Six feet tall and a force to be reckoned with, my mom raised five children, alone, on very little money. While pregnant with my brother, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. My grandmother pressured her to terminate the pregnancy, but my mom refused. After giving birth, she started driving 100 miles for regular chemotherapy sessions, taking my siblings and me along.
On these trips, my mom followed the tradition of buying us fancy drinks at a gas station, hoping to distract us from our difficulties. One time, the car overheated, and she prayed aloud: “I just need to make it to the hospital!” After we arrived, people came running with a fire extinguisher, yelling, “Can’t you see the flames?” Calmly, my mom unloaded us from the car, said, “I’ll be back for it,” smiled, and took us inside. She made me feel so safe. All these years later, it’s never crossed my mind how scared she must have been.
Eventually, she got worse and was confined to a hospital bed in our living room. Because we didn’t want to leave her by herself, my 11-year-old sister and I took turns staying home from school. For a whole year, I didn’t learn much of anything. When I was 13, my mom died.
Afterwards, I spent a few months with a foster family. The first time they took me to church, I just felt comfortable. I even remember the way it smelled—a warm scent like incense or perfumed oil. Without trying, my foster parents showed me what a stable life could be. At the same time, my foster mother had very high expectations that I just couldn’t meet. I didn’t know how to study. I had never had anyone tell me, “You’re smart; you can do this.” It was not until I became an adult that I realized I was intelligent.
As a young teenager, I ended up moving again—to Tennessee—and attending a high school whose students were predominantly African-American and Hispanic. The other kids mixed with friends who were like them. I was quiet and my clothes weren’t very colorful. I was bullied because I didn’t look like everyone else. I was an outsider.
When I grew up, I married and had my own children. Wanting our children to have structure and consistency, I remembered going to church with my foster family, so we enrolled them in Christian school. Because they are biracial, we chose a school with a high percentage of minority students.
But on one Valentine’s Day, families received shocking news: our school system board had voted to shut us down. The announcement triggered memories of being ripped from a familiar place and tossed into a school where I didn’t fit in. I had to speak out, for all the children who were being uprooted.
I’ve never been bold. But I put together a Facebook post expressing my emotions about the school closing. This was my first time going public about anything personal. When another school mom shared it on her account, I thought, “Oh no, what have I done!” The next thing I knew, my little post had over a thousand views. I sometimes tell myself, “I’m not going to say anything,” and then suddenly, I’m saying things I never imagined I would, feeling the fire of the Holy Spirit inside of me.
One morning I was standing on the sidewalk with my “Justice” sign, protesting the closing of our school. I was freezing and crying (just a little), when somebody drove by. She rolled down her window and said, “Keep going, you can do this.”
When I reflect on my life, I can see that Jesus has been with me all along. Every time I think that I’m all alone, He reminds me that He’s holding me up, no matter what happens.
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