Lost and Found: Finding Hope in the Detours of Life (6 page)

They helped me prepare for my son’s arrival. My mother helped convert a portion of my room into a nursery. My sister helped me keep track of my progress by reading all kinds of pregnancy books. My brothers helped me put things like cribs and strollers together
and transport me to doctor’s appointments. My mother never missed an opportunity to pray over me. My father simply loved me and protected me from the aftermath that the pregnancy might have on the ministry.

As grateful as I was for the support of my family, I knew I had potentially hurt us severely. I knew that everyone’s life would somehow be affected by my actions. I wanted to believe they were there because they loved me and not because they felt chained to me.

How could they forgive me when I couldn’t forgive myself?

IT
DIDN’T TAKE
long for my pregnancy to be classified as high risk. I was placed on bed rest months before delivery because my body could not handle the stress of my growing son. Of course, I didn’t need a doctor to tell me my pregnancy was high risk—everything about it seemed to be stretching me beyond my limits.

Before I was restricted to being home, I still attended service on Sunday. I sat in the main sanctuary with the adults. I wanted to rebuild my parents’ trust and prepare myself for the rapid pace at which I would now be forced to grow up. I figured that sitting in the main sanctuary would help me learn more about the experiences of broken people.

After all, I felt like I was broken, damaged goods.

Before, in our youth services, church had been fun. As kids, we really hadn’t been through enough of life’s hardships to really understand worship. I’m convinced our worship is most beautiful when we are desperate for an answer from God, when we have nothing
else to lose, nowhere else to go. When we are completely and utterly lost, that’s when our worship is most powerful.

In my own way, while I sat in the main sanctuary, I pleaded with God to find me.

I never felt like I truly needed Him before that time. I figured that when I was ready to grow up and my fun was over, then I would become more serious about my relationship with God. But what I didn’t realize is that I was never really hiding from Him. God was there with me the entire time.

———

One of the first stories most Christians learn about is the fall of man. In the garden of Eden, when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit, one of their first reactions to their newfound reality was to cover their naked bodies. They once lived in the garden with nothing to be ashamed of, certainly not their unclothed bodies. However, the moment they knew they had broken the rules, they immediately covered themselves.

Isn’t it funny how quickly shame sets in? Sure, Eve knew what she was doing was wrong, but there’s such a huge difference between thinking of doing something and the actual action and its consequences. It’s not that you think you’re invincible; it’s just that you think you won’t get sunk in. We believe that we can try something without allowing it to own us. We hardly ever realize things have gone too far until we’re ready to hide behind an entire closet full of fig leaves.

Like Eve, I, too, wanted to hide. But anytime my eyes drifted to my stomach, I knew that hiding this secret would be impossible. What
do you do when you can’t avoid the challenges of your consequences? It seemed to me I had three options: stop living altogether, merely exist in silence, or somehow dare to live again.

By May, our closest friends and family knew I was pregnant, but no one else. That would change at our Mother’s Day service. Per our custom, that Sunday my father acknowledged the sacrifice, dedication, and commitment that mothers have made for their children. As my eyes scanned the crowd of nodding heads, tearful eyes, and proud smiles, I wondered if I could do it. Could I really be the kind of mother we were all thinking of and honoring at that moment? I realized then I didn’t just want to have a son; I wanted to be a mother.

Was it even possible for a fourteen-year-old girl to be the kind of mother I saw in the pews of the church? From the outside looking in, people always look so well put together. For the first time, I saw beyond the pretty clothes, animated expressions, and lively dancing. I saw the hearts of people who were searching, like me, for some way—any way—they could let God fix their shattered worlds and broken hearts.

My silent reverie was broken when I felt someone pull at my arm, guiding me to stand and be recognized with the other mothers in the congregation. A family friend, one of only a few who knew that I was pregnant, beckoned me to stand to my feet. I had no idea what was going on in the service. I had been too busy searching for a face in the crowd that was like mine. I was looking for hope.

I was too young to realize that on Sundays we all look like we have it together. It’s the other days of the week and the tearful nights when our pain seeps to the outside and tells our secrets. We never realize no one has it all together. In that moment I realized I was holding others to the same standard to which I hated being held.

