I have no idea how long the four of us managed to stay alive with limited resources and sporadic adult supervision.  A few months? Several months? Since even Genius Brother was too young to have a sense of passing time, he isn’t sure either.

Did anyone know we were being left to fend for ourselves? Was our father completely unaware of our woeful living conditions? Since he and our mother were separated at the time, he was living on the Air Force base nearby; it’s possible that he believed we were faring well. Was our mother’s family in contact with her often enough to know there might be lapses in our care? My guess is that both sides of the family were kept in the dark.

Completely unrelated side note:  Any time I heard that my dad had stayed on the base, I imagined him living in one of those Quonset hut barracks like Gomer Pyle did. Complete with his own Sergeant Carter.  

I suppose it’s impossible to be sure about who might have known the severity of our circumstances. Perhaps no one! Genius Brother took this as a challenge and decided he would try to keep us well-hidden so as to avoid discovery and possible separation of the siblings.

It worked. 

For a while.

My six-year-old Genius Brother knew he had to keep us fed. He scrounged up whatever milk he could find to make bottles for me (no one can fault him for not knowing cow’s milk is unsafe for babies under one year old), and when there was no milk to be found in the house, he filled my bottle with whatever liquid was available – which sometimes meant grapefruit juice. For an infant. Yes, basically liquid acid. Thank You, Lord, for Your help and protection!

My brother was wary of trying to cook on the stove, so at one point he attempted to feed us all raw hamburger meat. RAW MEAT. I appreciate him for trying; I really do. I can’t imagine that I ingested much of the grapefruit juice or the uncooked beef he served up, but I applaud his efforts. 😊

At some point, Genius Brother was ready to face the challenge of preparing a home-cooked meal. I’m guessing the recipe read something akin to “pour contents into pan, heat up.” But hey, he was six.  

Are you old enough to remember plastic kitchen curtains? Some of you are. What was the appeal? Maybe that they could be wiped down or washed easily? Well, that day, we discovered another use for those crinkly drapes. 

Kindling. 

Who knows why the kitchen curtains would be right next to the stove top, but there they were, and they immediately went up in flames as soon as my brother ventured into the world of (attempted) cooking.

Neighbors called the fire department, the kitchen blaze was extinguished, and my brother’s reign as leader of the four miniature musketeers came to an end. Not only were we discovered to be home alone at the time of the fire, but the neighbors who gathered in front of our house informed the authorities that our mother had not been seen for several days. Child Protective Services was several years off in the future, so the local police were contacted. I’m sure our neighborhood was abuzz as we were scooped up and whisked away in a squad car. Who knew our day would end with us making our television debut? Okay, yes, we were featured on the 10:00 news for child neglect and abandonment, so not exactly the claim to fame we would want.

Final stop: Lena Pope Home (that huge orphanage on the hill in west Fort Worth)

“He led me to a place of safety; He rescued me because He delights in me.”

Psalm 18:19

Well, friends, launching into this was more difficult than I expected. Although I have shared my story countless times over the years, for some reason, I’ve been finding it harder to jump in here and get things rolling. 

The beginning. The early years.

Here we go. 😬

I was the first daughter born into my family. My three brothers were ages six, four, and three, and our parents were separated at the time of my birth. My father served in the Air Force and lived on base (Carswell AFB in Fort Worth, Texas) while the four of us lived with our mother.

There is no way I can possibly know the scope of what was actually going on in my family, but in spite of the struggles and the choices made, I can trace the Lord‘s hand as He kept four very young siblings alive and protected. 

For reasons unknown to me, my mother would often leave us in the care of my oldest brother. Maybe for a few hours, then perhaps for an entire day, and eventually for a few days at a time. 

Did I mention that she left us in the care of my oldest brother?

HE WAS SIX. 

YEARS. 

OLD.

Do you know any six-year-olds? Would you trust that child at home alone for even an hour? No? Not sure he could keep himself safe and out of trouble? Then how about throwing in a couple of preschoolers and a newborn? OH. MY.

To this day, I marvel at how our Heavenly Father looked after us with only my much-too-young brother as our keeper. 

