a Stanford-educated woman with a brilliant mind was comical. But my life and the people who’ve blessed it, do speak to the power of God’s grace. There are grand stories of men and women who pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps to achieve great things. That is not my testimony. I’ve been fortunate to grab on to the boot laces of others, and they were kind enough to pull me along. There are world-class athletes with phenomenal physical gifts who through shared effort and opportunity have set records and achieved greatness. That is not my testimony.

  As an individual, there is nothing remarkable about my abilities or my intellect. I was simply blessed to be born in the greatest country on earth and blessed to have been surrounded by wonderful people who stood in the gap at every vital moment in my life. They, too, are ordinary people, and most readily admit they serve an extraordinary God. I’m not smart enough or wise enough to advocate a religion to anyone, but I know what’s worked for me. I know that in all the darkest, loneliest moments of my life, when I felt the world was against me and the winds of conventional wisdom were in my face, in those moments, God held me in the palm of His hand. His Son, Jesus Christ, died so I might live. His sacrifice set the stage for every success I’ve been blessed to achieve thus far. When to the outside world it appeared I was stepping out on nothing, I was standing in the center of God’s hands. He’s got big hands. There’s plenty of room.

  Next to Scripture, my mother’s sage advice, and my grandmother’s wisdom, there are few words that move me more than Maya Angelou’s poem “Still I Rise,” especially the line “I am the hope and the dream of the slave.” As an African-American man that line speaks to the trajectory of my life. The connectedness of unnamed generations marked with grand achievements, setbacks, and days of little consequence. But it is a journey forever moving forward. Regardless of one’s race or ethnic identity, we are all on a journey. Who knows what the Lord has in store for me or for any of us. I’m more excited about the journey than I’ve ever been. I recently discovered my purpose. When I was a boy, my grandmother prophesized I’d become a preacher. She had high hopes for me. My mother always believed I could and would do great things. Thus far, being a parent, a husband, a brother, and a child have been the greatest accomplishments of my life. But I now know my purpose. I know it with the same clarity I knew as a child that I would one day learn to read. God put me here for two reasons: be a storyteller and be an encourager. I have friends who are avid runners, and few things bring them more joy than running outdoors with the air stroking their faces and the rhythm of their heartbeats as they take each step. It’s that same joy I feel whenever I have the opportunity to tell a story or encourage someone else. All the struggles with literacy and speech, and even the difficulties in my relationship with my father, were placed in my path to teach me, to prepare me for my purpose: to encourage someone else to overcome their obstacles.

  There is a purpose for all of us and a path for each of us to follow. Every path has a few potholes, and some of those potholes look like craters. There is a burden each of us must carry. My grandmother would also say, “God doesn’t put heavy burdens on weak shoulders.” My mother’s response would always be, “Then God must think I’m a twin.” She was trying to be funny. Her point was that she often felt she was carrying a burden meant for someone else. My mom might tell a few jokes or even rest a bit, but eventually she’d just take a deep breath and push on. Today, when I visit my mother down in North Carolina, we often sit on her porch, just me, her, and her dog. No matter where the conversation starts, it almost always goes back to those days when she struggled to raise her three children practically on her own. She’ll remember something that will make her angry. Fast-approaching eighty years old, she’s still fiery. But the anger passes. Then she’ll remember something that will make her laugh. Almost always, she’ll remember a day long gone that will make her eyes water: whether it’s the memories of a day of financial hardship or a day she felt emotionally spent. They’ve never been tears of sadness but rather tears of gratitude and tears of amazement at what God can do. My mother taught me many things. Perhaps, most important, she taught me less with words and more by the way she’s lived her life. She taught me that in times of uncertainty, step out to a place where only God is. Step out on nothing, and it will take you far. Safe journey.

  Epilogue

  SHE WAS AN IMMIGRANT from Haiti who had lived with the shame for thirty-six years. He was a prominent banker who wiped tears from his eyes as he admitted the truth about his adult son. They were telling me their stories because they knew that I would understand. I shared their secret and their pain. A history of illiteracy. But we shared something much greater. We were survivors. We had triumphed over a debilitating and shameful struggle despite tremendous odds against us.

  For two years now, I’ve been traveling the country lecturing on illiteracy and the difficulties I’ve had to overcome. The stories I’ve heard have saddened and heartened me. We are the most educated nation in the world. But we have a staggering rate of illiteracy. If you think you don’t know someone who is illiterate, think again. Perhaps you have an older relative who calls you to write things down because he or she “can’t find my glasses.” Or perhaps you know someone who is grateful for the car GPS because, truthfully, they can’t read a map or written directions.

