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TRUE STORIES OF HOPE
AND INSPIRATION

BROADCAST JOURNALIST

TAMRON
HALL
My Hardest Story
OVERCOMING
LONELINESS
The Challenge
of a Military
Spouse p.48

Love Wins
A Mother-
Daughter
Relationship
Faces Its
Greatest Test
ANIMALS
& HEALING
How a Golden
Pup Renewed
a 52-Year
Marriage p.32
FEBRUARY 2020
 EDITOR’S NOTE

Love Wins
Last month, I told you that 2020 marks the
seventy-fifth anniversary of Guideposts,
founded by Norman Vincent Peale and his
wife, Ruth Stafford Peale, who hoped the
magazine would become part of the national
conversation that Americans were having
as the country went through momentous
changes and challenges.
With this issue, we start a feature called A Moment America Came
Together, unforgettable stories from our archives about how ordinary
Americans have rallied in times of triumph and tragedy, from the moon
landing to the Challenger disaster, from the end of segregation to the
September 11 attacks, from Jackie Robinson’s breaking of baseball’s color
barrier to the release of the hostages in Iran. We may seem divided as
a nation today, but these stories show how our country comes together
in faith and love when the need is greatest. Read our first installment
beginning on page 22.
Christy Johnson, page 38, shares her story as a mother whose daughter’s
sexuality is in contradiction to her long-held religious beliefs. Read
how Christy faced an issue that many readers say you are coming to terms
with in your communities, your congregations and your families.
Can a dog revive a marriage? Certainly it can! Our old friend Carol
Kuykendall explains how the power of a pup sparked new joy for a couple
of empty nesters.
Most of us have had to reconcile our dreams with reality. That’s what
federal judge Debra Goldstein thought she had done and put behind her.
Not so fast, her son said. It’s never too late to start a second career as a…
mystery writer?
Love of country, love of family, the love of a dog, the love of a dream. In
this issue of Guideposts, love definitely wins.
AMY ETRA

Edward Grinnan
Editor-in-Chief

2 GUIDEPOSTS | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0 Follow us on Instagram @guidepostsmagazine

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 ®

What’s New on GUIDEPOSTS is a monthly inspirational, interfaith, nonprofit

magazine written by people from all walks of life. Its articles help

Guideposts.org readers achieve their maximum personal and spiritual potential.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF & VICE PRESIDENT Edward Grinnan

EXECUTIVE EDITORS Rick Hamlin, Amy Wong

Daily CREATIVE DIRECTOR Kayo Der Sarkissian

Inspıration
In our exclusive
video, TV journal-
ist and talk show
host Tamron Hall
shares who has
influenced her ASSISTANT ART DIRECTORS Stephen Wilder, Andrew Nahem
day-to-day faith
SENIOR DIGITAL EDITORS Sabra Ciancanelli, Carolina Pichardo
life. guideposts
.org/tamron
Moving Madness
SENIOR EDITOR, SPECIAL PROJECTS Celeste McCauley
SENIOR EDITORS Evan Miller, Jim Hinch, Hilary Ribons
COPY CHIEF Lisa Guernsey
PRODUCTION EDITOR Celia M. Gibbons
EDITORS Mari Pack, Kimberly Elkins
ASSOCIATE EDITOR Elena Tafone
ASSISTANT EDITOR Kaylin Kaupish
EDITORIAL ASSISTANT Allison Churchill
ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT Corlette L. Ruffin
ART DIRECTOR Kathi Rota
PHOTO EDITOR Kevin Eans
ASSISTANT PHOTO EDITOR Katie Hogin
SENIOR CONTRIBUTING EDITOR Colleen Hughes
SENIOR DIGITAL PRODUCER Brett Leveridge
DIGITAL EDITOR Alikay Wood
SOCIAL MEDIA COORDINATOR Mary Ryan
ASSISTANT DIGITAL PRODUCER Ashley Lateef
DIRECTOR, VIDEO CONTENT DEVELOPMENT Ty’Ann Brown

Military spouse Elizabeth Gray talks about CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

