Nowhere but Up (22 page)

And just in the nick of time, less than a minute before he was due onstage and only seconds away from me physically prying the computer out of his fingers, Justin slammed the lid shut. Looking at me with a huge grin, he jumped out of his seat and said, “Done!” He grabbed a nearby microphone and made a mad dash toward the stage. I heard Justin shout out without missing a beat, “How’s it going, New York?” to the sound of a shrieking crowd.

Even as the pressure grew, he remained a typical teenager. I’ll never forget what happened after one of his shows early on. We rushed out of the arena, having only thirty short minutes to make it to Justin’s next radio appearance. Security officers surrounded us as we had to politely battle our way through the few hundred girls who were waiting outside for Justin. Our car seemed like it was a mile away, and I felt stuck in the midst of screaming teenagers and multiple pairs of outstretched arms that tried to reach out for Justin. Someone finally threw open the car door, and we hurried inside. I slammed the door shut and breathed a sigh of relief.

Driving off posed a challenge. The girls wouldn’t let us through. The mob required additional reinforcements of security officers to clear a path so we could drive out of the parking lot without running someone over. No amount of personnel could tame the crowd. The driver slowly inched his way onto the side street as girls pounded on the window chanting Justin’s name and screaming, “I love you, Justin!” The noise was deafening. The girls slammed on the car so hard, it felt like twenty-pound barbells were dropping out of the sky like rain. The car rocked back and forth from the seismic activity.

I took in the moment, amused and shocked by the madness.
How the heck did we get here?
I wondered.
How did this happen?
Justin, however, was oblivious to the entire chaotic scene. He was talking to his grandmother on his cell phone the entire time, chatting away as nonchalant as ever. “How are you, Grandma?” he asked. “How was your day?” He wasn’t Justin Bieber, pop star. He was Justin, grandson.

Despite how his career has exploded, Justin has always remained determined not to forget his roots. And I’ve done the same.

They were just like me.

And I was just like them.

In a narrow hallway lined with young women clad in black T-shirts and jeans, I stood among them not just as a curious visitor but also as a knowing survivor. As a person who’d felt similar pain.

I was on a tour of the Los Angeles campus of the Dream Center, a volunteer organization that meets the physical and spiritual needs of the community through nearly three hundred programs including a local and a mobile food bank, a mobile medical clinic, a rehab center for recovering addicts, and even a shelter for sex trafficking victims. Think of any need in the Los Angeles area, and the Dream Center probably has a program to fill it. Pastor Matthew Barnett, the founder of the organization and now a good friend of mine, calls it a twenty-four-hour spiritual hospital. To those who go there, it’s a lifeline.

A few days earlier, I had visited Pastor Matthew’s church. Lesley, one of my best friends, attends there and is involved in a few of their many outreach programs. She had told me great things about the Dream Center and the church, and I was curious to visit.

Matthew spoke that day. I’ll never forget what he said: “It’s great to gather together for church on Sunday, but real church starts Monday morning.” His message touched on some of the work that was being done through the Dream Center. I was intrigued and couldn’t wait for Lesley to show me around the nine-acre campus after church. I wanted to get a taste of what the headquarters of such an incredibly bighearted and mission-oriented organization looks like.

As we drove, Lesley talked about the various programs. I didn’t say much but soaked in the experience. My eyes were drawn to a group of women wearing the same clothes and walking in unison. They looked like an army battalion, moving with purpose and carrying themselves with pride. Lesley told me they were part of the women’s program. “They’re here for a second chance,” she said. I was deeply touched, moved by their courage to step out and be a part of the Dream Center ministry.

Tears streamed down my face as we continued to drive past large brick buildings with simple but neatly manicured lawns. “There’s the food bank where they process over one million pounds of donated groceries a month.” My mouth dropped. That’s a lot of food. “And there’s the teen unit, and over there is the men’s unit. The next one down is the women’s unit. There are over five hundred people living here at one time.” Lesley also showed me the renovated ambulances that drove around impoverished neighborhoods providing free medical care. We ended our drive passing by a diner that had servers, menus, and a wide selection of delicious food—all for free.

