Nowhere but Up (14 page)

I rolled my eyes at that.
Are you kidding me?
I looked at him, nowhere near convinced, and said, “If I’d just found an apartment, I could see how that could be true. But at this point, without even a potential place to live, this situation isn’t giving me faith, it’s weakening my faith.”

He smiled. “Sometimes God makes you wait, Pattie. And then wait some more. And sometimes even right at the last minute, He makes you wait just a little bit longer until He comes through. It’s how you learn to trust Him.”

I wasn’t so sure.

Another week passed. Nothing. I was beyond frustrated. Was this some sort of sick joke? Were we supposed to live out on the streets? Was that really what God wanted?

On the Wednesday before the three of us would be homeless, my mom called. She sounded excited. “There’s a new listing in the paper for an apartment on Elizabeth Street, and it’s available immediately.”

Hope.

Finally.

I drove with Liz and Justin across town to talk to the landlord. By the time we arrived, one family had just finished a tour of the apartment. They looked like the perfect tenants—a strong-looking husband, a beautiful wife, and an adorable baby. I’m pretty sure I also saw a golden retriever with his head hanging out of the window of their minivan. And wouldn’t you know it, after our tour of the place we saw another cute and perfect-looking family waiting for their appointment.

The three of us must have been quite a sight: a teenager dressed in funky clothes, a tired-looking mom who looked like a teenager herself, and a rambunctious two-year-old toddler. Oh well. We put on our biggest smiles and prayed the landlord would show us some favor.

The apartment was beautiful, complete with three bedrooms, a loft, an outside patio, and even a fireplace. The rent was cheap and included all the utilities. It seemed too good to be true.
Maybe it’s a joke
, I thought as I walked carefully on the dark hardwood floors and grazed my fingers on the fresh coat of paint that adorned the walls. Doubt tried to weave its way into my heart.
Why would this guy rent to you? You guys look a mess! Why would he give this place to a single mom with a foster kid when he could rent it out to Mr., Mrs., and Baby Jones, a nice, normal family that doesn’t have your kind of money problems?

Valid points. Good questions. I couldn’t answer them save for “I don’t know.” I don’t know why this guy would choose us as tenants. I don’t know why he wouldn’t entertain other, better offers. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

But still . . .

After he finished showing us the lovely backyard where I knew Justin would love playing, the landlord spoke. “Listen. I could rent this apartment out to anyone. I’ve showed it to a lot of people, and I even have more appointments after you.” He paused for a few seconds, carefully choosing his next words. “But I’ve been praying about who to rent this apartment to, and I believe I’m supposed to rent it to you.”

I know it sounds far-fetched, but I promise you, it’s true. That’s when I realized that Tim was spot-on. The whole experience really did increase my faith. We lived in that beautiful apartment for almost three years. We were never late on our rent once, although we eventually got kicked out because it seemed Justin made too much noise. Between the drum playing, loud music, and typical toddler banging, we were a little too rowdy for our neighbors.

Liz stayed with us for a year and a half total. She was probably more of a gift to me than I was to her (though years later she wrote me a beautiful poem about how she was convinced I showed her the true meaning of love). Liz helped around the house and with Justin, who adored her. I like to think Justin and I were positive influences, because after moving in she stopped stealing and using drugs. She enrolled in school full-time and started going to church.

Although my life has been saturated with beautiful moments of miracles and provisions, like finding that amazing apartment, there were also moments of doubt, where the realities of life and unanswered questions distracted me in my heart.

Six years into my faith walk, I was taking a bath one night at a time when I was experiencing what some call a dark night of the soul. I had been begging God to help me with some things, but my situations remained unchanged. My prayers seemed to fall on deaf ears. I couldn’t hear God in my spirit, nor could I feel Him around me.

I prayed. I cried. I begged. “God, where are You? I need You so badly and I can’t find You.”

My prayers seemed futile. I didn’t know why I even bothered. Doubt began to leak its poison into me. I even started wondering if this whole faith thing was a big joke. Maybe when I lay in the hospital bed after I tried to kill myself, my wounds were so deep and my need so big that I merely imagined my encounter with God. Maybe I was so empty and lost that God was really only a figment of my imagination, a crutch I held on to so I wouldn’t drown in my misery.

While I had run into other roadblocks in my faith, most of the time I could encourage myself or even be encouraged by others. There were times I couldn’t hold on to my own faith, but I could hold on to the coattails of someone else’s faith. On this occasion, however, I couldn’t even do that. I didn’t have the strength to ride out this storm by trying to grab hold of another person’s life vest. So I was honest with God.

