My mom recollected to me a time when she got up to nurse me in the rocking chair of our living room in the middle of the night. To her surprise, while she was nursing and rocking me to sleep, she looked out the window and saw a man’s face staring in at her! Upon realizing that he had been spotted, he ran off, but the crime-ridden neighborhood brought an uneasiness to my parent’s dreams of raising a family in a peaceful area.

My mom had always desired to have a houseful of children, but my dad felt that having a second child would be their limit. A few months after my second birthday, my little sister, Rhonda, was born. Unlike me, she was a very easy-going baby and was content to be held by most everyone. One of the most devoted mothers anyone could ever meet, my mother withstood the comments and ridicule that others gave her for choosing to nurse her babies rather than bottlefeed and to carry them around with her everywhere she went and not leave them with sitters. My dad became employed by the Post Office in his early twenties and worked his way up the corporate ladder rather quickly. He started off as a mail carrier in North Hollywood where he delivered mail to many famous celebrities. Although he loved the activity of delivering mail by hand, he felt it would be safer to move his family out of Southern California and to a quieter town. In 1980 when I was 4 years old, our family moved several hours north to Porterville in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley. Because of his supervisor position and being President of the Union, my dad quickly became busier than ever at work in addition to two hours of commuting each day. Even though I was very young at the time, I remember how scarce it was to see my dad during weekdays. He would leave by 5am and not return until dinner time. Most days he would bring a special treat home for my sister and me, play wrestling games on the floor, then tell us lengthy bedtime stories. Although he was a busy working man, he managed to take time off for fun vacations. Every year we would travel to Mexico, Death Valley, or the mountains to go camping with our little VW Rabbit. By the time I was a teenager, I had visited 26 states and 16 countries around the world.
“Seek the Lord while He may be found; Call upon Him while He is near” Is. 55:6
For the first six years of my life, we were very well-off financially, but even with the luxuries and comfort of our upper-class lives, my parents realized that something was missing. When I was 7 years old, my dad gave up his fast-paced job in exchange for a lower-salaried Postmaster position in a small, rural town. This new position would guarantee him more hours with his family, but no room for promotion. He accepted eagerly, knowing that a commitment to family was more important than a commitment to his career. Even though I was only an elementary school child when he changed positions, I admired my dad for who he was: a family man at heart. I also loved my mom dearly and felt secure in her full-time presence at home. She dedicated her life to her family and out of the abundance of her maternal heart, she operated a day care in our home while my sister, Rhonda, and I were at school. Her dream of having a houseful of children became a reality although not in the way she expected. She had a natural gift to take care of children and while watching her, I learned that babies were special. I learned how to tenderly hold a newborn, how to give a bottle to an infant, and how to play with toddlers. I felt sad seeing so many children clinging to their own mothers when they were dropped off and I often wondered why some of these mothers seemed so apathetic to their baby’s cries.

Undeniably, my childhood brought me stability, security and comfort. I never worried about money, about my parents fighting, about going without food, about moving from town to town, or about vehicles breaking down. Little did we know, the Lord would allow many emotionally painful experiences to enter into our lives before I reached adulthood in order to bring us into complete surrender and reliance on Him. Although life was easy-going and carefree, looking back now I realize that I was given too many freedoms in certain areas. I became “boy crazy” upon entering Kindergarten. While this childhood silliness was looked upon as innocent, because I was never directed away from constant daydreaming about boys or told that certain behavior was not permissible, my self-worth became wrapped up in how many boys noticed me. I innocently bounced from “boyfriend” to “boyfriend” in early elementary school. These emotional ties did not seem to cause any problems, but the web of confusion about purity, modesty and appropriateness grew and grew.

When I was 9 years old, a series of events occurred that disrupted our home. My mom announced that she was going to have a third baby! Mixed emotions overcame me because I was unaware that my parents wanted to have any more children, but nevertheless, my sister and I quickly became excited at the thought of a new baby in our own family. My sister and I began picking out names for this new little one and spreading the news to friends at school about our new brother or sister. If I would have searched a little deeper though, I would have noticed that my dad was not as ecstatic about this new addition and that my mom was not her cheerful self. Only a few weeks after my mom’s announcement, the dreaded news was told: My mom had miscarried the baby. “Why did this have to happen?” I asked myself. The unborn baby that was supposed to be added to our family was no longer talked about. For many months, my mom would quietly cry while she washed the dinner dishes alone. She may not have noticed that those soft sobs were heard by me and stored in my memory for years.

Around this same time, I advanced in my boy chasing and daydreaming. For my 9th birthday, I was given some sheer eye shadow and lip gloss and Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” album as gifts from my parents. I asked my mom’s permission to cut my long hair that went below my waist so that I could have a more modern style, one in which my hair would be almost shaved around my ears and neck. I sensed that my mom did not want me to cut my hair, but she did not want to hold me back in expressing myself, so she cut off all of my long, blond locks. Even though I still was only in the 4th grade, I felt my own independence and sexuality blossoming. I began shaving my legs and wearing clothing that I knew accented certain parts of my body, even though I had not yet gone through puberty. In 5th grade I had my first official “boyfriend” that held my hand. It seemed like after that, I had two or three boyfriends a year, nothing ever serious and nothing ever lasting more than a few weeks. In 8th grade, my mom told me that she thought my hair would look good if it was dyed a lighter blond color. I figured, “Why not?”, so she went ahead and dyed my hair. It turned out a lot more bleached-looking than what I thought it would be, but it also made me feel older. Yet, I was still a little girl.

At the time, I was glad that I did not have parents that wanted to change who I was. They allowed me to be “me”. But was this the person I really wanted to be? Was my innocence protected enough? I never even imagined asking these questions then. Life went on and over time my mom’s heartbreak over her miscarriage subsided and I, of course, continued living a very worldly existence. Although we were a moral, law-abiding family, we hardly ever went to church, prayed, or even talked about God, maybe in part because while living such a comfortable, self-sufficient life, God did not need to be called upon frequently to provide for us. I considered myself to be a Christian, but now that I look back, I was far from having a personal relationship with Jesus.