Posts from — January 2010

Pam Farrel

and

Doreen Hanna

Seeking My Father’s Blessing: What Every Young Woman Longs For

‘I’ll be a Father to you; you’ll be sons and daughters to me.’

The Word of the Master, God.

—2 CORINTHIANS 6:18 (MSG)

I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics; even if they dress in rags; even if they aren’t pretty, or smart, or young. They’re still princesses. All of us. Didn’t your father ever tell you that? Didn’t he?

—A LITTLE PRINCESS (1995)

Lying in my bed, I [Doreen] lifted the shade and peeked out the window. Except for a sprinkle of stars and a sliver of a moon, it was now pitch black outside. My sister’s gentle snore let me know she was sound asleep. The TV was off and I had heard my parents’ bedroom door close. It was time for my escape.

Earlier in the day I had picked out my best purse for this “runaway.” It was red, rectangular in shape, with hinges on it, like a little suitcase, and a mirror on the lid. It could only hold my hairbrush, two pairs of panties, and a package of crackers. But for an eight-year-old, that was good enough. I was ready to go.

However, I began to have doubts. I considered how hard it would be to walk down the hall past my parents’ bedroom without them hearing me because there was a board in the floor of the hallway that creaked. But if I attempted to open the heavy wooden window of our bedroom and tried to remove the screen, I knew for sure that my sister would wake up.

Suddenly, or so it seemed, those warm covers felt so good as I heard the wind blow through the trees on that chilly, late winter’s eve. I couldn’t seem to keep my eyes open. I fought it, but it felt like someone was gently closing them. The next thing I knew, it was morning, and once again, I had failed to make my great escape.

This scenario played out many times in my elementary years. But it wasn’t until I was in my twenties, seeking help for challenges in my marriage, that I discovered why I continued to replay leaving home but never making my way out.

As a child, there were certain securities that kept me there. My mother loved me, food was always on the table, and I had a lovely home to live in. We lived in a middle-class neighborhood where I enjoyed many childhood friendships. I enjoyed spending time with both sets of grandparents who lived close by.

I remember the enjoyment of watching Leave it to Beaver and Father Knows Best on TV and wishing my dad was like one of those TV dads.

From the age of five well into my teens, I loved watching the Miss America beauty pageants, and wished that I would someday be beautiful enough to be crowned a princess.

I wept deeply for the first time in my life as I spoke those words out loud to my counselor. He sat and listened as I began to describe occurrences that clearly displayed the lack of my father’s acceptance throughout my life. This seemed to open the floodgates of memories and hurt and angry feelings I felt toward my father.

Seen but not Heard

I recollected how resentful I was toward my dad for so often sending my sister and me to bed by six-thirty in the evening so he could have our mother to himself.Many summer nights I would peer out my bedroom window, yearning to be with the rest of the kids on the block who were playing hide-and-seek at dusk while I was supposed to be sleeping; all because my dad thought children were to be “seen and not heard.” I believed that this was just a convenient out for him on many occasions, when those words followed his request that we leave the room.

I expressed to the counselor how I was told by my mother every night, for the first 12 years of my life, to “go and kiss your father good night,” no matter how I felt. He most often sat comfortably in his easy chair, watching TV, expectant of my nightly kiss. I could not remember one time in my childhood when he came to tuck my sister or me into bed and kiss us goodnight. That longing was heightened when I saw my friends’ dads do this for them whenever I had spent a night in their homes.

I recounted how, in my teen years, I dreaded our nightly family dinners. I would set the table thinking, What will he find fault with tonight? Would it be my acne? Or would I draw his criticism for putting butter on my bread? Or maybe it would be my posture, bringing a threat that he was going to make a wood brace that would force me to sit up straight.

His harsh, critical words about my appearance caused me to feel that I would never gain his favor or have boys interested in me.

I Will Prove Him Wrong

By this time I was becoming rebellious. I was determined to prove him wrong. I would get a boyfriend.

I found, in those early teen years, that flirting with the boys brought quick attention and some form of emotional gratification. I was so hungry for them to compliment me or just kiss me—validating me as a young woman. I didn’t understand why all the other girls didn’t flirt with the boys like I did. I thought it was fun. I lost the trust of some girlfriends and made enemies playing that game, luring the other girls’ boyfriends away from them. But the relationships were short-lived so I thought, What’s the big deal?

I looked for every opportunity to be away from home—a school football game, a party, a church activity, or anything else that was acceptable to my mother. My dad never minded how much time I spent away from home unless it interfered with the chores he required of me. In fact, I truly believed Dad appreciated my time away from home as much as I did.

By the age of 17, I was a senior in high school and had dated almost every guy I had hoped to. However, that had left me very lonely. I didn’t even have a date to the senior prom. I had proved my father wrong, but all to no avail. I had isolated numerous potential girlfriends and was left with no boyfriend. I had a huge hole in my heart and nothing seemed to fill it.

The Man of My Dreams

Within two weeks of my high-school graduation, the man of my dreams came into my life. He had just finished a three-year term in the army and had returned home to establish himself in civilian life. He was the potential “catch” for every girl between the ages of 18 and 22 in the church where our families had attended for many years.

He was 22 years old and very handsome, over six feet tall, blue eyes, a great sense of humor, and—very important to a beach-city girl—a surfer! One night, as I jumped into the backseat of his parents’ car for a ride home from church, there sat Chad. I was excited but jittery, knowing I was sitting right next to the “catch.” I spoke more to his parents than to him because I was so nervous.