Elizabeth Sherrill, Kathryn Slattery,
the chaos—and the joys—of her family’s Karen Barber, Marion Bond West, Julie Mehta,
Ginger Rue, Stephanie Thompson,
many moves. guideposts.org/elizabethg Meg Belviso, Roberta Messner, Adam Hunter, Diana Aydin

PRESIDENT & CEO John Temple

Celebrate Black
History Month SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT Rocco Martino
CHIEF FINANCIAL OFFICER David Teitler
Let our collection of quotes from influ- SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT Kelly Mangold
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ential black Americans inspire you. SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT Carl Hixson

guideposts.org/blackhistoryquotes VICE PRESIDENTS

DATABASE MARKETING William McGlynn
BOOKS & INSPIRATIONAL MEDIA Chris Mellor
In the Name of Love PRODUCTION James Asselmeyer
CONTINUITY AND BOOK MARKETING Julian Lama
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prayvalentine GUIDEPOSTS ADVERTISING

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We make it easy to renew your magazine,
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4 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0

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 FEBRUARY 2020
Volume 74 • Issue 10
guideposts.org
TRUE STORIES OF HOPE AND INSPIRATION

LIVING LONGER,
LIVING BETTER
16 My First Calling
A judge and her secret dream.
By DEBRA H. GOLDSTEIN
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA

A MOMENT AMERICA
CAME TOGETHER
22 A Test of Faith
His son was the first
volunteer to try the
polio vaccine in 1952.
By T. W. KIRKPATRICK
PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

COVER STORY
26 A Spirit of Power

38 NEW BEGINNINGS
Love Wins
A mother’s choice.
Why this journalist
wants to make sure no one
else loses a family member
COVER: TODD PLITT; THIS PAGE: SHEVAUN WILLIAMS

to domestic violence.
By CHRISTY JOHNSON
EDMOND, OKLAHOMA By TAMRON HALL
NEW YORK, NEW YORK

EVERYDAY GREATNESS ANIMALS AND HEALING

14 Maria Rose Belding 32 Power of a Pup
She uses tech No kids, no dog and
to feed the hungry. no patience with each other.
By EVAN MILLER By CAROL KUYKENDALL
SENIOR EDITOR BOULDER, COLORADO

6 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
 With Your Help
We Can End Alzheimer’s

Guideposts has partnered with the

Banner Alzheimer’s Institute to help
end Alzheimer’s and you can help too!
Scientists are making great progress
in the fight against Alzheimer’s, but
80 percent of studies are delayed
because too few people sign up.
Join us by registering with the
Alzheimer’s Prevention Registry and
receive emails about prevention study
opportunities and research news.

Sign Up To Help End Alzheimer’s at

www.guideposts.org/help-end-alz
 32 14 54
CLOSE CALLS GUIDEPOSTS BOOKS
44 Change 60 (Extra)ordinary Women
of Direction These biblical figures
Lost in a raging wildfire. were unheralded…until now.

By TERRY BURLESON By RICK HAMLIN

EXECUTIVE EDITOR
EDMOND, OKLAHOMA

OVERCOMING LONELINESS YOUR FAVORITES

48 Redeployed 2 Editor’s Note
A military spouse’s toughest 4 What’s New on Guideposts.org
challenge. 10 The Up Side
By ELIZABETH GRAY 12 Someone Cares

FROM LEFT: MATTHEW STAVER, JAMES KEGLEY, TODD PLITT

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
25 Mysterious Ways
LIVING WITH CANCER 62 What Prayer Can Do
63 Family Room
54 Prayers
67 Continued
for Natalia
Her daughter’s illness GUIDEPOSTS, a nonprofit organization, touches millions of
lives every day through products and services that inspire,
has tested them both. encourage and uplift. Our magazines, books, prayer network
and outreach programs help people connect their faith-filled
By EGLI COLÓN STEPHENS values to their daily lives. To learn more, visit guideposts.org/
NEW YORK, NEW YORK about or guidepostsfoundation.org.

GOT A STORY? SUBMIT it to guideposts.org/tellusyourstory or

MAIL it to GUIDEPOSTS, 110 William Street, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038.

