Nowhere but Up (11 page)

With that prayer, I journeyed into the final stages of pregnancy. Life wasn’t a fairy tale after that. I still had a lot to learn. Before I rerouted my life, my faith was genuine but immature. I lacked wisdom in a lot of areas. I wanted to live a life of faith, but I kept running into walls. The collisions slowly began to crack my thin spiritual bedrock.

I was easily moved by circumstances. It didn’t take much to change my moods. When things were great, I believed that God loved me. When times got a little rough, I felt God didn’t like me. I relied on my emotional state and what my circumstances looked like at the time instead of truth. But feelings are fickle. They come and go and change and then do it all over again. And life isn’t always easy. Just because you go through hard times doesn’t mean you’re a bad person or you did something to deserve a crappy hand.

I still had my share of rough patches. I was at a youth event one evening and noticed that almost everyone in the room seemed to feel the presence of God. Everyone except me. In that moment, I felt like God was abandoning me. Like for whatever reason, I wasn’t good enough for Him to connect with me in a powerful way. It didn’t help that days earlier, I had felt a distance between God and me almost so wide that I wasn’t sure if He was there or not.

Sensing my discouragement, the youth pastor pulled me aside and said, “Pattie, I feel like God wants you to hear this Scripture.” He read to me Jeremiah 29:11: “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the L
ORD
, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (NIV).

I was polite. I smiled and said thank you. What I really felt like saying was, “Whatever.” Don’t get me wrong. It’s a beautiful verse. It’s powerful stuff. But at the time it sounded so contrived, like he was pulling a nice Bible passage out of his bag of tricks to try to make the depressed-looking teenage girl feel better.

The next day I went back to church, where we were hosting a guest ministry team. After the service I asked one of the leaders if she could pray with me. She started praying for me, then suddenly stopped. “Wait right here,” she told me as she ran to a pew to grab her Bible. She started noisily flipping through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Pattie, I really feel God wants you to hear this verse.” Wouldn’t you know it, she started reading Jeremiah 29:11.

God got my attention with that, but only by a hair.
It’s gotta be a coincidence
, I thought
. Maybe this is just a real popular verse, like John 3:16. Maybe Christians just love to quote it all the time
. When I got home from church, I checked my answering machine. A girl I knew had left me a message. “Sorry I missed you at church today, but I really feel God is telling me that you need to hear this verse. Here’s what it says: ‘“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the L
ORD
, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”’”

Really?

My palms started to sweat. I was beginning to believe that hearing this verse so many times was more than just a fluke. Was God trying to tell me something? Did He care for me? Did He love me? Was He really interested in my future?

I dialed a friend to share my experience. Though I was fully engaged in the conversation, I kept staring mindlessly at the calendar on the wall, not really paying attention to what I was seeing. As I listened to my friend talk, my eyes began to focus on the bottom of the calendar. I noticed the Scripture verse of the month. Guess what Bible verse it was.

For the next few days, everywhere I looked I saw Jeremiah 29:11. I saw the verse blazoned on a coffee mug I pulled out of the cupboard at a pool party and on the top of my daily devotional. A woman at Bible study handed out individual Bible verses to read, and wouldn’t you know it, mine was Jeremiah 29:11.

I was blown away that God wasn’t frustrated with me for not getting His point the first few times. He showed me how far out of His way He would go to get me to hear what He wanted to tell me—that He had a plan for my life. A good plan.

To help pass the time during my last few months at Bethesda, I wrote letters to my family and friends back home. It helped me stay connected, even though my friends couldn’t understand or relate to what I was going through.

When I first moved to Bethesda, Jeremy and I were on one of our many breaks. Our relationship at that point was confusing. We kept in contact through writing letters and talking on the phone every now and then. He visited a couple of times.

On his last visit, Jeremy came by for a Lamaze class. I had asked him if he could come down once a week and take some birthing classes with me. Even if we weren’t sure how to define our relationship, he could at least show support.