His dad pulled up in front of my house. As I slipped out of the car Chad said, “Boy, those are some great legs!” My heart leaped—Chad Hanna thought I was pretty! By Friday he’d asked me out and within six months we were engaged.

At barely 19 years of age, marriage seemed like the best solution to escape my father’s house. My dad viewed life with a strong work ethic. He did not regard higher education as a necessity and had informed me that if I were to consider going away to college, I’d have to pay for it myself. That seemed impossible. So I was soon working full-time and saving my money for a beautiful wedding.

My father was not happy that I was marrying Chad. I remember one day, just weeks before the wedding, he said to me, “I thought this would be a time in your life when you could spend some time with me.” I couldn’t believe my ears! I was instantly angry and thought, He’s ignored me for the last 19 years of my life and NOW he wants to spend time with me?

It was the first time in my life that I sensed I had begun to build a wall in my heart—a wall that I thought would keep my father from hurting me anymore.

The day of the wedding, as I stood waiting to go down the aisle on my father’s arm, he turned and touched the edge of my veil. I thought for just a second that we were going to share a special moment. Instead he stated, “My mother would have never let this happen.” I looked to see that my veil had been trimmed slightly unevenly. “Your grandmother would have trimmed this in satin,” he stated proudly.

Rightly so, my grandmother was a well-known seamstress and had I asked, I’m sure she would have done it for me. Once again, I had failed to meet my father’s standards.

Still, that walk down the aisle gave me such hope. I had proven that I could find a man to love me and would finally be free from my father. I believed that saying “I do” would eliminate my frustrated and angry feelings toward him. Yet, there I sat in a counselor’s office 10 years later, dealing with all my “father” issues.

Break Down the Wall

With kindness and gentleness, my counselor helped me realize that the wall I had built in my heart ultimately never hurt my father; it only hurt me. He continued by saying that I would never be free emotionally or spiritually until I could forgive my father. OFFER forgiveness? I couldn’t believe it. I thought to myself, Shouldn’t my dad be seeking MY forgiveness?

As I left the counselor’s office, pondering his advice to forgive my father, I drove to my parents’ home to have a chat with my mother. I was considering the possibility that my memories might be distorted and I wanted to gain her perspective.

As we sat and talked, things began to unfold. She told me something I had never really understood before. I was a honeymoon baby. My father was not only shocked that, at 19 years of age, he was going to be a father within months of being married, he was also very disappointed that he was going to have the responsibilities of a father. He had told my mother prior to their wedding that he wasn’t ready for children and had wanted to wait at least five years before starting a family.

So, upon my birth he found me an obstacle to having my mother fully to himself. Ah ha! Now I was beginning to understand why I had been sent to bed by six-thirty so many nights of my life!

My mom also told me how critical his mother and other members of my father’s family had been toward him as a child, calling him various “pet names” that were very degrading. He, too, at the age of 18 couldn’t wait to marry and flee from his home.

Driving home after chatting with my mom, I thought about what she had told me and seriously considered the words of my counselor. His desire was to free me from the inner turmoil that comes from harboring unforgiveness. In addition, he pointed out how this turmoil was overflowing into my marriage relationship—the reason I was there to see him originally! He explained to me that I had put many of my unfilled expectations of my father onto my husband. He then humorously expressed,

“It would take at least three men to fulfill all that you are expecting your husband to fulfill!”

As I walked through the door of our home that night, I determined that I would seek Chad’s forgiveness for the unrealistically high expectations I had placed upon him during our marriage. That night as we slipped into bed, I expressed to him how I now realized why I had been asking so much of him. I was trying to have him fulfill what I had desired from my father all of my life. He understood my feelings and forgave me. I closed my eyes at peace now with my husband, but still—what about my dad?

The Power of the Blessing

Within weeks aftermy counselor’s challenge to forgive my father—which I wasn’t yet ready to do—I went to a local bookstore to pick up a gift for a friend. While there, I happened to also pick up a book titled The Gift of the Blessing, authored by John Trent and Gary Smalley (Thomas Nelson, Inc., 1993).My eyes were immediately drawn to the following sentence on the cover:

Dr. John Trent tells of his search to receive the blessing from his father and how, with the new insight he received from God through that search, he has sought to pick up the pieces of his shattered dream.

Those words jumped out at me. My dreams had been shattered and I was trying to pick up the pieces. And I surely did not want to be like my father. I wanted to do things differently for my daughters. I bought the book and began reading.

Chapter after chapter, I remember thinking, Oh, how I wish my father had done that for me. My self-pity was stopped short in the last chapter when Dr. Trent presented this challenge: “If you have not received your parent’s blessing, begin to bless them and see what God will do.” I was again confronted to face my “father” issues head-on.

Within days of finishing the book, I called my father and asked if I could take him to lunch—just the two of us. He said “yes” without hesitation, and we met together the next day. I can still remember exactly where we sat at a small Mexican restaurant in Cave Creek, Arizona.

As he finished his last few bites of an enchilada, I mustered up the courage to share my feelings. “Dad, I now know that when I was a child you demonstrated your love by providing a home for us, nice clothes, and food on the table. However, I’ve always felt that you didn’t like me.”

Those were some of the hardest words I had ever spoken. I felt that by saying this out loud to my father, I was taking the risk of his complete rejection.

Conversely, he quickly responded, saying almost word for word what my mother had said about him, “I didn’t want children immediately after marriage, and I was taught that children were to be seen and not heard.”

