The collection of photos might seem a little odd for this post. I’ll explain.
The day I realized not everyone paid for their groceries by tearing colored “money” out of a small perforated book is etched in my memory. I was young. Middle school. As we stood in line there was a seemingly nice lady talking with us. I remember the location of the cash register yet somehow have forgotten the name of the store. At some point it was Village Market. Who knows before then.
We started the day by going to the welfare office, waiting in line to pick up the small books of “money”. If you did not arrive early, they may not get to you before they took lunch. Be. Early.
The excitement of grocery day was beyond words. At home the refrigerator and cupboards were empty. Last month’s supplies had run short. As usual. So, we carefully picked out the basics and found a few treasures aisle after aisle. Carried what seemed like 3000 bags in the house and filled the emptiness with food. All was well.
Until, the look on her face changed, dramatically, as we tore out the various colors of “money” to come close to the total bill of sale. I think this might have been where I learned to count money. It’s an art. Maybe she saw something she didn’t like on the conveyor belt. Maybe it was us. Maybe she felt uncomfortable for her own personal unresolved hurts. The. Look. It was there. A look of disappointment, in who she thought was a nice family, only moments ago.
In THAT moment, I knew, we were poor. Her face told me so. Hence the next picture, where I wondered how we got here. I didn’t ask for a ticket on the poor people struggle bus and I would have loved to give it back. Unfortunately, nobody was around to give me a refund. So, I decided, life would be different just as soon as I could make it different for myself.
Fast forward. Teenage pregnancy. Poverty. Hard times in a hard life. They asked if I had ever been molested as a child. I told them no. My sister asked why I lied. I responded it was none of their business. Really, it was because I knew enough to know I had become a statistic and I didn’t like it. I joined the line at the welfare office for my book of stamps. Went to the same grocery store to buy food for my little boy in that same checkout line with the same “money” and the same stares. Literally, one of the hardest grocery store trips in my entire life.
I decided. Life would not continue to be this hard. If it were going to change then I had better buckle up my boot straps and make a changes. Break the cycle. Refuse to be the statistic I had become. So, I fought hard and long for a different life.
Thank God, I found my way.
Here’s the deal. That story is great. Better yet, it’s not where it ends. Because I fought for a life outside of the humble beginnings I came from, I KNOW what poor feels like. Although I never desire my children to know that feeling, I never desire them to feel above it. Someways I’ve been successful and other ways I’ve failed.
God takes everything the enemy meant for evil and he turns it to good. He takes the broken road I walked upon at the hands of others and myself, repairs and restores until I am whole. And then, my testimony becomes someone else’s hope.
Here’s to all the mommas wondering if they’ll ever get ahead. You. Will. Hang in there. Keep fighting. Hold your head up. Rest assured. God has you. He sees you. There will come a day when you become someone else’s hope as you share pieces of your life they relate to. Your tears are not for naught.
I have started on the first chapter of the next book, today. I’m ready. My only prayer is that my vulnerability will abundantly bless your soul and heart so that you can see Jesus in all the intricate details of your whole life. The ugly messy parts. The good parts. The bleh mundane parts. All, the parts. ❤️