I walked into the Lamaze class with Jeremy, clinging my pillow to my side, feeling both anxious and scared. All the furniture in the room was pushed to one side. Gym mats and pillows dotted the floor, couples planted on the mats. Every girl had a partner, even if they weren’t romantically involved. I couldn’t help but notice the sweet intimacy that connected most of the couples. As I watched them whisper to one another in hushed tones and share private moments, I was jealous.

I knew Jeremy didn’t want to be there. It was obvious. He didn’t fit the bill of a healthy boyfriend, but I was still desperate for us to work out the kinks. We were having a baby together. We’d created a human being whom we would see for the first time in less than two months.

As the clock tick-tocked into the next minute, the instructor fiddled with the VCR, about to pop in a tape. Just as she cleared her throat and looked around the room, Jeremy squirmed on the mat. In a matter of a few seconds, he got up, looking visibly uncomfortable. Though he was physically present, Jeremy’s heart wasn’t anywhere near the class, our baby, or me.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” was his excuse.

My heart sank.
Oh, God. It’s happening.

I wasn’t stupid.
Please don’t let him leave, Lord. Please make him stay. Please, God. I don’t want to do this alone.
After Jeremy left the room, I got up as quickly as I could with my bowling ball of a stomach slowing me down. I caught up with him just as he was exiting the building. We stood near the door.

“I’m sorry.” Jeremy put his hands on my shoulders and kissed my forehead. “I can’t do this.” With those stinging words, leaving behind fragments of the very emotions of abandonment, rejection, and betrayal that had hounded me all my life, Jeremy walked away.

I didn’t even have time to protest. I couldn’t move fast enough to grab him by the back of his shirt, pull him down, and make him stay. I couldn’t reason with him or convince him not to leave and to instead support me and stand by me during one of the most trying seasons in my life. I was humiliated. Devastated. Ashamed. The room spun out of control. The air around me was still, silent. I could hear a pin drop. I stood in the empty hallway. Alone.

I didn’t go back to that first class, and I didn’t bother taking any others. I decided I would just wing it.

The day I went into labor, Jeremy was in the county jail for getting into a fight. I was a week overdue. My baby was pretty content staying in the womb. He took his time and didn’t rush his appearance. (Ironic, considering once he made his grand entrance, he would constantly be on the go. His speeds have always been fast and faster.)

So a week past my due date, I went to the hospital to be induced. It wasn’t the magical moment I had imagined since I was a little girl. I had pictured this moment with my husband, the father of my baby, clutching my hand by my side. I would have given everything just to have Jeremy there—whether we were together or not—supporting me, cheering me on, and celebrating the arrival of the baby we had created. I did, however, have support from others: my mom; my friend Missy; Jeremy’s mother, Kate; and his sister, Bonnie. They all stayed by my side in the hospital room until I was taken into the delivery room.

There was no doubt in my mind: I wasn’t going to play hero and try to give birth naturally. God bless the women who do, but I was totally fine telling the doctors, “I don’t like pain. I’m a wimp. Give me drugs.” Well, actually I simply yelled for someone to give me drugs for the pain. Now!

After the doctor broke my water, I immediately went into natural labor. I started dilating quickly, much to the doctor’s surprise. Four hours later, I was ready to be wheeled into the delivery room. My mom came with me while Kate, Missy, and Bonnie waited anxiously in the waiting room.

After seven minutes of screaming and sweating, annoyed at the doctors and nurses who kept yelling at me to “push” (wasn’t it obvious?), around one in the morning on Tuesday, March 1, 1994, at St. Joseph’s Hospital in London, Ontario, Canada, I finally heard it . . .

The cutest little cry I have ever heard. Music to my ears. I kid you not, my precious baby boy sounded like he was singing.

The nurses wiped him off and laid him on my chest. My heart pounded. Was he healthy? Did he have ten fingers and ten toes? He was perfect. Seven pounds, fourteen ounces of squirmy, sweet perfection. I’d planned to call him Jesse, but when I saw my baby boy for the first time—when our eyes locked, the melodic crying faded to a whimper, and his tiny finger curled around mine—I realized he looked nothing like a Jesse.