As I lay in the tub, I prayed. “I feel like I’m in a pit,” I cried out, my words echoing against the bathroom walls. “I don’t have the strength to hold on anymore. I don’t see You. I don’t feel You. This is goodbye.” My prayer was honest, a cry from my heart. I was ready to throw in the towel. I was prepared to turn my back on faith and walk away. It had been a good run, but it wasn’t for me.

That night I cried myself to sleep. I questioned everything. I mourned the end of something I believed in, something I had poured my heart into and had sacrificed the last six years of my life for. I had given up everything. I’d given up things I liked to do. And I’d done it all for a chance at having a relationship with a God who was not just the God of the universe but also known as a Father. That hurt the most. I felt like my heavenly Father had turned His back on me.

The next morning I got a phone call from a girl at church. We didn’t know each other that well, but I liked her. “Pattie,” she said, “I had a dream last night. It was about you.” My breath quickened. I didn’t want to jump ahead of myself, but . . .
could it be?

She told me that in her dream she was walking with God in heaven and He was showing her all the marvelous things in that place. Streets of gold. Blindingly colorful fields of flowers. Choirs of angels singing beautiful melodies. Then He parted the clouds and looked down right at me. “Do you see my daughter Pattie?” He asked the girl. “I want you to go tell her I love her very much.”

The girl looked at God, bewildered. “Why? I know Pattie. She knows You love her.”

God shook His head. “No,” He sighed. “She doesn’t.”

The girl was even more confused. “But I know about her relationship with You. Trust me, she knows.”

God was adamant. “No, she doesn’t. I need you to go to Pattie and tell her I love her. And also tell her I see that she’s in a pit, and I’m going to be the one who lifts her out.”

After the girl finished telling me about the dream, she encouraged me with this verse:

He lifted me out of the pit of despair,

out of the mud and the mire.

He set my feet on solid ground

and steadied me as I walked along.

He has given me a new song to sing,

a hymn of praise to our God.

Many will see what he has done and be amazed.

They will put their trust in the L
ORD
. (Ps. 40:2–3 NLT)

In that moment, the weight of feeling like my faith was empty or futile was lifted. I cried tears of relief. The dreaded fear of being abandoned was gone. God hadn’t left me. My faith wasn’t a sick or twisted joke.

Yet again, God had gone out of His way to assure me He was present. I wasn’t a forgotten child. He valued me. And I was worth enough for Him to take the time to make sure I got the message loud and clear.

Growing up, my son was a combination of Curious George, Dennis the Menace, Zack Morris, and Bart Simpson rolled into one. Women I knew who had multiple children actually told me that just watching Justin wore them out. The kid couldn’t sit still to save his life. Justin had so much energy, he was the literal embodiment of the phrase “bouncing off the walls.” I’m not even joking. Justin actually bounced off walls. Full of life, he was born ready to brave the world with a mischievous grin on his face and rambunctious energy in his step.

Early on, I gave up the hope that Justin would be a cuddler. When he started being mobile, tumbling and rolling about, he wanted out of my arms so he could explore on his own. He was always seeking independence. He’d loosely hold on to my hand while reaching out with the other to see what exciting new adventures existed beyond my reach, even if it was only a few steps away. Sometimes this hunger for exploring got him into trouble.

The few times I could afford to buy some new clothes, Justin and I took trips to the mall. I’d browse through the circular clothing racks and play peekaboo with him. Pretending I didn’t know where he was, I’d call his name while he hid and giggled loudly inside the clothing rack I sifted through. After a minute or two, I’d dramatically push aside a section of clothes, find him laughing hysterically inside of the rack, and yell “Peekaboo!” to his squealing delight. (How I miss those days!)

While I looked for a winter jacket on one such trip, two-year-old Justin and I engaged in our tenth round of peekaboo. This time, however, when I pushed aside the coats and yelled “Peekaboo,” Justin was nowhere to be found. I panicked. I threw down the jackets I’d draped over my arm and dashed around the store, madly searching inside each clothing rack to find my little guy. He wasn’t anywhere. Not in the rack of blouses. Not in the rack of jeans. Justin was nowhere in the store.

My heart pounded and my palms were thick with sweat. I hadn’t been browsing at the rack for more than two minutes during our game; I didn’t understand how he could disappear so fast. My heart pounded wildly in my chest.
Help! Where is my son?
I immediately alerted a store clerk, who helped me look for him. Maybe Justin somehow found his way to the back of the store? Five minutes passed and still no sign of him.

I ran out into the mall, calling Justin’s name and asking passersby if they had seen a two-year-old blond-haired little boy wearing a red shirt and blue jeans. They hadn’t, but they were kind enough to help me look for him. A security guard had run over to help me by that time and had radioed all the mall employees to keep an eye out for a missing two-year-old boy. Ten minutes had passed and Justin was still missing. It’s a mother’s worst nightmare. I was in hysterics, walking in and out of every store calling out “Justin! Justin! Justin!” I desperately hoped that at any minute he would turn the corner and run into my arms. But there was no sign of my son.