I should add that he was no ordinary six-year-old; I have no doubt that he is a genius with a side of photographic memory. Even so, it’s quite extraordinary for a child his age to figure out the basics of life and how to run a household and tend to small children and an infant.

Genius Brother (I will now refer to him as such 😁) has shared with me some of the ingenious ways he found to take care of us.

Can you imagine a young boy attempting to change diapers on a newborn? If you are anywhere near my age, I’m sure you remember the gigantic diaper pins from that era. I have wondered how my brother could have the dexterity to maneuver those huge pins when dealing with cumbersome cloth diapers and a wriggly baby. He told me that he was so afraid of accidentally sticking me with the pin that he would place his own thumb on the back side of the diaper so that when he pushed the pin through the cloth, he would pierce his own thumb each time and therefore could be sure that he was not piercing me.

<< allow me a moment to step over here and just try, once again, to absorb this >>

Is that not a beautiful picture of selfless love? I’m sure Genius Brother was simply sharing one of his memories with me and had no idea the impact it could have. Not only can I see it as love in action, but I also see it as a picture of Jesus‘s love for us and His willingness to sacrifice Himself in our place. My brother gave himself a dose of what should have been my pain each time.

I was born in October, so all of this was happening during what Texans call winter. No, we don’t have blizzards here (a Texan’s word association connects those to Dairy Queen, not snowstorms), we are more likely to cancel school for an ice day than we are a snow day, and it’s true that most of us are clueless as to how to maneuver cars down snowy/icy roads. But we rarely need that skill – WE LIVE IN TEXAS.

So although we don’t have to brave the harsh winters that our friends to the north do, we do have to turn on the heat occasionally. 

Genius Brother faced the challenge of keeping us warm throughout those cold months. With no central heating system in the tiny house where we lived, he had to make use of the only heat source available to him:  the kitchen oven.

If he knew (or at least suspected) we would be staying alone overnight, he would fire up the oven and allow it to heat up that small area of the room. He would then gather Brother Two and Brother Three with him in the kitchen and huddle with them in the warmth emanating from the oven. Invariably, the little ones would be whimpering for our mother to come home (as little ones are wont to do), so Genius Brother would attempt to console them until they cried themselves to sleep on the floor in front of the oven. He would then grasp them by the ankles, drag them through the house, and hoist them onto their bed to sleep for the night. How in the world did he pull this off when he wasn’t much bigger than his younger brothers?! Again, I am amazed at how the Lord equipped my brother with the resourcefulness and determination to care for us.

“You have been a place of safety for the poor and needy in times of trouble.”

Isaiah 25:4

Not just a dream. Thousands upon thousands. I figure that even if I had only one dream each night (not true), the count would be well beyond 20,000 by now. And, yes, I did the math on that. Because it’s MATH, and math is its own kind of AWESOME. I will try to convince you of that in a later post.

Oh, yes, I am a dreamer. If you and I know each other, it is highly likely that I have dreamed something about you. Friends, family, acquaintances, famous people – they all find their way into these performances my brain puts on for me nightly. Seriously! It’s like watching a sitcom or a full-length movie! The problem is that no one has a ticket to see it but me, so the enjoyment ends there. No matter how funny or strange the dream, I rarely share the details because dreams can sound ridiculous in the retelling, and, well, things can get awkward.

I don’t think my friend since fifth grade needs to hear that she showed up on my porch and begged me to take all the extra eggs her hens had laid. Does she live on a farm in real life? Does she actually raise chickens? Doubt it.

Do you think I should tell Mariah Carey that I once found her living out of my 1973 Volkswagen bug – parked in my garage?

Should I remind George W. Bush about the day he (and Laura) stopped by my house and asked me for some sweet tea and a haircut?

Do you think Oprah wants to know about the time I managed to sneak into her home and then stood there at the edge of her gigantic indoor pool waiting for her to finish swimming laps so that I could ask her to help me find my sister I’ve never met? She started saying things like “I’m calling security” and “you’re a stalker” and “don’t you dare put your legs in this water” until I finally gave up.

You see how things could get horribly awkward, right? This is why I keep my crazy dreams to myself (for the most part).

So, yes, I am a dreamer. 

There was one dream I had that has impacted my life more than any other. Hands down. 