Seeing firsthand this amazingly orchestrated mission at work left me speechless. That night I tweeted, “Matthew Barnett is my new hero. He is truly the hands and feet of Jesus.” He tweeted back, “If you ever want a tour, let me know.”

One morning not long after, Matthew drove me around the campus showing me every facet of this incredible ministry. He had also arranged for a handful of men, women, and teens from different programs to share with me why they were at the Dream Center and how their lives had changed.

When we arrived at the women’s division, my heart was full of anticipation. I stood in front of them and wondered what brought these women, some as young as nineteen, to a place of so desperately needing help. Matthew introduced three of them who would share their testimonies with me. I listened as they unfolded the tapestries of their lives—tattered, worn, and miraculously beautiful. Their stories were heartbreaking.

I heard a former porn actress tell how she ran away from home, got involved with drugs and the wrong crowd, and met a young man who convinced her she’d make a great escort. Her sexual escapades eventually led her to star in pornographic films. Unable to cope with reality, she numbed her pain with her meth addiction.

Another woman shared about her physically abusive relationship, how she overdosed on drugs and was left for dead in a coma, and the fifteen-year prison sentence she faced at the mere age of twenty.

I watched the last young woman fight back tears as she told a tale of abandonment. Her stepfather sexually abused her repeatedly. While on a family vacation in Los Angeles, he beat her almost to the point of death. She woke up in a hospital and was told by a police officer that her parents had left her. She became a ward of the state, bouncing from foster home to foster home until she was lost in the system. Using drugs was an escape from being unwanted; selling them bought her escape.

Hearing their stories, I felt a familiar blow to my gut. I could relate. I wanted these young women to know I understood both their pain and their triumph. So when they thanked me for allowing them to share a piece of their hearts with me, I asked if they were willing to hear my story. They agreed.

Earlier, Matthew had simply introduced me as Pattie, one of his friends taking a tour of the Dream Center. He didn’t mention who my son is. I shared with these precious women the trauma of the day my dad walked out. I told them about how sexual abuse had left me vulnerable and afraid over the years. About how pain and emptiness drove me to drink, abuse drugs, and attempt suicide. I walked them through finding myself pregnant and alone at eighteen, admitting that I hadn’t been ready to be a mom.

But I didn’t stop there. I also told them about the grace in my story. About second (and third and fourth) chances. I wanted to remind them to keep going, to not give up, to keep believing their lives could stay turned around, not just for a little while but for the rest of their lives. Only when I came to the end of this story of a broken heart made whole, of a life restored, and of love found did I reveal one last piece of the puzzle. “And now here I stand before you as Justin Bieber’s mom,” I said with a grin.

The crowd of young women gasped. Some of them were even crying. They were astonished that the roads we had traveled were so similar and that we had something in common—we all found hope. We didn’t want to spend the rest of our lives muddling through the murky, subterranean parts of our journey. Though we had certainly not arrived yet, we had found our way up.

Don’t mistake their moved emotions as coming from excitement simply because I am the mother of a world-renowned pop star. Don’t think for one minute that they were inspired only because of who I was. Understand this: it didn’t have much to do with me. It was about seeing the evidence that things can change for the better, that “all things work together for the good of those who love God” (Rom. 8:28). They knew this, of course, based on their personal experiences. But my story offered further proof that you don’t have to stay stuck in abuse, in addiction, in despair.

Though I have experienced pain, shame, fear, and abandonment, I have also experienced hope, promise, peace, and joy. I am overwhelmed at how God has lavished me with His love and His grace. How in spite of my past, my mistakes, and even my unfaithfulness, I have intimately experienced the goodness of His mercy. I love the verse in Psalms that says, “The L
ORD
is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed” (34:18 NLT). It’s my testament. I wouldn’t trade my pain away, for I know how deep my faith has grown as a result.

As Justin’s career took off, I continued my healing journey. I had begun to face my demons and my past, unearthing deep wounds. It’s an ongoing process. As I continued to struggle with anxiety and depression, they were indicators I had more healing to do.