I could sense regret in his words and it was reflected in his demeanor. For the first time in my life I felt sorry for my father, and the wall I had built in my heart began to crumble.

When he had finished talking, I said, “Dad, I want to have a good relationship with you; one that also includes my husband and children. With the counseling I have received recently, I’ve come to realize that I’ve had a deep resentment toward you for a long time. I would like for us to have a better relationship from here on and I need to ask for your forgiveness. Will you forgive me?”

My father’s eyes welled with tears as he replied, “Yes I will, and will you forgive me?”

I wept out those healing words: “Yes, Dad, I forgive you.”

Wow! What a huge step in our relationship. While, in all honesty, I had hoped to hear “I love you,” I was satisfied at that time with, “Will you forgive me?”

As the years progressed, our father/daughter relationship began to grow. We could laugh and talk together for the first time in our lives.

From that day—he in his forties and I in my twenties—we were both seeking to grow spiritually, prompting engaging discussions between us.

In addition, at our now numerous family gatherings, I would delight as I watched my father and Chad enjoy each other’s company.

The Perfect Father’s Day Card

Some years later, I remember searching for several weeks, seeking to find the perfect Father’s Day card. At the end of a discouraging search, I felt prompted to pray and ask the Lord if He had something that He wanted me to write for my father. As I lifted my head from prayer, it was as if suddenly the creative writer that was deep within me came out and my fingers began to speed across the keyboard, typing out a poem for my father.

I had never felt that I had a poetic gift until that day! I sat in amazement of my own work as I reread the poem. I quickly printed it out and sent it on its way to arrive by Father’s Day.

My father and I were living several hundred miles apart at this time, so the following Sunday I called to wish him a happy Father’s Day. I was so eager to find out whether he’d received the poem and hear his reaction to it that I urgently asked, “Dad, did you get my poem?”

He, rather casually, just said, “Yes, it was nice.”

My heart dropped. I thought the poem was fabulous and all I got was an “It was nice.” I made every effort to mask my disappointment in his response. We went on to other topics of conversation. But as we were closing our phone call, he said, “I love you, Mija.”

Whenever my father called me Mija (a Spanish word of endearment) I always knew I was in his good graces. This was big—very big! I heard an “I love you” coupled with a “Mija!”

I quickly responded, “I love you, too, Dad.” I got off the phone and fell into a heap of happy tears. I had heard the words I had yearned to hear all of my life from my father: “I love you.”

Several months later, I had a business trip that took me to Phoenix, Arizona, where my parents lived. When I arrived at my parents’ home, only my mother was there. We chatted for a few minutes and then she said, “Before your father gets here, I must show you something.” She took me into their bedroom, and there on the wall hung a 3×5 copy of the poem, done in calligraphy on parchment paper and lacquered to a beautiful piece of wood. I wept with joy, not only realizing how much he valued that gift, but also appreciating how often since that Father’s Day he had told me he loved me.

In that reflective moment, the thought came to me that I was living out the last chapter of the The Gift of the Blessing, which stated, “If you want to be a person who honors your parents, you will be a person who blesses them. When you truly honor them and do what is right in God’s eyes, it will even prolong your life; living free of resentment and unforgiveness does prolong our lives, enabling us to live years longer!”

Pam’s Search

We sat across the table in a restaurant in Canada. My husband, Bill, and I had just appeared on theTV show Marriage Uncensored with Dave and Christie. Over dinner Dr. Dave Currie and his wife, Donalyn, along with Bill and I, were talking about our children and our families of origin.

Dave and his wife have two remarkable daughters, whom we had met as they sat in the studio audience that night. As we sat at the table that evening, Dave shared a story that penetrated me to the core. When his daughter Jody was a very little girl, she came home and announced her love interest in a little boy. Dave said to her, “Honey, when you are much older, there will be a day when you will want to give your heart to a man. He will have to be really special, and you will need to feel confident that he is the one God wants you to marry. Until then, I will keep your heart. I will keep it safe.”

Dave’s wife made a heart that hung in the Currie home and on it hung two gold keys, one for each daughter. Any time Dave prayed with his daughters, tucked them into bed, or acted out any of the other daily interactions a loving father would have with his daughter, he’d say, “And who has the key to your heart?” His daughters would answer, “You do, Daddy.” Anytime he had to set a rule or make a correction he would begin with, “Remember who has the key to your heart?” And the girls would answer, “You do, Daddy.”

Then Dave would explain how because he, their daddy, has their best interests on his heart, he had to make decisions and choices to protect his daughters and provide the very best path for them. Dave would explain, “God has called me to do this because God and Daddy love both of you little girls very much.”

Dave shared, “One day Jody met and fell in love with a fabulous man, Chris. She came to me and asked if she could have her heart now because she had found the man she wanted to give it to. I agreed and prayed and released her heart.”

The day of their wedding, Dave asked one last time, “Who has the key to your heart?” But this time the answer was different; it was the name of her new husband.

Then Dave sang a song he had written for this moment, The Transfer of the Sacred Trust:

As man to man, we stand here today,

Though the time is so right, I won’t give her away.

Yet you are my answer to the prayer for God’s plan

Please listen close, Son, as I give you her hand.

God gave me a trust as head of my home

To look after my family, to protect through life’s storm,

To comfort and build these put in my care

And cover them daily with a fatherly prayer . . . that’s why

I won’t let her go, but I will let you start.