8 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
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 THE UP SIDE®
QUOTES FROM TODAY’S POSITIVE THINKERS

“I love when the house is

hushed and reverent, and
on the days I’m fortunate
enough to catch the first
glow of orange on the
eastern horizon, I smile.
I believe God grins back.”
REBEKAH LYONS, author of
Rhythms of Renewal: Trading Stress and
Anxiety for a Life of Peace and Purpose

“Choose to be optimistic—
it feels beer.”
via actress KRISTEN BELL’s Instagram

“Try to have good days

and bad moments. Life is too
short to have a bad day.”
advice from a friend of authors STEPHEN
KLEMICH and MARA KLEMICH, Ph.D.,
shared in their book Above the Line: Living
and Leading With Heart

“Wake Up. Be Amazing.

STEVE GRANITZ/WIREIMAGE/GETTY IMAGES

Be Kind. Be Brave. Be You.

“Don’t just aspire to Rinse and Repeat.”
make a living. Aspire sign on an elementary school spotted by
to make a difference.” GUIDEPOSTS reader DEBORAH BURKE
HENDERSON, of Ashland, Massachusetts
DENZEL WASHINGTON, actor

SEND AN UPLIFTING QUOTE from a newsmaker or yourself to upside@guideposts.org

or GUIDEPOSTS, The Up Side, 110 William Street, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038.

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 SOMEONE
PASS IT ON
CARES

HAPPY JAR DONE!

I was an emotional wreck

during my pregnancy
after two previous
T he end of last summer
was an especially busy
time for me. I wrote out
miscarriages. By daily to-do lists spanning
February, I was several pages. When
around six months I crossed off only
along. I developed a small portion of my
sciatica pains, and list each day, I grew
everything I did hurt. discouraged. “I’m
I missed the stress working so hard, but
relief I got from I don’t feel like I’m
working out. My mood actually getting
plummeted. anything done,” I told
My husband, Javier, my husband, Eric,
and I don’t usually nearly every night.
celebrate Valentine’s One night, he shook
Day. So it was a his head. “That’s not
big—but welcome— true,” he said. “You’re
surprise when he accomplishing a lot,
presented me with a jar and I can prove it.” Eric
filled with pink slips of paper. “This handed me a small notepad. “You’ve
is your happy jar,” he said. He had been beating yourself up over your
written a compliment or hopeful mes- to-do lists, so I made you a did-it list.”
sage on each piece of paper: “You will I flipped through the notepad.
be an amazing mother,” “You make Eric had dated each page and written
me a better person,” “You are abso- down things he’d seen me do. Made
lutely gorgeous.” Javier instructed his favorite dinner. Helped our kids
me to dip into the jar and read a note with homework. Gave the dog her
whenever I felt down. medicine. Really listened when our
ILLUSTRATIONS BY COCO MASUDA

Those pink notes helped me so son talked. Read bedtime stories

much. How blessed I am to have such and listened to prayers.
a loving husband, a man who is a Eric’s did-it list was a loving re-
great example for our healthy baby minder of the truly important things
boy, Lorenzo. I do each day.
NICOLE RIVERA DIANE STARK
Brooklyn, New York Brazil, Indiana

12 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0

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As I took a good look around the
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playing piano—all created by me
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efforts. What a wonderful Valentine!
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 everyday greatness
MARIA ROSE BELDING
JAMES KEGLEY

