In just a few weeks, my daughter Jamila will begin living her dream come true.
Away from me and her father, away from the place she called home, for the rest of her sweet life.
I knew it was coming. It wasn’t until we helped move her into her new place last week in Macon that I gave way to processing it and what to do with the rest of my own life.
Last I talked to her, she was a little nervous. I was too but I assured her that’s always a good thing. Nervous says you’ve weighed the cost of your decisions. It means, hopefully, you still realize you need the good Lord to see you through.
The minute you don’t, the chances are good you’re about to mess things up.
I hope you never do. I hope you’re always a little nervous. More than anything, I hope you’ve grasped the importance of staying before him, walking, and talking with him.
Even as a pediatrician, you’ll need him to guide you through the rest of your life.
I think you know that. I think you knew even before I did — at least fully.
Watching you over the last few years, I’ve learned so much about God’s faithfulness to those who love him.
Almost all of those lessons trace back to you. Neither of us sought them, but you, me, indeed our entire family is different for them. Wounded by rejection, worn out by the upward climb and yet wiser than anything we could’ve learned from simply reading God’s word and I’m so grateful.
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You’re beginning your residency training with the Mercer University School of Medicine, and all I can think of is my excitement that March morning in 1989 when you entered my life. You were my firstborn, the beginning of a new chapter in a young marriage and a new fear I hadn’t anticipated.
Doubts are inherent in pregnancy, but with my own parents long dead and my older siblings so far away, I was sure I’d mess things up; that after surviving a miscarriage, I’d cling too tightly.
I would soon learn that you had arrived in this world to teach me, not the other way around.
You were an old soul, Jamila, forever dreaming, forever pressing forward toward the mark of your calling.
I think now of the year “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” came to the big screen. You were 7 years old and about to enter second grade.
And even if you didn’t fully grasp its message — to see people for who they are, not how they appear — you loved Esmeralda and Quasimodo and his gargoyle pals.
And so when I came across a bright pink, purple and orange backpack with Esmeralda’s image on the front one Saturday while shopping for back-to-school items, I snapped up two of them, one for you and the other for your sister, Asha.
I was sure you’d love it as much as I did but you were horrified.
Crying, you explained to me that the bag was for little kids; your classmates would make fun of you.
“Mommy, when are you going to stop treating me like a 2-year-old?” you demanded. “I’m almost a teenager.”
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Not quite but you always had a comeback like one.
Like the time we were en route to God knows where talking about God knows what and you piped up and said that we were rich. We weren’t doing bad, but we were by no means rich, I remember explaining.
True to form, you shot back, “Rich in Christ, mama. Rich in Christ.”
It’s no wonder you always dreamed big, so big I could hardly keep up. All I could do was cheer you on, provide encouragement when your faith was failing.
You weren’t even 10 when you announced to your dad and me early on that you were going to be a lawyer and a doctor.
When I was that age, I could barely see past high school. In my family, there was never much talk of the future. We were simply trying to get to the next meal, the next day. I hoped I’d attend college because no one else in my family had. Only one had even graduated from high school, and here you were talking about grad school.
I don’t know when you stopped wanting to be a lawyer but, no matter how difficult the hill became, you never gave up on your dream to be a pediatrician and take care of children.
After graduating from high school and the University of Georgia, you were on your way to the University of Medicine and Health Sciences.
To this day, I remember the smile in your voice when you told me you’d been accepted into UMHS. “I’m going to medical school,” you said.
Your hard work had paid off.
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You had fun but you shed a lot of tears preparing for that first board exam, so many I had nights when I couldn’t sleep.
I looked for affirmation anywhere I could find it — coffee cups that encouraged you to let your faith be bigger than your fear. I shared my own story when I faced what seemed insurmountable odds and God spoke to me through his Scripture, reminding me “that your faith should not stand in the wisdom of man but in the power of God.”
When everyone was telling you not to attempt the real exam if you weren’t doing well on the practice test, I willed you to just trust God.
You passed on your first try. You did the same with Steps 2 and 3.
You graduated last June then began applying for residency. When a trusted adviser suggested you apply for both a pediatric and family practice slot to increase your chances, you rejected her advice.
“I want to be a pediatrician,” you repeated for the umpteenth time.
I was worried but I remembered the July 4 weekend we’d visited my childhood church in Mississippi. After the service, a minister asked if she could pray for you, saying God had put you on her heart.
I told her afterward that you were my daughter. I will never forget her words.
“God told me he is getting ready to open some doors,” was all she said.
She didn’t know me or you. She didn’t know your dreams. And, to be honest, I didn’t particularly believe in present-day prophets. I hoped she was right because I needed to believe God would provide.
And he did. Over and over and over again.
He has shown up so many times and in so many ways for you and us, I can’t tell it all.
But this is your story to tell, isn’t it?
I hope you will because stories have power. They aren’t theory or even theology.
Your story won’t speak to everybody, but I’m certain it will help someone see their way through, too.
As we finished up last Wednesday and Jimmy and I headed back to our empty nest, my thoughts turned again to your journey to Macon and God’s goodness toward us. You were so happy and peaceful.
I wish I could tell you all your bad days are behind you. I’m sure they are not, but you’re in good hands, sweet girl. The one who brought you this far will see you through to the end of your days.
Just remember these words from Proverbs: “Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
Find Gracie on Facebook (www.facebook.com/graciestaplesajc/) and Twitter (@GStaples_AJC) or email her at gstaples@ajc.com.
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