To treasure her most, you must carry her heart.

I’ll still be her Dad, but relinquish I must,

It’s the transfer of the sacred trust,

The transfer of the sacred trust.

There comes a day in every girl’s life

About leaving and cleaving, ’bout becoming a wife,

I’ve protected her heart from all other men

The depth of this moment, please understand.

God gives you this trust now as head of your home

To look after my daughter, to protect through life’s storm,

Your love dare not waver as you carry her heart

Please hold her real close as I did from the start . . . you see

I won’t let her go, but I will let you start.

To treasure her most, you carry her heart.

I’ll still be her Dad, but relinquish I must,

It’s the transfer of the sacred trust,

It’s the transfer of the sacred trust,

I transfer now my sacred trust.

(reprinted with permission)

Right after he sang the song, he gave Chris, his new son-in-law, the key that had hung in the Currie home, the key to his daughter’s heart.

Then six years later, for his second daughter, Keldy, Dave repeated the passing of this sacred trust, and gave the key to her heart to her new husband, also a prince of a man.

A dedicated dad holds the key to the heart of his Modern-Day Princess until the day God’s prince of a husband comes to care for the heart of that precious young woman. It is a sacred trust, passing from the two men who should love a woman more than any other: a father, then a husband.

I sat at the table weeping because that is the kind of love I had always longed for as a daughter. That is the kind of love that builds courage and confidence into a young woman’s heart and life.

Looking for My Key

In a nutshell, I grew up in a home that was confusing. One night I might be dancing around the living room with my daddy, but the next night he might be in a drunken rage banishing me to my bedroom in fear. I would slide my chest of drawers in front of the door to keep him from coming in my room while he was so angry. I always thought our family might make the front-page news, but not for a good reason, rather a headline that would read, “Man shoots family then shoots himself.”

When I was in high school, one night I was awakened from a deep sleep to my mother screaming, “Help me!” We three kids bolted from our beds, running through a pitch-black house thinking, Oh no! We need to rescue Mom! We broke open the door into the garage and there we found, not my mom in need of rescue, but rather my daddy, trying to hang himself from the rafters of the garage.

My brother, Bret, a high-school football player, pulled my dad down and dragged him into the living room, pushing him onto the sofa. I took the noose off his neck and began to pray aloud over my father. I knelt and prayed with my siblings and my mother for hours, singing hymns, praying, and begging God to rescue my father from himself.

Abba, Father

Later that same day, God spoke to my heart, “Pam, you have been pushing me away. You must think I am like your earthly father: distant, demanding, and demeaning. I am not like that! Open up the Bible; find out who I am.” Shortly after that day, I came upon Romans 8:15, which says we call God “Abba, Father.” I was reminded again of the reason I made the decision to begin a relationship with Him. I recalled in a powerful way that the King of Kings was my Daddy and He loved me unconditionally. My best interests were and are on His heart. It was as if He were saying, “Who has the key to your heart?”

You do, Daddy, my

Abba Father, I am your daughter, a daughter of the King.

For the next three years I kept a journal and I wrote down all the verses I found that showed God loved me and was a Father I could trust. That journey was my personal rite of passage into becoming a woman of God.

Those verses placed my tiara on my head as I was crowned a Modern-Day Princess. Because of this journey, I was able to recognize my own prince, Bill, when God sent him into my life. I could see that Bill, a healthy, godly man who loved me fully, was worthy to hold the key to my heart.

God sent many people into my life to help me understand what it meant to be God’s princess. You will hear some of those stories, and hear more of my own journey to grasp what it means to be a daughter of the King.

Highly Motivated, Greatly Needed

You see, the two of us [Pam and Doreen] are highly motivated to help young women learn what it means to be daughters of the King. Somehow girls around the world have lost their way. Consider the following statistics:

One in three girls becomes pregnant before age 20.
The median age at which young women have their first sexual experience is 17.
One in four will contract an STD (sexually transmitted disease).
Forty percent of girls at a contraceptive clinic are there without their parents’ knowledge.
One third of all teen pregnancies will end in an abortion.
We also know that many girls are turning into bullies. Nearly one third of all juvenile arrests are girls, and one-third of all property crimes are perpetrated by girls. About one-quarter of all aggravated assaults are committed by girls. A girl is more likely to be violent at home, and the victim more than any other is her mother.

Dr. Dallas Jackson, professor of educational leadership at Argosy University/Tampa and assistant principal of curriculum at Morgan Fitzgerald Middle School in Pinellas County, Florida, says, “Over 50 percent of the bullying incidences involve one girl picking on another.” Cyber bullying has made picking on each other more common and deadly.

On March 30, 2008, high-school cheerleader Victoria Lindsay was lured to a friend’s home in Lakeland, Florida. While two boys stood guard outside the house, six girls attacked Lindsay. They knocked her unconscious by slamming her head against a wall. Then the perpetrators posted the attack on the Internet. After the authorities arrested the teens involved, one asked if she would “make cheer practice,” apparently uncaring of the seriousness of the attack.

Cyber bullying can consist of mean or critical comments, sharing personal information in a public setting, or demeaning or undermining another girl’s social standing. Today, this kind of pain can travel at light speed through text messaging, IM chatting, or social-networking postings.

And girls pick on the guys, too. On December 5, 2004, the Ottawa Citizen reported: “Considerably more boys than girls say their dates yell at them, demean them, pinch them, slap them, and out-and-out attack them, according to preliminary findings in a study on dating violence.”