“Hi, Justin,” I whispered, wondering how on earth two troubled teenagers could have created the most breathtaking baby in the entire universe. I soaked in the glory of the most beautiful moment in my entire life, nestling my sweet baby against my skin. My mother beamed when she finally had the chance to hold Justin. She stared into his face, her eyes glowing with pride, with amazement, with gratitude. When it was Jeremy’s mother’s turn, she did much the same, fixing her eyes on her grandson with an intense awe. She gasped. “He looks exactly like Jeremy.”

After all the visitors left and I found myself alone in the hospital with Justin, I finally had time to think. Something happens when babies are born. The world seems different, better. You care less about stupid things and you start thinking more about the future. Absent of a string of visitors, nurses coming in and out checking vital signs, and doctors following up, it was a taste of our coming life together. This was it. Justin and I were on our own. Something about his sweet, crinkly face and the adorable yawns where he resembled a baby lion tempered all the fears and questions that continuously tapped me on the shoulder.

How are you going to take care of this precious baby on your own?

One day at a time, I suppose.

Can you even afford a baby as a single mom?

I’ll find a way.

What if he gets sick?

I guess we’ll go to the doctor.

Where are you going to live?

I’ll work out those details just like I worked out everything else.

What if? What if? What if?

Who had the time or energy to get bogged down by the weight of those questions? I didn’t. I had a baby boy to care for.

Justin’s hungry

My house is a mess

I don’t have time for all this stress

It’s one in the morning

So tired

So blessed

I think I’ll go get some rest.

I stayed at Bethesda for a month after Justin was born. When I returned to the pregnancy home after the hospital, it was like a big celebration. I was exhausted but elated. The girls gathered around Justin, oohing and aahing, taking turns holding him and asking me about every detail of the birth.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off the faces of those who were expecting in a few short weeks. Some of the girls, as soon as they nestled baby Justin in their arms, were enraptured by the heartwarming moment. I knew they were counting down the minutes until they would get to do the same with their own baby. They gently passed Justin on to the next eager girl, continuing to ooh and aah and badger me with questions.

Then there were one or two girls who looked nervous while sweetly cradling my barely-a-week-old baby. Anxious. It wouldn’t be long before real life would kick in with an unstoppable force. I knew their emotions well—the torrid love affair between ecstasy and panic.

Eleven days after Justin was born, Jeremy was released from jail and saw our son for the first time. I was at my mom’s house for a visit. As I sat at the kitchen table, cradling Justin in my arms and inhaling the scent of his newborn skin, I anxiously anticipated the knock on the door. I hadn’t seen Jeremy since the day he left me at Lamaze class. Having Justin helped me push aside the bitterness I carried from that humiliating evening. The disappointment I had felt when Jeremy abandoned me paled in comparison to the indescribable love I felt for my son.

Still, I was nervous. I wasn’t sure how Jeremy was going to react. Would he be excited? Would he be edgy? Would he be disinterested? As I tried to distract myself by focusing on Justin, I couldn’t help but feel hopeful. I loved my ex. I always have. And I wondered if the minute Jeremy saw the beautiful masterpiece we had created together, he would find enough motivation to finally pull his life together and get his priorities straight. Maybe—and I hoped this wasn’t just wishful thinking—we could even be a family.

Don’t get me wrong. I was aware our relationship was toxic. I knew we both needed a lot of internal mending. I knew how bad things could be between us when they were bad. But even in light of those obvious and dismal realities, I couldn’t ignore the glimmer of hope that whispered to me. Maybe, just maybe, Justin was the missing link to making our relationship work.

When Jeremy walked through the door and first laid eyes on our son, he simply stared. He couldn’t stop. I don’t think a herd of elephants dancing in the room could have stolen Jeremy’s attention away from Justin. Awe colored his face. He was mesmerized by our little baby. As Jeremy wrapped his strong arms around this tiny swaddled creature, his stare melted into Justin’s sweet face. There’s not much I remember from that day except for the image of a man locking eyes with his baby boy with the kind of love that can only come from a father’s heart.