Her high-tech innovation is helping feed the hungry

BY EVAN MILLER, Senior Editor

14 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 1 9
who she is Maria Rose Belding,
24, co-launched and runs MEANS, an
online platform connecting business-
es that have surplus food with pan-
tries and soup kitchens that need it.
MEANS stands for Matching Excess
and Need for Stability, a name Maria
Rose came up with as a teenager
while volunteering in her Pella, Iowa,
church’s food pantry. She graduated
from American University in May
2019 and plans to go to med school.
what she does Maria Rose had
seen firsthand the difficulties that
pantries have connecting with food
donors. Many pantries lack landlines
or listed phone numbers. If only there
was a way to make the connection
online, she thought. As a freshman
in college, she met a student who
knew computer coding. The two of
them designed the MEANS online
messaging portal in 2014. The non-
profit, run largely by volunteer high
school and college students, serves
more than 3,000 pantries and soup
kitchens across the United States that
have signed up for the free service.
why she does it Maria Rose
was inspired by a sermon her min-
ister gave on Matthew 25:35. Those
words, “For I was hungry and you
gave me food,” spoke directly to her.
She was already volunteering at the
pantry, but now it felt like something
more, a way of directly serving God.
One day, another church donated
10,000 boxes of mac and cheese near-
Check out a behind-the-scenes look at Maria Rose’s nonprofit. guideposts.org/mariaroseb
ing their expiration date. The pantry
director spent hours trying to reach
pantries around the state looking
to share, but Maria Rose ultimately
tossed hundreds of boxes in the
dumpster. “It felt so wrong,” she says.
how she does it MEANS works
almost like a dating app. Pantries and
soup kitchens check off the types of
food they are looking for. When a gro-
cery or other donor in the area posts
an item that’s a match, a message
instantly goes out. The first organi-
zation to respond gets the donor’s
contact info. The system has found a
home for onetime donations of 250
pounds of rutabagas, 11,000 pounds
of green beans, 42,000 pounds of
milk. Even 50 pounds of squab—baby
pigeon—donated by a five-star restau-
rant in Seattle. (“Apparently it goes
great in pork and beans,” Maria Rose
says.) On average it takes less than
one hour to make a match. Once a
connection is made, the donor and the
pantry work out the delivery details.
how you can do it If you run
a food pantry or a business that has
surplus food, you can sign up for
MEANS at meansdatabase.org. Or
contact the director of your local
pantry to ask what foods they need.
“Some 46 million people get food assis-
tance, and yet we throw away 30 per-
cent of our food,” Maria Rose says.
“We currently reach almost 7 percent
of America’s pantries and soup kitch-
ens, but we want to get them all.” G
15
 LIVING LONGER, LIVING BETTER
My First
Calling
BY DEBRA H. GOLDSTEIN, Birmingham, Alabama
I
looked over my glasses from
the bench and asked, “Is there
anything else?” I was confident in
the details of the case and ready
to deliver a standard hearing closing.
“No, Your Hon—” the attorney be-
gan, but his client interrupted.
“Your Honor, I have one more thing,”
the man said.
I looked to the attorney. I’d been a
judge for 23 years—a female judge
from a time when that was neither ex-
pected nor particularly respected. I ran
a tight ship. It was always “Yes, Your
Honor” or “No, Your Honor.” I made a
face that said, Get your client under
control. That should have been enough.
But today the attorney threw his hands
in the air, exasperated.
I knew we were in trouble. I turned
to the client. “Yes, sir. What is it?”
“I just want you to know, no matter
how you rule, I’m buying your book.”
16 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
As a judge, I’ve never
actually thrown the
book at anybody. But
I have written a few
Oh no. My insides did a somersault.
I’d been trying for 10 years to keep my
writing separate from my career. Scrib-
bling mystery scenes in the wee hours
of the morning as I put in full days
behind the bench in black robes. For
years, nobody had any inkling of what I
did in my spare time, but that changed
when my first book, Maze in Blue, was
published in 2011, followed by a num-
ber of short stories. I was trying to sell
another novel, Should Have Played
Poker: a Carrie Martin and the Mah
Jongg Players Mystery. Magazines
and local papers were now publishing
articles with titles like “Judge Writes
Book” and “Judge Wrote Mysteries.”
PHOTOS BY TAMIKA MOORE
That was the marketing hook. My pri-
vate passion was fast becoming com-
mon knowledge.
I kept a straight face and delivered
my ruling. Then I collected my things
to head home. In the car, thoughts be-
|
 LIVING LONGER, LIVING BETTER