However, teen girls are hardest on themselves. Teenage girls are more likely to develop depression than teenage boys. (The Heritage Foundation found that those who were sexually active had a much higher depression rate). Depression in girls might also extend to behaviors like cutting, anorexia, bulimia, and other self-destructive behaviors. Girls experiment with drugs and alcohol in higher numbers than boys. Often, girls use drugs and alcohol to lose weight.

Girls think about and attempt suicide about twice as often as boys, and tend to attempt suicide by overdosing on drugs or cutting themselves. A new, desperate, self-destructive behavior is “sexting,” which includes text messaging pornographic photos of themselves; over 20 percent of girls have engaged in this risky behavior.

Consider the young women around you. Can you think of just one girl you know who seems to have lost her way? When I [Pam] met Emily, she was suffering from the hurt and pain of a dysfunctional family. Her mother, distracted by her own pain, was unable to help her daughter. Emily needed someone to care enough to come alongside her, to reach out and show her God’s love. There are Emilys all around us.

My [Pam’s] motivation in writing this book was heightened on September 5, 2007, the day my first granddaughter, Eden, was born. Even while she was in utero, and since, I have prayed she will step into her priceless identity as a daughter of the King. I pray that her mother, Hannah, will have all she needs to impart a godly heritage to her. I know my son Brock will impart a blessing on his daughter because he already does, in the way he gently loves and cares for Eden. But I also know Eden will need more voices, more wisdom—the help of mentors—to help her safely step into, and then walk out, her identity in Christ.

Can you hear a host of teen girls crying, asking, and waiting for your help and guidance? Right now, think of a young woman, a tween or teen, you might know. She may be your daughter, your niece, or just a young girl you’re acquainted with. You could be the person in her life to dust off her tiara, place it on her head, and help her see herself as God sees her—a person valued and loved. And you could do this for many girls, moving a multitude of young women into a healthy, whole, and wholesome future as adult women who make a difference for their generation.

Out there among you, there are many “Doreens” who are longing for affirmation; “Pams” who are longing for attention; “Emilys” who are longing for affection; and “Edens” who are looking for agreement. One voice to confirm her value can make all the difference in a girl’s life. Every girl deserves a mentor, a mom, and a memorable blessing—a rite of passage to womanhood—and a chance to be a woman who reflects God’s character and lives it out to leave a positive imprint in a world that so desperately needs it.

Mentor Moment

It’s Mother’s Day, and I [Pam] answer my cell phone often. I have only three sons, but several young women will call me on this special day and thank me for being their “spiritual mom.” Though I am not a biological mom of daughters, I am a mentor to many women.

Let me share my journey to becoming a mentor. It first began when a series of women sacrificed their time and energy to mentor me. I, myself, had a terrific mom who came to know Christ the same year that I did. I was 8, my mom, 28.

But I grew up in a home filled with the drama of an alcoholic father prone to domestic violence. My first mentors were two women I didn’t even know were mentors until years later because I had no idea what the word mentor even meant! They were two of my mother’s friends, Kathy and Mrs. Beamer.

Both of these special women saw the chaos in our family and compassionately invited us to attend church with them. At Kathy’s home, I saw what a healthy marriage looked like and how a healthy family functioned. At Sunday school, Mrs. Beamer taught me about Jesus, the Author of love, and prepared my heart for the personal decision to receive Jesus I would make before my ninth birthday.

What I learned most from these women was:

• Love lavishly and trust the results to God.

• Be faithful in the little things because you don’t know how that little act of kindness, integrity, or wisdom might ripple to impact hundreds, thousands, even millions of people.

In college, I was looking for love in all the wrong places, trying to add up awards and accolades in a frantic search for self that was leaving me feeling empty. As I watched my parent’s marriage implode and fall apart, I felt helpless and very alone in life. I was a young woman with a heart to do good but a fatal flaw inside my heart that threatened to destroy my life before it ever really got started.

At the time, I had an overstated need for male attention. I was a virgin at 18 but a tease and very disjointed in my personal value system. I just wasn’t sure what I believed about much of anything. It was as if I had been dropped by a plane into a vast wilderness and I was looking for my compass. In my life, Tina, my next mentor, became the compass giver.

I met Tina at a Campus Crusade Bible study; she was the woman who, with her husband, organized the event. Tina asked me questions, hard ones at times: Who did I think Jesus was? What did I think my life purpose was? Did I read the Bible? Attend church? Tina also answered my questions, held me accountable to make wise choices, expected me to reach higher and further in my goals, and challenged me to be a better person and leader than I had ever pictured for my life. She encouraged me to dress more modestly, act more lady-like, think more critically about principles, and decide more strategically about my future and my place in the world.

Her nurturing of me in the area of what constitutes healthy dating, engagement, and marriage set the foundation for the strong, vibrant marriage I have today. I would have completely missed my godly, amazing husband, Bill, had Tina not entered my world and gotten me unaddicted to men. She pushed me to interview couples with healthy marriages to get a better view of what dating boundaries work best. She pointed me to God and Scripture to form my core relationship values.

What I learned from Tina:

• Always ask the tough questions.

• Expect the best from people and they will rise to meet those expectations.

• Be a woman of sure principles in an unsure world.

The woman who mentored Tina also mentored me. Her name is Faith. Faith and her husband, Cal, had a vision for building a home across the street from the college campus where students could come and get wisdom, training, and a safe place to make better choices in life as they were launching out on their own.