I confess my healing has been—and continues to be—a long process. I don’t make any claims that I’ve arrived at the final destination of emotional wholeness, but I am so much further than I ever imagined I could be. I am so much freer, full of life and peace in so many areas in my life.

When I began my journey of healing—of seeking out the broken places shattered by rejection, abandonment, and sexual abuse—I never realized how many layers of pain I would have to work through. And I never knew how hard it would be.

At times I thought I was going to break under the pressure. I would remind myself of the Scripture that shares how God “will not crush the weakest reed or put out a flickering candle” (Isa. 42:3 NLT). It told me that God understood my brokenness and would be gentle with me. He wouldn’t be impatient when I didn’t get it together immediately. He wouldn’t push me past my breaking point. He wouldn’t stretch me further than my capacity. He would take His time with me, not rushing the healing process.

My healing has taken so long, perhaps, because of the core lies I had believed since I was a little girl. Those untruths that shaped me in harmful ways were communicated to me by circumstances, people in my life, and even myself. It’s taken me years to not only identify them but also replace them with truth. That was a challenge. Even though I knew certain things were true, they didn’t always connect with the deepest part of me. Knowing something in your head and believing it in your heart are two different things. Once I was able to really grasp and embrace certain truths (many of which are found in Scripture), I was finally able to combat the lies and reclaim my identity.

For instance, I used to believe the lie that I was unlovable; now I know the truth that I am loved (Rom. 8:39). I used to believe I was full of shame; now I know I am forgiven (Rom. 8:1). I used to believe I was worthless; now I know I am valuable (Ps. 139:14). I used to believe there was no point to my existence; now I know the future is full of hope (Jer. 29:11). I used to feel rejected; now I know I am a daughter of God and my Father looks at me with eyes of approval (Zeph. 3:17). I used to believe I was a mistake; now I know I’m chosen (1 Pet. 2:9).

Whenever I felt depressed or anxious, I hammered these truths into me (I still do when I need to). I didn’t allow myself to get caught up in old feelings that only served to reinforce emotional damage. I focused on hope. I focused on healing. I focused on truth. The truth really does set you free.

My healing from the sexual abuse I’d suffered over the years needed to take place on multiple levels. It wasn’t just a matter of dealing with the actual acts that caused me emotional damage. I also had to deal with what happened to me as a result. The abuse had created in me shame, anxiety, and fear. It had also skewed my view of love and sex. I believe so much of my brokenness stemmed from the fact that I didn’t value or respect my sexuality.

After I lost my virginity, nothing about my sexuality seemed sacred to me. Having sex never felt wrong; it was part of my lifestyle. Something I did. Something I was expected to do. But when I was twenty-one, I started to feel like that part of my life was being challenged.

As a Christian, I knew sex was supposed to be reserved for marriage. But a few years after I gave my life to God, I was still struggling in that area. At that time a youth pastor invited me to a True Love Waits conference. The timing was perfect. I had no idea how to redeem or purify my sexuality. Frankly, I didn’t think it was possible. As I listened to the message, my stomach was in knots. The more I heard the speaker talk about his tainted sexual past and how he reclaimed that part of his life, the more I so desperately wanted my own purity restored.

Even before the speaker had uttered the last word of his message, I realized this was my opportunity. This was my time. This was my way of taking back the part of my life that had been mutilated and destroyed. After the service, I signed a pledge—with my friend Kevin signing as a witness—not to have sex before I was married. My hand shook as I penned my name. Pattie Mallette—the girl who knew about sex at the same age she played with Cabbage Patch dolls. The girl who could finally have restored what had been so painfully broken.

I’ve never looked back. Yes, it’s really hard. The temptation has been great at times. But I made a vow to God, something I take very seriously. It may seem prudish or old-fashioned in this day and age, but I’ve committed to honoring God by saving myself for marriage. I have no intention of reneging on that promise. (And yes, at the time of this writing, I’m still single.)