I stayed at my mother’s house for a few weeks after I left Bethesda and before I moved into my own apartment. She became my shopping buddy as I prepared for my new life. We scoured garage sales, secondhand stores, and other charity organizations collecting things for my new apartment. I was making a home for Justin and me. I was excited to have my own stuff and didn’t care that the furniture I bought was once or even twice used. I wasn’t bothered by the cigarette burns on the couches or that the kitchen table wobbled unless you stuffed rags underneath the legs. I appreciated everything I bought or received from generous and loving people and places like my church and Stratford House of Blessing, a nonprofit organization that provides living essentials like food, clothing, furniture, and baby supplies to families in need.

I was on mother’s allowance, the Canadian equivalent of welfare, until I could support Justin and myself full-time. I didn’t make much more than nine or ten thousand dollars a year, which included part-time jobs and social assistance. Justin and I didn’t have much. It was a struggle to buy diapers and formula, but I managed to make it work. As poor as we were, my son never lacked for anything.

My mother and Bruce were amazing. They pitched in financially whenever they could. They also took care of Justin when I needed a breather. They often took Justin for a night over the weekend. When Justin got older, they contributed to his hockey fund, helping pay for equipment and uniforms, membership fees, and so on. I’ll always be grateful for their help. I realize a lot of single moms don’t have that kind of support from their own parents.

For the first two years of Justin’s life, he and I lived in an apartment complex a few minutes away from my mom and Bruce. Our first-floor, two-bedroom apartment was small but cozy. It was just the two of us, so we didn’t need much room. Outside of the questionable plumbing, the cheap aluminum window blinds that always bent, and the multiple areas of peeling paint throughout the apartment, it was perfect. It was home.

After I moved into my own apartment, Jeremy started coming around a lot. He was there so much, he started to leave things behind. A toothbrush. Some clothes. Toiletries. Spending the night turned into spending a weekend. Before too long he was living with us.

I never intentionally calculated on us being together. Sure, it was something I had secretly wanted, but only if his lifestyle changed. Looking back, I was so naïve. I allowed the relationship to progress by way of shutting my eyes and hoping that everything would magically work out between us. That we would be a happy family. An adoring, loving, functional family. Just like on TV. I never addressed the reality of what it meant for us to be together. As a matter of fact, we never even discussed us being together. It was an unaddressed assumption.

Though I had recommitted my life to God, I had still not committed my sexuality to Him just yet. Jeremy and I had been dating on and off for years, and I didn’t know how to shift from being intimate with him to not. It would take time for me to address that part of my life. I was, however, still heavily involved in my church, attending Sunday services, youth group, and Bible study.

As weeks went by, the delusion that had blinded my good judgment started fading. It was obvious Jeremy had no intention of giving up his partying habits. He would stay out all night and sometimes even have his buddies over to the apartment to play cards and pound back some beers. The truth slapped me in the face like a bucket of ice water.

In the wee hours of one morning, I heard Justin wailing. He was up again for the umpteenth time. I could barely keep my eyes open from another night of only three often-interrupted hours of sleep. Jeremy wasn’t even home yet. As I stumbled into our son’s room, I knew at that moment I couldn’t stay in a relationship with Jeremy. Not because I didn’t love him, but because he wasn’t ready to change. I was disappointed in myself. I was so stupid. Why hadn’t I even talked with him about what it meant for us to be together—together as a couple and, more importantly, together as new parents?

I’d had it. The next morning I told Jeremy to move out. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I admitted to him. “I’m sorry.” We argued for a while and he left. I didn’t hear from him for a couple of weeks.

The next time Jeremy called was the day I wondered if pigs really did fly. He was calling from rehab, where, he told me, he had found Jesus. And he wanted to talk to me about God.