I came to Faith because I was in a dilemma: I had overcommitted myself with extracurricular activities. Faith listened to my heart, prayed with me, gave me some Scripture verses to read, and then said something like, “Pam, you have a pure heart for God. I am sure God will lead you through His Word to the answer your need.” And God did. As I read one of the verses about not “loving the world,” I realized my future was in serving Jesus. I was to invest in that path for my future. It was a clear call.

What I learned from Faith was:

• Love the Lord and love His Word and you’ll have all the answers you need.

• Treat young people with respect, and trust that if you give them the tools God will lead them.

• Relationships matter. God uses relationships to expand His work.

This last one has an important side-note story. Faith mentored me, but she also had similar meetings with a young college woman named Mary. That same Mary ended up going on staff with Campus Crusade, then was hired to be president of Women of Faith.

It was while Doreen was working for Women of Faith that she and I met. Doreen was in Kansas laying the groundwork for Women of Faith. I was speaking at an event in Kansas where she gave an announcement for the upcoming Women of Faith event. I was speaking on Women of Influence and gave a message on mentoring! Now, years later, all those connections (and more) led us to write this book on raising and mentoring young women.

In seminary and ministry, I have had a series of women invest in my life. When I look back on these women, and others who poured their time, talent, or trust into my life, I realize God was preparing me for living an adventure with Him.

CHAPTER ONE

Splaaaashhh! Whoosh!

“Watch out!” someone called near Sydney’s ear.

But it was too late. The pent up explosion of the water landed square against Sydney’s back, knocking her to the ground.

Dazed, she rolled onto her back and looked up into the hot summer sky. The water swirled around her whole body. From a distance she heard happy shouting and water gushing onto the street.

A fireman’s face appeared above her. “Are you okay, little girl?”

Little girl? Little girl! I’m twelve years old! I’m not a little girl, Mister.

The indignation snapped Sydney out of her dazed condition. She looked up and saw that two firemen were now looking at her anxiously. Carefully they helped her to her feet.

“Are you okay, little girl?” She looked in the fireman’s face. He seemed so worried that her irritation melted.

Sydney looked down at her soaking gray tank top and shorts. “Yes, sir, I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you,” she added, remembering her manners.

Sydney Lincoln had been talking to one of her neighborhood friends. She hadn’t even noticed the firemen at the fire hydrant behind her. And she sure hadn’t realized she was in the direct line of the nozzle the men were releasing.

Still out of breath from the shock of the water, Sydney dropped onto the curb in front of her house. She tore off her running shoes and socks, and stuck her bare feet into the gutter. She watched as the water from the hydrant down the street shot into the air and out the nozzle. The neighborhood kids laughed and splashed in its flow.

As Sydney’s clothes began to dry in the torrid sun, the water rushed along the curb like a river. It streamed between Sydney’s toes and sent goose bumps creeping up to her knees.

Sydney lived in the middle of a row of brick houses. The two-story tall houses were connected so they looked like one long building. The only windows were in the front and the back. The houses were close to the street, and each had a narrow front porch with three steps leading to a tiny front yard and the sidewalk.

The screen door on Sydney’s house swung open, and her mom stepped outside. “Sydney, have you seen your Aunt Dee yet?” Her curly, black hair was pulled back with a blue band to keep it off of her face.

“No, Mom,” Sydney answered. “I ran past the Metro station looking for her, but she wasn’t there.”

“Well, when she gets here, you two come inside. Dinner’s ready.”

Sydney dipped her fingers into the water and splashed some onto her long, thin arms.

“Don’t you want to come in by the air conditioning?” Her mother fanned herself with a magazine. “Aren’t you hot in the sunshine?”

“No, mom,” Sydney answered. She didn’t think it was necessary to tell her mom about her little brush with the explosion of water.

The cell phone in the pocket of her pink shorts buzzed. Sydney took it out and found a text message from one of her best friends, Elizabeth Anderson. It said: Almost packed.

Sydney tapped a reply on her keypad: Can’t w8 til u get here.

Sydney and Elizabeth had met at Discovery Lake Camp, and although Elizabeth lived in Texas, they talked every day. Four other girls had been with Sydney and Elizabeth in Cabin 12B. They were Bailey Chang, Alexis Howell, McKenzie Phillips, and Kate Oliver. When camp ended, Kate set up a web site so the girls could stay in touch. It was password protected, so it was like their own secret cabin in cyberspace. They’d all bought web cams with baby-sitting money, chore payments, and allowances so they could see each other and talk online. The Camp Club Girls—as they liked to be called—made web cam calls, sent IMs, and frequently met in their own private chat rooms.

Sydney continued typing her message: Will pic u up @ d aport @ 4 2MORO.

“Sydney, I really wish you’d come inside.” Sydney’s mother crossed her arms.

“Okay, in a few minutes, Mother!” Sydney said, without looking up.

The screen door slammed shut.

This was the worst heat wave Washington D.C. had seen in twenty-five years. Everyone had air conditioners blasting. The energy load was way too much, and the night before, the power had gone out. Sydney hated being in total darkness. She was relieved that today seemed normal.

Pack shorts, she typed. Really hot here!

While she sat texting, Sydney heard the thump thump thump of music getting closer and closer. A green jeep raced around the corner, and the booming bass from its stereo echoed inside Sydney’s chest. In the passenger seat, Aunt Dee held on to her tan park ranger hat to keep it from flying off of her head. The jeep screeched to a halt in front of Sydney’s house, and her aunt hopped out.