gan to swirl. If everybody knew I was didn’t work out? Was I

a writer, would that affect my role as a disappointing my father?
judge? Was this double life no longer I started putting together
sustainable? Would I have to make a law school applications at
choice I dreaded? night. Law was an honor-
I’d been torn between pleasing oth- able, challenging and
ers and following my passion ever secure profession. A per-
since I was a girl. My dad had wanted fectly practical match for
desperately for me to choose a practi- someone with my ambi-
cal career that would provide indepen- tion. I pushed writing to
dence, something like nursing or teach- the back of my mind and
ing. It was my mother who encouraged focused on applications.
my sister and me to do whatever we Eight months later, I
wanted. A Holocaust survivor, she was picked Emory Univer-
a scrapper who believed anything was sity School of Law from
possible with hard work and chutzpah. among my acceptances,
And of course if it was God’s will. as much for the Atlanta
“I want to be a comedienne,” I told weather as its presti-
her once. gious reputation.
“Perfect!” she said. “You’re as funny Nose to the grindstone, I hardly
as Carol Burnett.” noticed as time flew by. By 25, I was
graduated and working as a labor law-

W
hen i changed my mind
and decided to become
a writer, she was all for
it. Still, as an oldest child,
I felt an obligation to please both my
parents. When I graduated from the
University of Michigan with degrees
in English and history, along with
a teaching certification, my father
was thrilled. Yet it was my mother
who wished me well when I moved to
New York two days after graduation
to find a job in publishing and start my
writing career. “Follow your dreams!”
she cheered.
I ended up working for a small pub-
lishing house. I liked what I was doing,
but doubts still plagued me. What if this
yer in Birmingham, Alabama, arguing
an equal pay case of first impression.
By 30, I was married to the love of my
life, Joel. We were raising two children
from Joel’s previous marriage and,
later, our own two kids—twins, a boy
and a girl. I got active in my temple
and served on numerous community
boards. I published legal articles and
lectures. Sure, I still wrote a little. A
story or a skit here and there. But noth-
ing serious.
At age 36, I was appointed as one of
the youngest federal administrative
law judges in the country. One of only
26 women.
I knew it was important for me to be
taken seriously, especially as a woman

18 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0

WHODUNIT Debra writes what she knows.
“I love working out a mystery,” she says.
in a male-dominated field. I didn’t frat-
ernize. Didn’t joke. I did sometimes
wear something fun underneath my
black robes. Some leopard-print or
frilly dresses. If I was in the courthouse
where I had to cross the waiting room
to use the bathroom, I often left my
black robes behind. I once overheard a
claimant warn another, “She may look
normal in a dress, but just you wait.
When she’s sitting above you in black
robes, it’s like talking to God.”
For years, I lived by the letter of the
law, making both my parents proud. I
was a judge with a heavy caseload, and
my father was happy knowing I was
chair of my temple’s education commit-
tee. Not exactly a teacher but close! My
mother loved our blended family, my
work as a Girl Scout leader, my volun-
teer activities and how I centered God
in my life through my temple commit-
ments. I was proud of myself too, but I
wasn’t writing much except briefs and
legal articles. I couldn’t help but feel as
if something was missing.
On top of everything, I often kept late
hours with my youngest son, Stephen,
who hated going to sleep. I wistfully
said one evening how I missed having
more time. Especially time to write.
Nine-year-old Stephen looked up and
said, “Why don’t you just do it?”
I was taken aback. Why not do it?
Because of my job. Because of my
family. Because of my other commit-
ments. But how could I explain that to
a child? “Because…” I paused. “You
never go to bed.”
When bedtime came, Stephen went
right into his room and turned off the
light. No muss, no fuss. With the night
unexpectedly empty, I did what lots
of working moms would have done.
I watched a movie, painted my nails,
read a magazine. In the morning, Ste-
phen walked into the kitchen. “Well,”
he asked, “did you finish?”
I felt like an idiot. Here I was preach-
ing to my daughter’s Girl Scout troop
to “reach for the sky” and “follow your
dreams.” And what was I doing?
It would take almost 12 years of guilt
and false starts before I finally sat
down to write something significant.
A friend lent me her beach condo for
the weekend to give me time and space
to do it. But what kind of story could I
19
 LIVING LONGER, LIVING BETTER