I assumed that they didn’t understand me because their faces didn’t mirror the turmoil in my soul. Maturity is recognizing that
everyone, regardless of race, class, or gender, has something that binds them to the rest of us. It would be years until I realized that even though they may not have been pregnant at thirteen, the mothers in the service that day didn’t have a white picket fence either. Some became mothers through rape, while others had been abused or molested. Some were enduring violence at home and others were sick with worry over their children’s health and well-being.

I didn’t know their stories, though. So I felt even more isolated than before I got pregnant. Not only would I be separated by my last name, but now I would add being a teen mother to my distinction. In this gathering of people smiling and singing and wearing their Mother’s Day corsages, I felt so lost.

I didn’t even realize why I had been pulled to stand up until I heard my father repeat that he wanted all the mothers to stand. Instantly, I wanted to disappear. There I was, in front of thousands of people who must be wondering why my young face was standing with all the mothers.

I wasn’t even showing at the time, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that I was going to become someone’s mother soon. Eventually, rumors spread throughout the church that I was pregnant. The rumors turned to gossip when my expanding stomach could no longer be concealed. Even the staff who had watched me grow up had their own spin on my truth.

When the doctor placed me on bed rest a few months later, I was relieved I would no longer have to show my face at church. Carrying a facade is always more difficult than embracing the truth. I grew tired of holding it together for everyone observing me while falling apart on the inside. I didn’t want to look into disappointed eyes. My ears did not want to overhear “she’s the one who’s pregnant” when I walked by. I felt safe at home, protected.

———

I’m sure my pregnancy wasn’t the easiest time for my family, especially my parents, but even in their pain they covered me. I tiptoed around the house, aware my stomach was a painful reminder, but I wasn’t scared like I was at church. I knew that my parents and siblings loved me. I wasn’t sure how we would recover or what my future held, but I was okay here.

As my due date drew closer and the pregnancy became more difficult, like most expectant women, we kept a hospital bag packed and by the door just in case we needed to leave quickly. It seemed ironic that just as I finally began to accept that I was going to become a mother, my body began to threaten the growing life inside of me. I wondered if losing him would be my punishment. But I couldn’t bear the thought of not meeting the little person who was taking over my body. During that time I realized most women become a mother long before their water breaks. That connection doesn’t discriminate with age.

I knew that having a child as a teenager was not ideal, to say the least, but I still had the same excitement that any new mother would
possess. Nevertheless, I didn’t want my excitement to be perceived as being unremorseful, so I kept my feelings to myself. I tried to keep the swirl of mixed emotions inside me and focus on preparations for my soon-to-be new arrival.

Picking baby names, shopping for clothes, choosing strollers and baby bags . . . preparing was so much like playing with my baby doll as a little girl. Only now it was all real. With all the clothes folded and put away, a name selected, and painful kicks, I was being told to prepare for the worst.

———

I remember after a particularly stressful doctor’s appointment, my parents were having a meeting with their attorney about business. So I sat on the stairs of our home waiting for the meeting to conclude. Once I heard the doors open, I asked them all, my parents as well as their lawyer, if I could speak to them for a moment. Taken off guard by my request, they agreed.

Noticeably pregnant at this time, I received an anxious look from the lawyer, who had watched me grow up. I looked them in the eye and asked if we could sign some kind of paper work that would give my parents custody of my son in the event that I died. It was a sobering moment for them, but one I had been considering for quite some time. I knew my pregnancy was very high risk; I saw the look in the doctor’s eyes when my condition did not improve. I had read horror stories of girls my age having babies and bleeding out on the table. I didn’t know what would happen to my son if something happened to me, but I wanted to cover him before he was even born.

That’s when I knew I wouldn’t just be a girl who had a baby; I would be a mother. I would gladly sacrifice my life for his own.