“Thanks for the ride, Ben,” she yelled over the music. “See you tomorrow.”

The young driver waved and drove off.

Gotta go, Liz, Sydney wrote. Ant D’s home.

Sydney stood and wiped her feet on the grass. “You’re late again,” she said. “Mom’s mad.”

“I know,” Aunt Dee apologized. “There was trouble at the Wall.” She took off her ranger hat and perched it on Sydney’s head. Aunt Dee always blamed her lateness on her job at the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial. Sydney didn’t understand how she could be so enthusiastic about a long, black wall with a bunch of names carved onto it.

“So what was the trouble?” Sydney wondered.

“I’ll tell you at dinner,” said Aunt Dee. She linked her arm through Sydney’s. “It’s hot out here, girlfriend. Let’s go inside.”

By the time Sydney washed and sat at her place at the table, Mom and Aunt Dee were already eating. Sydney had learned at camp to pray before every meal. So, she bowed her head and said out loud, “Dear Lord, Make us truly grateful for this meal and for all the blessings of this day.” She noticed that her mom and Aunt Dee stopped eating and bowed their heads, too. “And please keep Dad safe,” she said. Sydney always added a blessing for her dad who was serving in the military overseas.

“Amen!” Mom and Aunt Dee chimed.

Sydney poured iced tea into her tall glass and scooped pasta salad onto her plate. “So, what happened at the Wall?” she asked, reaching for a piece of French bread.

“Someone spray painted the sidewalk last night,” Aunt Dee replied. “Graffiti.”

Sydney’s mom got that look on her face—the one where her forehead turned into wrinkled plastic wrap. “You mean vandalism,” she said. “I think it’s just terrible what kids do these days—”

“How do you know it was kids?” Sydney interrupted. Her mouth was full of creamy macaroni. “Kids aren’t the only ones who do bad stuff.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Aunt Dee.

“Most times it is,” her mom argued. “Just look around our neighborhood,” She waved her hand toward the kitchen window. “Vandalism everywhere! Who do you think did all that? Not the adults. The kids don’t care about our community. Do they care that this neighborhood used to be a military camp to help slaves that escaped from the South? No! They just want to mess up the nice things that good folks worked so hard to build.” Sydney’s mother sighed and took a long drink of her iced tea.

Mrs. Lincoln worked at the local historical society, and she was very protective of the neighborhood and its landmarks. She liked to talk about how, in the old days, kids had manners and didn’t do anything wrong. Sydney hated it that her mom blamed everything on the kids in the neighborhood.

“There are good kids, too,” Sydney argued. “You don’t see my friends and me running around spray painting everything. Give us some credit!” She looked at her plate and pushed the rest of her pasta salad into a neat little pile. “We care what happens.”

“We don’t know who did it,” said Aunt Dee, trying to stop the argument. “Someone painted GO 64 in front of panel 30W—in orange paint. Ben and some other volunteers scrubbed it this morning. They’ll work on it again tonight when the air cools off some. They’re having a hard time cleaning it. Pass the bread, please.”

“What does GO 64 mean?” Sydney asked, handing her the basket of bread.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Aunt Dee answered. “We’re wondering if the number 64 is a clue to who did it. Ben said that in some rap music, 64 means a 1964 Chevrolet Impala. Another volunteer plays chess and said 64 is the number of squares on a chessboard. We don’t know what it means.”

“Maybe it’s Interstate 64,” Sydney’s mom suggested. “There’s construction on that freeway and plenty of orange construction cones. Maybe the orange paint is to protest all that.”

“But if it’s about the freeway, or a car, or a chessboard, why would they complain by painting graffiti at the Vietnam Wall? Besides, Interstate 64 is in Virginia,” Aunt Dee said.

“Yes, but there’s some military bases out that way,” Mother said. Then she added, “It’s probably just kids.”

The air conditioning kicked in again, and a cool draft shot from the air vent making the kitchen curtains flutter.

“The Wall’s lighted at night,” Sydney said. “And the Park Police keep an eye on all the monuments. So, why didn’t anyone see who did it?”

“The lights were out,” Aunt Dee reminded her. “The whole city went dark for a while, and the Park Police were busy with that. That’s when it happened, I’m sure. Anyway, it’s a mess, and we have to clean it up fast. The TV stations are already making a big deal out of it.” She dipped her knife into the butter container and slathered butter onto her French bread. “I had such an awful day at work. Everybody blamed everyone else for letting it happen. Like we would let it happen! People don’t know how hard the Park Service works—“

“May I be excused,” Sydney asked, swallowing her last bite of pasta.

“You may,” her mother answered.

Sydney put her dishes into the dishwasher. Then she went upstairs to her room.

The computer on Sydney’s desk was on, and her screensaver cast an eerie blue glow on her yellow bedroom walls. Syd’s bedroom had no windows, so it was always dark. That was the trouble with living in a row house. If your room was in the middle of the house, you had no windows. She flipped the switch on her desk light and tapped the spacebar on the computer. The monitor lit up, and Sydney noticed that McKenzie Phillips was online. She sent her an IM: Talk to me?

The phone icon on the computer screen jiggled back and forth. Sydney clicked on it, and McKenzie’s freckled face appeared. She was sitting at the work island in her family’s kitchen. “What’s up?” she asked.

Sydney turned on her web cam. “Not much,” she said. “I just finished dinner.”