write? What did I have to say? I’d spent and I stayed up praying. God, do I give
so much time pleasing others that I up my career? What is your will for me?
wasn’t totally sure who I was. I sat I’d sold a book and 13 short stories, but
at a desk and started thinking about there was no promise of future success
what I knew well enough to craft into in writing. As I prayed, I relaxed and
a story. University of Michigan in the opened myself to divine direction. The
seventies. I started scribbling in long- knot in my stomach went away. I felt
hand on a legal pad. By the end of the suddenly at peace.
weekend, I had 85 pages. I kept writ- The next morning, I walked into the
ing, filling more legal pads, and five of office and announced that I wanted no
those original pages went on to become more cases assigned to me. “I’ll work
my first book, a whodunit called Maze out my docket,” I promised. I reckoned
in Blue. I’d become a mystery author it would take another six or seven
at age 56. My mother was thrilled. months to get through all the cases. But
afterward I would be free
to follow my passion.
As I prayed, I relaxed and opened The other judges looked
shocked. An administra-
myself to divine direction. The knot in my tive judgeship was a life-
stomach went away. I felt at peace. time appointment.
“Are you sick?” one of
the judges asked.
My next novel, Should Have Played Another took me aside. “What are
Poker, tumbled out. I loved writing mys- you going to do every day?”
teries and for years thought I wouldn’t I smiled. “Have a life.”
have to choose between keeping my It’s been more than six years since I
respectable job and following my pas- left my judgeship, and I’ve never looked
sion. But the man in the courtroom call- back. I’ve published two more books:
ing me out from behind the bench now One Taste Too Many and Two Bites Too
had me thinking differently. I needed to Many, the first books in Kensington’s
have a talk with my husband about the Sarah Blair mystery series. My life as a
future of my career and our life. writer isn’t exactly what I expected. I’m
“Joel,” I said as I walked in the door at a little disorganized, and I never write
home, “we need to run some numbers.” as fast as I’d like. But I love working out
Was it time to choose? Joel and I a mystery. Have you heard the one about
looked at our finances. We had already how the judge leaves her day job and
put our kids through school. We were lets her dream and God guide her? Took
in good financial shape. We could— me long enough to figure it out. G
was it possible?—make things work.
That is, if I wanted to. Joel went to bed, For more on this story, see FAMILY ROOM

