Where Confusion and Compassion Met

After a long, hot summer living out of a wood-paneled station wagon with my mother, two brothers, sister, and a cat, we somehow made it to Hico, Texas.

We moved into government housing in a three-bedroom unit behind a little gas station diner called Scotty’s. The floors of this multiplex were covered in the same cold linoleum I had known before, but to me, it felt like a palace. After being homeless, anything with a roof, a kitchen, and a bedroom was magical.

It was there, behind Scotty’s, that I remember meeting my father for the first time.

I don’t remember his name being spoken with warmth or anticipation. He showed up because he was trying to persuade my mother to stop pursuing child support. But in his attempt to win her over, he brought gifts. He bought TVs and VCRs for us kids—maybe more, I don’t remember. What I do remember is the moment I met him.

It was in the dark haze of that little diner. The cigarette smoke hung in the air like a grey-blue cloud and it smelled like old grease. I was young, maybe nine. I gave him a hug, and his whiskers scratched my face. I don’t remember what he said. I don’t remember if he looked like me or even looked at me. I just remember that it was dim, smoky, and strange.

And I remember the wooden optical illusion on the wall—a piece of carved wood where, if you looked at it just right, the word “Jesus” appeared in the shadows. I remember that far more vividly than I remember my earthly father.

A Goodbye I Didn’t Know Was Coming

That same summer, I went to Girl Scout camp with my best friend, Leslie. It was a gift. A miracle, really. Looking back, I’m almost certain Leslie’s mom - Pat - was the one who made it possible. She did things like that for me, over and over. She stood in the gap more times that I can count and built me up when all I felt like was rubble.

But what’s so significant is that while I was gone, my father came back. This time, he took my sister and my oldest brother with him, back to wherever he lived. I think it was Burkburnett, Texas but who knows? They went to stay with our grandmother and her adopted son. They got to meet family I had never known. They got time. They got presence.

And I didn’t.

I came home to an empty house and an emotionally wrecked mother. I was nine years old, and in the way a child reasons with absence, I thought maybe he didn’t want me. Maybe I was too much like her. Maybe my brother Justin and I weren’t worth taking. I don’t know. I’m so thankful now that I wasn’t there and available to take. Turns out he was a MONSTER but that’s a story for another day.

It’s easy to look back now and try to explain it but back then, it just felt like rejection. Deep, double-layered rejection. First from a man I’d never known. Then from a family I’d never met. It kept me firmly in the clutches of believing that I was worth less than nothing.

The Woman Who Took Me In

But God never left me completely alone.

In the middle of that grief, that confusion, and that volatile home, Pat was my constant. She was Leslie’s mom, but she treated me like one of her own.

She fed me.
She picked me up for school.
She gave me Leslie’s hand-me-downs.
She gave me dignity when the world gave me shame.

During much of this time, I had chronic head lice. It was humiliating. The meaner kids at school called me “Cand-lice.” Even some teachers looked at me like I was contagious and disposable. But never Pat. Never Leslie. Never their home. Even when I felt disgusting and believed I was beneath everyone else, that was a place I could go to pretend that I mattered.

I spent so many nights at their house, and somehow, they always welcomed me. I remember lying in bed at Leslie’s, for once not feeling dirty. Pat made sure I bathed and had clean clothes. She made sure that I ate enough, that there were snacks, that I could sit on their nice, comfy couches and watch TV. And I always recall what it felt like, how nice their carpet felt under my barefeet, how big and wide their front porch was, and how much it felt like I got to see what a home looked like. I was always an outsider but not because they made me feel that way. By this point, I had understood well that I was separate from the nice, normal families. I wasn’t made to feel that way there. It was….not feeling less than. Just feeling safe.

Pat was beautiful. Ethereal. Calm. Patient in a way I’ve never been able to fully replicate. She taught me to be creative, to use my hands, to contribute by washing dishes after dinner, working together. She taught me love wasn’t something loud or flashy. It was quiet consistency. It was showing up, holding people accountable, supporting each other.

Her presence was the most stable thing in my early childhood. The greatest peace I knew. And though I bounced from place to place, Pat was my anchor.

I’ve never been able to repay her. I doubt I ever will. But her legacy lives in me every time I choose gentleness. Every time I see a child in need and move toward them instead of away. Every time I make space at my table. She is who I strive to emulate. Honestly, it is one of the most hardest driving forces that influence my daily decisions. It is in the way that she had never made me feel as though I owe her anything that dictates most of my actions. The balance sheet is always level with everyone because of the fact that I choose to never ask for reciprocation or expect it.

What I Carried, What I Let Go

I still remember the whiskers scratching my face.
I still remember the wood carving that spelled “Jesus.”
I still remember the ache of not being chosen.
But I also remember Pat.
I remember grace wrapped in patience.
I remember love that didn’t flinch at lice, or poverty, or pain.

And that’s the legacy I hold onto.

– Candice, Unchosen by Some, Loved Still