“Me, too,” McKenzie replied. “Well, almost.” She held a slice of cheese pizza in front of her face so Sydney could see it. “We ate early because Dad and Evan have to drive some cattle to pasture. Then they want to practice for the rodeo this weekend.” She pointed to the blue baseball cap on her head. Its yellow letters said: Sulfur Springs Rodeo.

“I didn’t want to hang out downstairs,” Sydney told her. “Someone spray painted graffiti by the Vietnam Wall last night, and Mom blamed it on kids again.”

McKenzie took a bite out of her pizza. “I saw it on the news. Why did she blame it on kids? I mean, anyone could have done it.”

“She blames everything on kids,” Sydney answered. “I think it’s because a lot of the kids around here get into trouble. I try to tell her that we’re not all like that, but she doesn’t listen. Lately she doesn’t listen to anything I say.”

“My mom’s like that, too,” McKenzie said. “Nothing I do is ever right.” Her face lit up. “Hey, the news said it was orange paint, right?”

“Yeah,” Sydney said, fidgeting with her cornrows. “Orange graffiti that said GO 64. So what?”

“So, maybe it’s some crazy nutcase with Agent Orange.”

“Agent who?” Sydney asked.

“Agent Orange!” said McKenzie. “Agent Orange was a chemical they used in Vietnam. I read about it in school. It made some Vietnam soldiers really sick and some even died. So maybe it wasn’t a kid who wrote it. Maybe it’s a guy who got Agent Orange, who’s mad at the government, and wants to get even. By the way, I can’t see you well.”

“You think too much,” Sydney answered. She pulled her desk light closer to her computer and bent it toward her face. “They’re trying to figure out what GO 64 means. My aunt and mom think it could be about some sort of car, or highway, or maybe even a chessboard—“

“A chessboard!” McKenzie screeched. “A person who plays chess won’t spray paint a national monument.”

“I know,” Sydney said. “Some gang member probably wrote it. Anyhow, I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“I can see you fine now,” McKenzie said, changing the subject. “So, when is Elizabeth coming?”

“She and her Uncle Dan are flying in from Texas tomorrow,” Sydney answered. “Aunt Dee and I are going pick them up at the airport at four. We’ll take her uncle to his hotel, and then Elizabeth will come here to stay with us.”

“Can Elizabeth’s Uncle Dan get around all by himself?” McKenzie asked. She twisted a strand of her shoulder-length hair around her fingers. “I mean, he’s in a wheelchair and everything.”

“As far as I know, he can,” Sydney answered. “Elizabeth said he plays wheelchair basketball and competes in wheelchair races, so I suppose he gets around just fine by himself. I’m sure once he gets to the hotel, his Vietnam buddies will help him out if he needs help.”

McKenzie reached for a gallon milk container on the kitchen counter. She poured herself a glass. “Well, at least you and Elizabeth don’t have to hang around with him the whole time. He’ll be busy with his reunion stuff, right?”

“Right,” Sydney agreed. “We’ll see him Monday at the Vietnam Wall. Aunt Dee wants to give him the tour, and she thinks that Elizabeth and I should be there. Otherwise, we’re on our own.” Sydney heard strange sounds coming from her computer speakers. “Is that mooing?” she asked.

“Can you hear it?” said McKenzie. “That’s Olivia, our old milk cow. About this time every day, she wanders up to the kitchen window and talks to us. I’ll move the camera, and you can see her.”

McKenzie’s face disappeared from the screen. Sydney watched her friend’s bare feet move across the kitchen floor as she carried the web cam to the window. Then a big, black-and-white cow head appeared. Olivia stood chewing her cud and looking at Sydney with huge, brown eyes.

“Earth to Mac! Earth to Mac!” Sydney called into her computer’s microphone. “Come back Mac!”

Sydney watched McKenzie’s bare feet walk back to the computer. Then her face showed up on the screen.

“Isn’t Olivia awesome?” she said. “You really should come to Montana, Syd. We have tons of animals. I know you’d love it, and we could ride horses and hike, just like we did at camp.”

“Maybe I will some day,” Sydney replied. “But, right now, I’m signing off. I want to clean up my room before Elizabeth gets here from Texas. All of my junk is piled on the other bed. If I don’t move it she won’t have a place to sleep.”

“Okay then,” McKenzie said. “I’ll sign off, too—and eat more pizza.” She picked up the gooey slice from her plate and took another bite. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“See ya,” Sydney answered, switching off her web cam.

Everything in her room looked neat except for the other twin bed. It was hardly ever used, so that was where Sydney stored most of her stuff. It held boxes filled with colorful papers and art materials, magazines, piles of clothes, posters she planned to put up in her room. Sydney had so much stuff stored there that she didn’t know what to do with it all. Under my bed, I guess, she thought.

Before long, the bed was cleaned. Sydney changed the sheets. Then she went to her closet and pulled out a new black and tan bedspread that matched her own. She threw it on top of the bed and tucked it neatly around the pillow.

“Sydney?” Aunt Dee stood in the doorway. She held a long, white envelope. “This came for you.”

The letter was from Elizabeth. Sydney tore open the flap and found a note taped to an information sheet.

Uncle Dan wanted me to send you this so your mom can keep track of him. Just in case of an emergency. It’s his reunion schedule.

Sydney Lincoln read the heading on the sheet of paper. It said, “Annual Reunion—64th Transportation Company, Vietnam.”