20 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
 A Test of Faith
BY T. W. KIRKPATRICK, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Guideposts celebrates its seventy-fifth
anniversary this year. We’ve been look-
ing back at stories that mark impor-
tant events during those years, mo-
ments when America came together.
In the early fifties, polio was a
national scourge. The epidemic peaked
in 1952; there were nearly 58,000 cases,
with more than 3,000 deaths and
some 21,000 people left paralyzed, most
of them children.
The next year, Jonas Salk an-
nounced his polio vaccine. The first
volunteer to test it had been Bill
Kirkpatrick, a teenage polio patient.
(Someone who’d already contracted
22 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
polio wouldn’t get the disease again
if something went wrong.) In 1954,
his father wrote an open letter to his
son in gratitude for his role in creat-
ing the lifesaving vaccine.
Bill not only recovered from polio
but thrived. He graduated from
Franklin & Marshall College, went to
seminary and became a minister
in the Episcopal Church. He served in
several dioceses, scaling back his
KEYSTONE/GETTY IMAGES
work in the 1980s, when he developed
post-polio syndrome. He died in 2003.
Here are his father’s poignant
words, as published in the October
1954 issue of Guideposts.
 A MOMENT AMERICA CAME TOGETHER
Dear Son:
Every father has a special
feeling about his son that’s
hard to put into words. From
the day you were born, back
in 1935, and all during your
next 19 years of achieve-
ment, I saw a little of myself
in you—just as I did in Joe,
your older brother, during
his school days—my hopes,
my dreams, my own ambi-
tions unfulfilled.
I was proud of your boyish
ability to cast for trout, your
skill in other sports. I’ll not
forget the football game at Shady Side
when you, a 130-pound tackle, kept
breaking through the opposing team’s
line to down their 175-pound fullback.
When you were rushed to the hos-
pital that Labor Day weekend in 1951
and put on the critical list with polio,
I couldn’t believe it. In the ambulance,
I was too numb to say anything, while
your mother kept whispering, “Keep
your faith in God, Son; remember the
Psalm: ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, I
shall not want.…’”
As you fought for life, I tried to put
the pieces of my own confused faith back
together. How much faith did I have?
Once before I had seen it demonstrat-
ed—back in 1928, when your mother
was seriously ill. The doctors had giv-
en her up. I prayed then that she might
live, and my prayers were answered.
Had I forgotten in so short a time?
THE POLIO VACCINE
Now, 23 years later, I had to admit
to myself that in this crisis with polio,
your mother’s prayers and faith were
stronger than mine.
While the doctors were fighting for
your life during the next weeks, you
were more concerned about another
polio-stricken boy in the same ward.
Remember how he kept saying, “I wish
I could die, I wish I could die.…”
The Reverend Mr. Penrose was the
only person permitted to visit you
while in isolation, and he told me how
you repeated the Twenty-Third Psalm
to this boy and prayed for him. Also
how you led prayers with others who
were suffering.
And I heard that the nurses looked
forward to going into your ward. They
knew that, regardless of your pain,
they could always count on a smile
lighting up your face and their day.
These reports made me feel more
proud of you than any of your football
or scholastic achievements.
Then a series of God’s miracles
started to happen.
Although the doc-
tors thought you
would die, you
lived. They felt
you would never
HISTORICAL The
October 1954 issue.
(Opposite) Teens
line up for the polio
vaccine.
23
 A MOMENT AMERICA CAME TOGETHER
walk again, but in three months you
began to sit up with the aid of a steel
back brace.
Remember your visit home that
Christmas holiday? At midnight that
New Year’s Eve, Mother and I held you
upright while we all sang “Auld Lang
Syne.” She believed that if you stood on
your feet at the beginning of the year
you would continue your progress.
Three months later, with some help,
all 90 pounds of you stood on your feet.
Dr. Jesse Wright was amazed but stated
that you would probably always have to
wear leg braces. “I’ll walk without brac-
es,” you said. Within a year, you did.
Something happened to me during
this period. Before you were stricken,
I had always considered myself a good
Christian, attending church, contribut-
ing money, serving on committees.
But I honestly wonder now how
much I really believed. At home we
were always too busy to have blessings
at meals. When you were so helpless, I
even questioned God’s existence.
Then you began to recover and cred-
ited it to faith and prayer. I felt ashamed.
It was in June 1952, while still badly
paralyzed, that you and 40 other polio
patients volunteered to help Dr. Jonas
Salk in his experiments with a new
and untried anti-polio vaccine. We had
no idea, until told by reporters in the
spring of 1953, that you were listed as
the world’s Case History No. 1 to re-
ceive the vaccine.
When you persuaded us to sign the
consent for the test, we hesitated at
first because of the possible danger.
24 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
Then you talked about your brother.
“Joe has two young sons, my neph-
ews,” you remarked. “I’ll do anything
possible to help protect them and oth-
ers from polio.” When you said that, I
thought of Christ’s words “Greater love
hath no man than this…” (John 15:13).
We don’t have all the results yet, Bill,
but I feel sure Dr. Salk’s work may save
thousands of lives. Today I can under-
stand clearly how God works through
people and how he can use a paralyz-
ing illness such as yours for good.
I also learned about the concern and
love of friends. During your illness, our
telephone never seemed to stop ring-
ing. Mattie [the Kirkpatricks’ maid]
gathered together a group of people in
her church and held prayer meetings
for your recovery. And your mother
never let our spirits lag. How I remem-
ber her in those dark days, by the pi-
ano, playing and singing her favorite
Welsh hymn, “God That Madest Earth
and Heaven.”
A father is fortunate when he can
learn as much from his son as I have
learned from you. You helped me see
that the test of a Christian is how he
meets difficulties, tragedies and sor-
rows. You also helped me see the mes-
sage of triumph in Christ’s experience
on the Cross.
Whether you become a doctor or a
minister, I know your one concern will
be to relieve suffering, to bring help
and cheer to those in need.
Your mother and I are very proud
of you.
Love, Dad G
 M Y S T E R I O U S WAY S
MORE THAN COINCIDENCE