Now, this one took place a loooooong time ago. I was a four-year-old girl living in the tiny town of Howe, Texas. My father was off fighting in Vietnam; my stepmother was left alone to care for eight children. 

Although I was only a preschooler (I doubt that word had yet been coined – I believe the more technical term was “little kid“), my perception was that my world was not all butterflies and lollipops. Although I certainly never verbalized it (nor would have been able), I felt a sense of lack with a side of sadness. I suppose there is a feeling of “not quite enough” when a family of ten must be fed and clothed on an Air Force salary, but my “side of sadness” stemmed from a different source: conversations about my mother abandoning me and my brothers were held out in the open, so I felt I wore an “unwanted, unloved” label from a very early age. I’m sure no one else picked up on this because I could easily mask it with my daily routine of being a four-year-old.

And now to that life-changing dream:

I noticed it was raining outside and oh, how my little girl self longed to run and play in the rain and jump in puddles and feel the raindrops on my face, but I also knew there was absolutely zero chance of this happening. My stepmother was on high alert at the slightest hint of bad weather, so our only option ever was to stay safely ensconced in the house once the first drops of rain appeared.

Imagine my glee when I suddenly realized no one in the family was looking my way and that I could sneak my way out into the land of soft rain and endless possibilities (again, this is a dream). My escape was a clean getaway. I knew that being outside in the rain was forbidden, but clearly, my dream self was less concerned with obedience than my real-life self.

As I danced around and splashed in every puddle I could find, I noticed something odd. Instead of huge raindrops, the round things falling from the sky were actually COINS. I could not believe our fortune! Our family had hit the jackpot! No longer would we be scrambling to make ends meet! We would finally have ENOUGH. I shouted to my siblings to come help me gather this unexpected treasure, but no one could hear me. Of course, coins piling up on the ground might help ease the household budget strain, but it wouldn’t alleviate that general sense of lack I felt. Let’s just agree that the coins were symbolic of whatever help I needed.

(If this next thing has never happened to you while dreaming, then be prepared to think, “wow, she is completely WEIRD” – I will understand)

Somehow my brain has convinced itself that while dreaming about something that I would love to have in real life, if I can just hold on to it tightly enough in the dream, then it will surely follow me over into my wide-awake world. I have had zero success with this exercise, by the way.

So in this particular dream, I collected as many coins as my tiny hands could hold and clutched them tightly in hopes of presenting them to my family. 

I think you all can see where this is going.

It didn’t work. AT ALL.

So now four-year-old Lori is fully awake (and painfully aware of her empty hands) and feeling disheartened and dejected and deflated and disappointed (yes, all the D words). 

Suddenly, I HEARD A VOICE. 

I had no idea where the voice came from and I did not recognize the voice, but I very clearly heard this voice say to me:

“Don’t worry, Lori, it’s not always going to be this way.“

I told no one of the dream. Or my disappointment. Or the voice I heard. 

And although, at the time, I couldn’t completely grasp what had happened, I have no doubt whatsoever that the tender voice I heard was none other than the voice of the God of the universe speaking hope into the heart of a little girl in a small town in Texas.

I held on to that promise through many difficult years that followed, at times clinging to it like a life raft. Trusting that one powerful sentence to be true (although the source remained a mystery to me) brought me great comfort in the midst of sometimes great sorrow.

I still marvel that the Lord God, the Creator of everything, would speak to a young girl and make sure she had a sliver of hope that she could cling to until the day she surrendered her heart to Him and found her hope and satisfaction in Him. 

Oh friend, He is there for you. He loves you perfectly. He will speak hope into your heart just as He did mine. This is my prayer – that you would hear the voice of Almighty God whispering hope and love to you in the midst of whatever pain or sadness you are enduring.

August 26, 1979

Sunday morning

Mineral Wells, Texas

How can 38 years have passed when the memories of this day are still so fresh in my mind?

I was a 16-year-old girl embarking upon my senior year of high school the very next day. That should have been enough excitement to keep my mind occupied, but instead I was engulfed with questions of “what now” and “where will I go” and “is there a God and does He know about me” – not the usual thoughts of a teenager on a Sunday morning.