Finally, the security guard heard a buzz on his walkie-talkie. Someone had spotted Justin at the other side of the mall in the children’s play area. I’d never run so fast in my life. I was panting and out of breath by the time I reached Justin. My lungs were about to explode. “Justin,” I called out. My frantic heart was finally able to calm down at the sight of him safe and sound. My son, of course, hadn’t the faintest clue I had spent the last ten minutes in an absolute frenzy trying to find him. “Look, Mom,” he squealed when he saw me, without the slightest care in the world. He pointed to the rocket ship kiddie ride he was trying to climb. “Look, a wocket sip!”

Feeling equally relieved and irritated, I grabbed him. I hugged him so hard and so close, he tried to squirm his way out of my embrace. “Don’t you ever do that again,” I said sternly, wiping away the wisps of blond hair that were always covering part of his eyes. My voice softened. “Honey, don’t you ever, ever, ever leave Mommy again.” Finally able to wriggle free from my bear hug, he grinned from ear to ear and nodded his head. “Okay, Mommy! Can I pay on the wide now?”

Justin had a knack for pushing boundaries. The word
no
posed quite a challenge for him. Oh, he knew the meaning of the word, all right. He just loved testing me to see how much I really meant it. For instance, Justin knew the VCR was off-limits. He’d walk over to the table where it lay, put his hand a few inches above the VCR, and look straight at me. “No, Justin,” I’d warn. “You can’t touch that.” He’d quickly yank back his hand, his eyes still fixed on mine.

Not but a few seconds later, he’d slowly reach his hand out again near the VCR. I’d repeat the warning. “No, Justin.” Without blinking, he’d yank back his hand again. When he’d reach his hand toward the VCR for the third time as I said, “No, Justin,” in an I-mean-business tone, he would pause for a second, look at me, then quickly reach out and pound crazily on the VCR with his hand. Then he’d hightail it toward the other side of the room, as far away from me as possible. He knew he was in deep trouble.

The thing is, Justin was such a cute kid, it was almost impossible to stay mad at him. By the time he was two years old, he’d already seen more than his share of time-outs. When I’d make him sit in a corner for whatever trouble he got into, sometimes Justin would turn around to face me, pouting his cherry lips and innocently blinking his big puppy dog eyes. He’d shrug his shoulders and raise his hands with his palms out. With toddler frustration, he’d whine, “Awww, come on, Mom! But I’m ohneee two!”

I was thoroughly amused every time and tried hard not to bust out laughing. “If you’re old enough to know that, Justin, you’re old enough to go in the corner,” I’d say, doing my best not to smile. I never let on, but in those moments I’d want to scoop him up in my arms, hold him tight, and tickle him so hard his giggles would be heard in the apartment next door. But I knew I couldn’t. Someone had to keep this force of nature in line.

When Justin was around three, I started homeschooling him, which I continued up until he was in first grade. It was an honor to be the one to teach him his very first lessons, the basics of which would carry him through life. I taught him how to read and write. Justin soaked up knowledge like a sponge. By the time he was four, he was reading full sentences on his own.

As a part of the curriculum, I taught him about the Bible and helped him put verses to memory. Friends and family would be amazed at how quickly Justin learned and especially how he could spout off a Bible verse verbatim when prompted by a chapter and verse reference. My son blew me away. He knew by heart at least fifty verses at one time and could recite them without missing a beat. It was impressive.

I loved homeschooling Justin and being his one and only teacher. If I could have afforded it, I would have done it his entire school career. Working part-time wouldn’t pay the bills, however, so I had to enroll him in public school. Though I started him a year early and he had already completed the first-grade curriculum at home, I wanted to enroll him in a French school, so I let him repeat the year with kids his own age. While he was in school, I worked part-time at Zellers, a Canadian version of Walmart.

Justin got kicked out of his class the first day for making fart noises with his armpits. The teacher was well on in years, lacking patience, and couldn’t handle Justin. She immediately switched him into a different first-grade class. She was the first of many teachers who would get fed up with my son. Justin wasn’t purposely rebellious. He was a rascal in an unassuming, almost charming way. He sometimes got in trouble for things he didn’t even realize were wrong. Like the time he was suspended from Catholic school.