  As an adult, imagine hiding for a lifetime something so fundamental to your everyday life. Never able to fill out a job application or take a driving test. Imagine raising children who have read more books than you. If you’re a child, what about taking homework home from school and never understanding it. Or experiencing the humiliation of being caught by your friends. How do you start your education over? In whom do you confide? These are questions I faced as a young teenager. But today I’m an avid r
eader. Books are a lifeline, and words are the foundation of my professional life.

  People laughed at me when I told them I wanted to work in television. It might have seemed impossible, since I could barely speak. But in my silence and beneath my shame, I had a burning belief that all things are possible. A faith that God would make a way. I think there are lessons to be learned from my journey and the steps I took, even as a child, to put myself on a path to success: self-discipline, hard work, the power of prayer. The importance of finding and nurturing mentoring relationships. My story may be no different from yours or someone you know. I want to encourage you to have faith, to believe in the impossible.

  I also want to encourage the “angels,” like my Dr. Lewes. I’ve met them all across the country at luncheons and dinners. They speak to me through tears about their challenges and often thankless responsibilities in trying to bring light to a world without words. They tutor, they read, they fund-raise, and they encourage. They need to believe in the difference they are making in people’s lives and in this world. And they must know how much we love and appreciate them. I would not have made it through college without my buddy Peter Holthe. Recently, our friendship was tested in ways neither one of us would have expected back in 1978.

  “Dear wise and almighty God, we come to you as humbly as we know how, just to say thank you, Lord. Thank you for blessings seen and not seen. Thank you, Lord, for our family our friends and even our enemies. Lord, please put your arms of comfort around my dear friend Pete. Let him know that he is loved. Be with him, Lord, when he goes into surgery. Be with the doctors. While they will hold the instruments, let them know you will be holding them in the palm of Your hand. Lord, so many people love and need Pete. Let Pete feel our love and our strength. Give him peace. Give him comfort. Give him strength where he’s weak. Give him comfort where there may be fear. Lord, we who love Pete and love You are claiming a miracle right now. We proclaim it in Your name. These and all other blessings we ask in Your name and for Your sake. Amen.”

  When I finished praying on the phone, my friend Pete said, “Thank you, brother. I love you. I’m not sure I believe in prayer, but I know you do. I’ve watched it work in your life. Maybe it’ll work in mine.”

  “I love you, too, Pete.” We hung up the phone. We were both crying.

  Now in our late forties we have been facing a difficult time together. This time it’s Pete who’s facing one of life’s greatest challenges: a rare and deadly form of cancer. As always, Pete’s taking the analytical approach to the problem. The faith part is up to me, his wife, Kara, and a host of relatives and friends.

  There are countless people who have shared their personal stories or told me about their children. I wrote this book to celebrate our victories and the successes of so many like us. I wrote this book for the adults who are faking it, for the children who are being left behind, and for every child who sits in the basement class in his or her school, labeled “slow” or “unteachable” when, in fact, they may be hiding an inability to read.

  In 1978 I was on the verge of dropping out of college. In 2006 I was invited to Ohio Wesleyan as their commencement speaker. Cap and gown, doctor of humane letters, the whole deal. What an improbable journey. It happened to be Dr. Lucas’s final commencement. He was retiring. I had always wondered what I might say or do if he and I ever crossed paths. When the moment came, I braced my back, took a deep breath, looked him in the eye, and said, “Thank you, Dr. Lucas. I would not be here without you. Bless you.” Then I took his hand, gripped his shoulder, and said, “I wish you well.” He smiled. I couldn’t be sure if he even remembered me. He’d served a valuable purpose in my life. Nothing more. Nothing less. That day as part of my speech, I told the story of my experiences with Dr. Lucas. I never mentioned his name. The goal wasn’t to embarrass him, but rather to share that part of my journey with the graduating class; success is often preceded by struggle.

  Just as it was on my first day of college, little was going as planned. It was mid-May, but it felt like mid-November in Ohio. It was cold and rainy. The graduates and their guests were soaked. But adversity and I were old friends by now, and it was time for the commencement speech. So I took the “opportunity” God had given me and made the best of it. Here’s some of what I had to say that chilly day:

  I know many of us prayed for sunshine and clear skies today, but thank the Lord He made umbrellas. To the graduates, President, Faculty, staff, the Board of Trustees, honored guests: It’s a privilege to be with you today as we mark this historic moment in the life of our beloved university, and the lives of these young people. As uncomfortable as conditions may be, we’re still blessed. It’s Mother’s Day. There are few gifts greater one could give a mother than to fill her cup, fill her heart with pride. Graduates, many of you may not have a dollar in your pocket, but the gift you’ve given your families today is priceless. . . .