His announcement was breaking news, but I was suspicious. I knew Jeremy. Was this a ploy to get me back? Time would tell.

Jeremy and I began spending every Sunday morning at church. We prayed regularly and even went to Bible study. I was amazed. Jeremy was not the same man he was when he skipped out on me during Lamaze class. This was a new and improved Jeremy, a man that I had hoped would one day exist. My guard started weakening a few weeks into his newfound faith. One Sunday in the middle of a church service, he asked me to go outside for a walk. Jeremy held my hand and looked pensive. He turned toward the sky and asked, “Why doesn’t everyone know about God? How come they don’t know how amazing He is?” It’s one of the sweetest memories I have.

There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that his transformation was authentic. His attitude and behavior were different than they had been in the weeks before. While our past was filled with futile promises of him changing, now it was actually and finally happening before my eyes. Jeremy was sweeter, more thoughtful, more kind and gentle. Best of all, he was more consistent than he had ever been.

So Jeremy was back in our lives and back in my apartment. He got rid of my secondhand couch and replaced it with an old one his mom had given him. Together we bought a beautiful wooden kitchen table with a built-in bench.

As first-time parents, Jeremy and I couldn’t take our eyes off Justin. I melted at the slightest hint of a smile or a gurgling laugh. I loved how his tiny hands reached out for me, his mama. As I held Justin and pressed my nose against his sweet face, I disappeared into that distinct baby smell. He was a gift. He was entrusted to me. He was my life.

Our pastor eventually caught on to our living situation. (We never tried to hide it from anyone; we just didn’t volunteer the information.) He pulled us aside after church one day and said, “We love you guys so much. We know you’re living together, and since you already have a baby, I want to encourage you to think about getting married. It’s the right thing to do.”

Later that day Jeremy looked at me and asked, “So whaddya think? Wanna get married?” There was as much romantic sentiment in that casually thrown out question as in asking if I wanted a turkey sandwich. Still, I said yes. As unromantic as the proposal was, I wanted to marry Jeremy. We set the date for October 15, 1994, just a few short months later.

We went to a store to pick out a ring together. Since he never even officially proposed, he never got down on one knee and gave it to me. The engagement was nothing like I had dreamed about since I was a little girl.

When I was getting my wedding dress altered, I stared in the mirror. I imagined the walk down the aisle, and tears streamed down my face. I didn’t foresee myself feeling cherished or special, the way I should feel on what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life.

We had a couple of premarital counseling sessions at our church. The counselors quickly came to the conclusion we weren’t ready to commit to marriage. We didn’t need them to tell us that. The evidence was blatant, though I didn’t want to admit it. We were still so broken and hadn’t dealt with all of our individual issues. So our relationship was never truly healthy.

Both Jeremy and I had a lot of living to do on our own before we could even think about committing to each other. But we didn’t know it. I was desperate for us to work, and Jeremy was busy trying to work out his sobriety and his own issues.

I was also growing in my faith, but I had a lot of rough edges. It would take years to sand and soften some of them. It would also take time to curb some of my bad habits. I still had a lot of major changes to make. I struggled with smoking, and I had so much anger pent up from my past and in particular the years of sexual abuse. I ended up taking a lot of it out on Jeremy. I admit I was notorious for picking fights with him over some of the dumbest things.

The beginning of the end came one night when Jeremy was supposed to meet me at Bible study. An hour into the meeting, he still wasn’t there. After the closing prayer, there was still no sign of my fiancé. I went home, put Justin to bed, and got ready for bed myself. Still no Jeremy.

Around midnight, I lay in bed flipping through the channels on TV, distracting myself from entertaining worst-case scenarios. Maybe he got into a car accident? Or something happened to his mom? In the middle of another infomercial for another useless product, I finally heard the front door open.

As soon as Jeremy walked into the bedroom, I could smell the booze.

“Where were you?” I asked, aware of the obvious. I was upset, but more so disappointed. He had done so well, staying sober for months. I was genuinely concerned. Why had he slipped up? “What happened, Jeremy?”