I walked to the only church familiar to me – one that an aunt had occasionally taken me to when I was younger. I wore the only dress I owned, which was the same one I had worn to my father’s funeral seven months ago. My shoes were already scuffed, so I felt no obligation to be careful with them – I kicked every rock that I felt like kicking as I ambled along the streets. If you had asked 16-year-old Lori how far it was to the church, she may have guessed three miles or so. Thanks to Google Maps, I can now see that it is 1.4 miles – not too far. I remember hoping that no one from school would drive past and recognize me. Would they wonder why I was walking instead of driving? Would they wonder why I was wearing a dress instead of my usual jeans and a T-shirt?

I couldn’t allow the potential for embarrassment to thwart my plan. I had been making my way to this church for two months in my quest to find out if there might be a God. As I walked, I decided this would be my final trip.

Today was the day for giving up. I had no idea where I might turn next, but if I did not find some shred of hope to cling to on this morning, then I would close the door on this part of my journey.

As I slipped through the doors of the church, I was careful to not draw attention to myself. I felt some weird sort of shame for not having been in church all these years, BUT LET ME BE VERY CLEAR: that shame was not from God! Instead, I suppose it came from my preconceived notions about “good people go to church” or something like that. I don’t know! I was a teenager! Who knows where I got my ideas?!

When my summer quest to “try out church” began, I was so convinced that I would be singled out and mocked by the regular churchgoers that I would skulk into the very back row of the pews. I felt unworthy to sit any closer to the front – I truly believed that I did not deserve to be there. Isn’t that ridiculous?! As I returned to church Sunday after Sunday, I felt perhaps a little more “worthy” and I would allow myself to move up one pew each week. ONE PEW EACH WEEK. Again, RIDICULOUS.

On this particular Sunday morning, I decided I would take a huge leap forward and bravely planted myself on the fourth pew from the front. I figured I would go for it since it would be my last venture into the sanctuary. I had nothing to lose! Also, I was very curious to know what people said to the preacher at the end of the service when they went forward and shared hushed conversations with him. Yes, I absolutely planned on eavesdropping. I needed answers, people!

Even in that crowd of people, I felt completely alone. No family at home, no advocate, no relief from the excruciating pain. Alone and terrified for whatever the future held. Utterly hopeless.

I glanced around and recognized more than a few faces – some who were customers on my father’s route (he was a mail carrier). I was sure that they knew he had taken his own life – how could they not know?! My grief was compounded by the fact that no one spoke to me at church or acknowledged my family’s situation – which (for me) added to the stigma of suicide I felt I was wearing like a scarlet letter. Looking back, I realize that perhaps they actually did NOT know who I was and probably didn’t know what to say to this teenage girl who silently slipped in and out of church each week. I was not yet old enough to realize that, most likely, everyone there was simply engrossed in their own thoughts and lives and didn’t intentionally ignore me. I’m sure I didn’t seem too approachable!

(Please note: I am not sharing this part of my story as a way of saying “shame on you, people” or “poor me” – only to convey how someone who had no knowledge of God or the truth about Him felt when trying to find Him)

So there I sat in my self-appointed position of “worthiness” – a mere four pews from the front of the church. Although I had “graduated” to the fourth row, I didn’t feel any more informed or hopeful than when I had launched my search earlier in the summer. With no real knowledge of God or the Bible, I was unable to make sense of the sermons, and there were so many unfamiliar words flying around that I couldn’t decode the language. This lack of understanding exacerbated my sense of despair.

As I sat there pondering my options for survival and for finding security, I felt as though I was spinning out of control toward the horizon, and that once I reached the edge (yes, I do realize I could never actually reach the edge of the horizon), I would be hurtling through space and lost in nothingness. I WAS A MESS.

All I wanted was to be loved. 

And to have a sense of security. 

And to know that I mattered. 

And for my heart to not be broken forever.

Isn’t that what we all want?

Discouragement enveloped me and I totally gave up on finding hope of any kind. As I sat in the pew, I wrestled with my thoughts of desperation – telling myself that this road was obviously a dead end.

(I will do my best to convey what happened in those next few moments, but human words are inadequate. Although I did not see with my human eyes or hear with my human ears, I will relate it as if I did BECAUSE IT WAS JUST THAT REAL TO ME)

Suddenly, it was as if Jesus Christ Himself was sitting on the third pew! RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME!!!