They promised they would help me make whatever arrangements were necessary to ensure his safety and well-being. We would all
meet in the next week or so to finalize everything. Once all of those arrangements were completed, I finally felt at peace with my upcoming delivery. The night before my scheduled induction, Dexter, eight years old at the time, came and got in the bed with me. I don’t know if he was scared of nightmares or if God was just reminding me that I wasn’t facing anything alone. Either way, the next morning when I woke up on the floor—Dexter used to sleep like a circus act—I was ready to start my journey as a single mother.

Single, but not alone.

———

Two weeks before my due date, my doctor had decided the best chance of preserving both my life and the baby’s was to induce my labor. I was admitted into the hospital on a Wednesday evening. The induction process started as soon as I was settled that night. Nearly twenty-four hours later, I gave my final push and Malachi came into the world. I chose this name because it means “messenger of God,” even though I still wasn’t sure exactly what this message would be.

As expected, labor was very difficult. At one point, the doctor could no longer locate the baby’s heartbeat, which caused me to panic and sent my body into convulsions. They began to prepare me for a cesarean when suddenly they located the perfect rhythm of his heart.

It turns out having an actual baby is nothing like caring for a baby doll. Our first night in the hospital, sweat dripped down my forehead as I struggled to nurse my son. I felt like I was running a marathon with no finish line in sight. The nurses graciously assisted me each time. I suspect they pitied this young girl who couldn’t even feed her son. I didn’t have much of a choice, though. I needed their help, and if that came with pity, then I would have to take that, too.

Eventually I got the hang of nursing him without assistance. I used pillows to help me balance his weight and make my body more comfortable. It also took me some time to change his diaper. I couldn’t do it as fast as the nurses, afraid that I would hurt his freshly cut skin, but I managed. I never once remember him crying while I was trying to figure out how to be a mother. It was like he knew that I was doing the best I could. His patience with me made me love him more. It made me more committed to not messing up.

Maybe I couldn’t give him the life I wanted to, but what if all I had to give him was my heart? Maybe I could be an actual mother after all.

———

Not only did I put Malachi on a schedule, but I tried my best to become just as regimented. Recognizing now that the fate of his life lay squarely in my own pursuit of success, I committed to doing everything in my power. Before I had my son, I never considered the idea of graduating from high school early, but now I needed to recover more than ever. While a longtime family friend helped with my new baby, I devoted most of my time to completing my studies.

Committed to seeing me succeed, my parents allowed me to attend a more traditional, smaller school where I could take more courses. When I started the tenth grade in the fall of 2003, I had one mission. I wanted to graduate as soon as I could. I wanted to hit the ground running.

Hardly anyone at my small private school knew that I had a son. This fresh start seems like it would have been the perfect scenario for me to fall into having a dual existence. Things were different for me this time, though. Instead of craving attention and popularity, I wanted to hide in the background.

I didn’t want to live a lie, so I simply remained silent about my personal life, including Malachi. Among the students, I assumed I
was the only one who had a child and once again felt isolated and out of place. With an uncertain future ahead, all I had was my academic ability, so I focused on my studies and worked harder than I would have previously thought possible.

Being only a year apart in age, Cora and I almost always attended the same schools. So she was right beside me when I started attending school as a mother. Although we didn’t have the same classes, having her there was like an extension of the security I experienced at home with our family.

Never one to mince words, my sister is notoriously known for speaking her mind. It’s what everyone loves about her! You never have to wonder what she thinks or feels. Her candor has often been the source of humorous moments within our family. So one day when we were in the small cafeteria of our high school, Cora’s frank personality revealed my secret. And there was nothing subtle about it.

Another classmate of ours was having a heated discussion about teenage mothers with some other students. “I mean, how could they be so stupid,” she said. “It would be so much easier to just give it away instead of being selfish and ruining the kid’s life.”

“Yeah, you said it,” agreed another girl. “They already made one mistake. Why make another?” The rest of their group nodded as if she were preaching the gospel.

I sat in the corner, face down, and focused on finishing my lunch. I didn’t want to say anything. All she did was vocalize the thoughts I assumed everyone was thinking anyway. I couldn’t blame her. They were the thoughts that haunted me at night. The things that made me want to give whatever was left of my future at least my best shot.