Justin loved movies and would often repeat lines from them. When he was around seven years old, he watched a movie called
Good Burger
, which was based on one of the sketches on a Nickelodeon network show
.
In one of the film’s scenes, a customer at a burger joint is complaining to Ed, a simpleton who works at the restaurant, about the hamburger he ordered. After his rant, the irate customer storms out of the place and yells over his shoulder to Ed, “See you in hell!” Ed responds good-naturedly, “Okay, see you there!” The scene was cute and funny, meant to make you laugh.

One afternoon when Justin rode the bus home from school, the Catholic bus driver wished him a good day as she let him off. Justin smiled, waved, and told her, “See you in hell, Bev!” He was suspended the next day. Justin wasn’t trying to be mean, just funny. Unfortunately, the bus driver didn’t appreciate my son’s humor. He was always getting into trouble and pushing boundaries. It almost seemed like Justin would get suspended at least once a year for silly things like throwing snowballs or playing with bang snaps (the mini firecrackers you throw on the ground that make a popping sound).

A bright kid, Justin got bored easily. As he got older, I noticed his teachers either loved him or didn’t. Some called him a leader. Others, who didn’t know how to handle his contagious energy, were exasperated by his antics. All the kids in his class, however, gravitated toward him. I remember one teacher used to say that she had thirty kids and Justin. If Justin was happy and behaving, the other kids followed suit. If he was being a troublemaker, the other kids copied his behavior.

I remember one particular occasion when he got in trouble at school and was called down to the principal’s office. Since it was such a common occurrence, Justin was prepared for his usual scolding. His teacher and the principal sat him down, but instead of yelling at him, they had a heart-to-heart with him. They encouraged him and talked to him about how he was a natural leader and what that actually meant. “Justin, the other kids in your class follow what you do and how you act,” they explained. “So when you’re good, they’re good.” These two people made such an impact on Justin. He came home from school that day beaming. “Mom, I’m a leader,” he exclaimed, proud as a peacock.

I often use this example when I talk to parents of children with ADD or ADHD who get into a lot of trouble. While Justin wasn’t formally diagnosed with either (though one doctor did comment he was definitely hyperactive), the signs were obvious. Justin was always distracted, he was creative, he was always doing several things at one time, and he couldn’t sit still. I’ve learned that these unusually strong-willed kids are usually too smart for their own good. They’re leaders in the making and need to be encouraged and shown how to redirect their energy appropriately. Children have different learning styles and should be taught according to how they learn. Unfortunately, most classrooms today aren’t designed for that kind of individual instruction.

I’ve found great comfort knowing that many great leaders in politics, science, the arts, and the military had attention difficulties; some were even known for being troublemakers as children. I’ll never forget a quote I heard in a video about a bunch of these greats: “Live long enough to irritate enough people to remember you.”

I noticed Justin’s musical talent very early on. It was hard not to; the boy had amazing rhythm. Even before he turned a year old, he could clap on beat to any song. When he was one, I’d bang out some beats and Justin would imitate me bang for bang as he sat in the high chair. He was a natural. He’d play the “drums” anywhere he found a flat surface: on pots and pans, chairs, countertops, the kitchen table, the bathroom sink—nothing was off-limits.

Justin got his musical abilities from both Jeremy and me. While I had grown up in the arts, singing and dancing, Jeremy’s side of the family was also gifted. Kate, Jeremy’s mom, was a very talented singer/songwriter, and others on her side of the family were also musically gifted. Grandma Kate made financial investments in Justin’s music by regularly sending us money for drum lessons when he was younger. Jeremy too was involved with Justin’s music. He always encouraged Justin and would also teach him songs on the piano.

So music was always a part of our lives. I had a lot of talented friends who would often come over for jam sessions. I loved to write and sing. My friend Jesse and I had many writing sessions at all hours. We actually sang at a couple of open mic sessions at a local hangout. One time we even had someone approach us and ask if we were looking for a manager. We laughed hysterically. No, we were just playing music for fun. We did, however, use Jesse’s multitrack recorder to make home recordings of our songs (which I can’t seem to find anywhere!).

At home, I’d sing and play on my keyboard, the used Yamaha I bought for $400 when I was ten. I purchased it using money I earned from acting in the Stratford Shakespeare Festival. Ironically, it was also the same keyboard I wrote about in my journal when I was fifteen. I was thinking of selling it for $300 so I could use the money to visit some cute guys I had just met. Thank God I didn’t get rid of it.

When Justin was two years old, I bought him a mini drum kit. Without any lessons or directions, he picked up the sticks and started pounding away. He played for an hour. My friends and I watched in amazement as this pint-sized kid with tousled hair and half of his lunch splattered across his T-shirt kept a perfect steady beat. With his signature grin plastered on his face, Justin bopped his head up and down, keeping in time with the rhythm. He loved playing the drums so much, when he was four I got him a djembe, a goatskin-covered African drum that had a different type of sound.