  I know we’ve come to honor the ones receiving the degrees today. But I believe graduations are also moments to honor those who paid for those degrees. Graduates, despite what some of you may think, you did not get here by yourselves. I would ask the parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles—anyone who made a tuition payment and prayed a prayer for one of these children—to please stand. Parents and relatives of the class of 2006, please stand so we can applaud you. This is also your day. I’d especially like to acknowledge the single parents here this afternoon. As a father, I know it’s not easy for two parents to raise a child. But as the proud baby boy of a single mother, I too know the unique sacrifices that single moms and dads make. On behalf of your sons or daughters, thank you for your many sacrifices.

  I’d like to thank my own mom, who, just as she did twenty-four years ago, sits in the audience today, beaming with pride. My mother, Clarice Pitts.

  A newspaper reporter interviewed my mom once for a story about me and asked, “Mrs. Pitts, how did you manage as a single parent, a divorcée, to send three kids to college?” Her answer: “It was simple. I said, ‘Go to college, or I will beat you to death.’ ”

  Simple parenting is good parenting. Thanks, Momma. I’d also like to thank my brother and his family for joining us today. . . .

  Let the record show I believe in Ohio Wesleyan University. The liberal arts education provided here is second to none.

  Graduates, please know you are well qualified to compete in any field, against any competitor, from any college, at any place in the world.

  As a correspondent for CBS News, I’ve interviewed the last five presidents of the United States, reported from thirty-three countries, covered three wars and natural disasters of biblical proportions, from the tsunami in Indonesia to Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. None of that would have been possible had it not been for the four years I spent here in Delaware. Not possible without professors like Verne Edwards, the head of the journalism department until his retirement. Mr. Edwards is here today with his lovely bride, Dolores. Thank you, Verne. Can I call you Verne now? For four years I was always nervous just to be in your presence. Today I’m grateful to call you my friend.

  None of the dreams I had for my life would have been possible if not for many of the friends I made at OWU. Friends like Peter Holthe from Minnetonka, Minnesota. Pete was the whitest white guy I’d ever met. We were hallmates in Thomson Hall freshman year and suitemates sophomore year in Welch Hall. Pete told me that before we met, the only black people he’d ever seen were in Ebony magazine. Pete and I remain close to this day. That’s the beauty of OWU. Children of the working class and children of the wealthy can meet in this corner of the world to learn of history’s great philosophers while studying the forces that went into making an igneous rock. I had a geology class (I hated geology and, for the most part, geology hated me). But my first time in the mountains of Afghanistan, the country was foreign yet the rocks beneath my feet were familiar.

  Class of 2006, you are 401 strong. You represent 21 different countries of the world. You are 401 of the estimated 1.3 millio
n college seniors graduating in America this spring. According to BusinessWeek, you are about to enter the best job market for college graduates in at least five years. You have much to feel good about. Feel confident but never arrogant. Arrogance, I believe, is the cloak of cowards. Stay humble. My mother always told us, If you work hard and pray hard and treat people right, good things will happen. But, above all else, stay humble. Humility has its place.

  It is with that sense of humility I’d like to share a few final thoughts with the class of 2006. I know all of you are smart and computer-savvy. In this computer information age, you laugh at people like me and your parents as we still struggle with the VCR back home, and you stay connected with your friends by Skype, Facebook, MySpace, and Xanga. What the heck does Xanga mean? I bet most of you own an iPod, laptop, and a cell phone. And all those gadgets are wonderful.

  But when you leave this place, there are a few old-fashioned tools you’re also going to need in order to survive in this ever-changing world. Here are two:

  Please and thank you. Knowing how to give a Power-Point presentation may take you far. But human decency and politeness will make the landing easier when you get to wherever you’re going. Please and thank you. Powerful words. Empowering words. Make them part of your permanent vocabulary. It worked for your grandparents. It will work for you.

  If I had a speech title today, it would be “Follow Your Dreams and Find Your Passion.” I believe in dreams. Progressing from academic probation during my freshman year at OWU in 1978 to Commencement speaker in 2006—I have to believe in dreams!

  Whether you graduate today Phi Beta Kappa, Summa Cum Laude, Magna Cum Laude, or just plain “Thank you, Lord,” you must believe in your dreams. You see, America is at a crossroads. We need new dreamers—not daydreamers but dreamers. Daydreamers play and procrastinate, but dreamers plan their work and work their plan.