He turned around to face me and put His arm up on the back of the pew.

JUST TO TALK TO ME.

Jesus:

Lori! Hey, it’s Me! I am what you’ve been looking for!

Lori:

**speechless**  (with mouth agape, no doubt)

Jesus:

I will be your father, your mother, and your best friend!

(At this point, 16-year-old Lori is completely awestruck and thoroughly convinced that everyone nearby MUST be witnessing this spectacular moment, so she scans the crowd for any sign of a reaction to hearing the voice of God. I actually thought that if I yelled out, “Are y’all hearing this?! Do y’all see what’s happening over here?!” that they would all respond with a resounding “YES!!!”)

Lori:

How??? How do You do that?

(Yes, the fact that He knew my exact thoughts and the desires of my heart had slipped right past me in the moment)

Jesus: 

All you do is come to Me. I will do the rest! Just come to Me. I am here waiting for you!

Lori:

Okay! Yes! Yes, I will! Just give me a few weeks to clean up a little and then, yes, I will come to You.

(I did not know a single verse from the Bible, much less anything remotely related to biblical doctrine, but somehow I knew without having to be told that I felt terribly unclean in the presence of a holy God. The fact that I would have been considered a “good girl” in the eyes of the world – because I generally obeyed adults and obeyed the rules – was useless to me as I sat before the One Who made me and knew me. Although I knew nothing of Adam or original sin or scripture that tells us we are all born with sinful natures, I felt like I needed cleansing. I just KNEW.)

Jesus:

No, no, no. That isn’t how it works. There is no way you could possibly clean yourself up on your own. You come to Me just as you are.

Lori:

**silence mixed with much consternation while trying to process this brand-new information**

Jesus:

Okay – this will help you understand:  imagine the dirtiest dish you’ve ever had to clean. Baked-on food. Left soaking overnight. Nothing will get that dish clean! Isn’t that how you feel right now?

Lori:

Yes! Exactly like that!

Jesus:

And that is exactly how you come to Me – just as you are. Just like that dirty dish. But I am the One Who can clean you up – I am the main dishwasher. You come to Me like that dirty dish, and I put you in My dishwasher. But in My dishwashing cycle, it isn’t Cascade and scalding water that cleans you . . . it’s My blood. You are the dirty dish, My blood washes over you and cleanses you, the dishwasher stops, and I take you out and present you to God. “Father, here is Your new daughter, Lori, washed perfectly clean by My blood.”

Lori:

Is that what it means to be “saved”? I’ve heard them use that word a lot.

Jesus:

That’s what it means!

Lori:

Why wouldn’t anyone tell me that?

Jesus:

Who better to tell you than Me?

And with that, I bolted from the pew and made my way to the preacher down front. Fortunately, this coincided with the end of the church service, so I was spared the embarrassment of being escorted out for causing a scene.

With tears streaming down my cheeks and my gangly arms thrust heavenward (again, I knew nothing of how Christians were “supposed” to act), I cried out, “I’M READY TO ACCEPT JESUS!”

Not one thought given as to how loud my voice might be in this moment. 

No wondering if the people might be gawking at me from the pews. 

Not one moment of second-guessing myself as to whether I followed protocol or not.

In that moment, absolutely nothing in the universe mattered to me except that I had found everything that my heart had ever longed for! The God Who is big enough to speak all creation into being with just His voice chose to make Himself small enough to sit with a young girl so that she could understand His vast love for her and His sacrifice for her that meant she could spend forever with Him.

I had been adopted! Former orphan, newly adopted! I basked in the boundless love of my Heavenly Father – the One Who would never fail me, never disappoint me, never abandon me, never hurt me. I had finally come home to my perfect Father.

I will never get over it.

He is my everything. ❤️

I have mulled over the idea of writing for a while now. Okay, for years now. For some reason, trying to get started feels exactly like I am 13-year-old Lori again – perched on the high dive, not sure I am ready to jump.

BUT HERE I GO LIKE I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING

By the way, I would absolutely love to hear any tips or helpful hints you could share with me. I am brand new to this world of blogging and have much to learn. I welcome all criticism – both constructive and constructive. 😁