M y husband’s death left a void

in my life. Tom was only 64 when
he passed. It was cancer. I was blind-
sided. All of my plans for the future
had been made for two, not one. Most
days, it felt as if I were drowning in
a sea of grief.
My family became my lifeline. I put
all of my energy into caring for them.
My parents were getting along in
years and needed more and more help
around the house, so I ended up
moving in with them. After the birth
of my youngest son’s twins, I found
myself busy helping care
for my grandbabies too.
But at every milestone— One ring in particular caught my eye.
the twins’ first words It wasn’t my usual style. But I tried it on,
and their first steps—I and it fit perfectly, as if made for me.
wished that Tom could
somehow be there with
me. He would have been the best
grandfather.
Now it was six years later and I
still thought about Tom every day. My
parents had since passed away. The
twins had started preschool. I wasn’t
needed to babysit them as often. I
had just bought my own townhouse.
My life was in a good place…. Still,
I wished Tom could have been there
with me.
On what would have been our
thirty-ninth wedding anniversary—
December 1, 2018—I knew I couldn’t
just stay in the house all alone. I
needed to get out.
I still had Christmas shopping to
do, so I drove to a small shopping plaza
nearby. I browsed in a few different
stores. Then, on a whim, I walked into
a small jewelry boutique. I was im-
mediately drawn to a display of rings,
silver and simple.
One in particular caught my eye. It
wasn’t my usual style. But I tried it on
and it fit perfectly, as if it had been
made for me. Though I still had gifts
to buy and knew I could have used
the money for those, something told
me I needed to get this ring.
I slipped off the ring and brought it
up to the cashier.
“It’s beautiful,” she said as she rang
up the purchase. “These rings are
handmade, you know. The artist puts
a lot of love into each piece. She even
engraves a special message on the
inside of each one.”
“Oh, let’s see what mine says,” I said.
I turned the ring over in my hands,
then froze.
Engraved inside the ring were the
words I am always with you.
Tom was still with me after all.
DEBBIE MALTA
Webster, New York

Have your own MYSTERIOUS WAYS story? SEND it to mw@guideposts.org.

25
TODD PLITT

a spirit
of power
As a journalist
Tamron Hall knows
sometimes the
hardest story is the
one you have to tell
BY TAMRON HALL, New York, New York
Y
ou’d think as the host of a
daytime talk show, encourag-
ing people to tell their stories,
that I would have no hesita-
tion about telling my own. True, there’s
a lot I’m willing to talk about. But one
of the biggest, saddest, toughest and
most important stories I didn’t share
for years. I opened up only when I saw
that others needed to understand, that
they needed to know what I wish I had
known back then, that lives could be
saved. That my heart need not have
been broken.
Renate was technically my stepsis-
ter, but that’s not how I would have
ever described her. She was my sister,
plain and simple. I was eight when my
mom remarried. Dad—as I learned to
COVER STORY
call him—and his daughter came into
my life. She was 14 years older than me
and the coolest person I’d ever seen.
Exuberant and generous and so glam-
orous. I loved going with her to Eck-
erd Drugs in our hometown of Luling,
Texas, and seeing her work her magic
with the drugstore beauty products
she bought. She’d come out of the bath-
room ready to go out, looking amazing.
When it came time for my senior
prom, Renate was my stylist, of course.
I cringe now at pictures of me in my
big hair and my fuchsia dress with
long white gloves—this was the late
’80s, mind you—but I was voted best
dressed, thanks to Renate. Later, after
I graduated from Temple University
with a degree in broadcast journalism
and was making my way in the busi-
ness, Renate would visit and give me
BLESSED “Before every show, I ask God to
make sure my words have meaning and that
people feel included,” Tamron says.
GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0 27
 COVER STORY
pointers on what to wear. Once it was
a pair of yellow suede pants. “No way,”
I said, looking at myself in the mirror.
“Trust me, you look great,” Renate
said. As usual she was right.
Although her taste was impeccable
in so many ways, in one area it was
flawed, and I couldn’t understand why.
Not for years. Even as a kid, I remem-
ber overhearing Mom and Dad whis-
pering, “That guy is no good for Re-
nate,” or telling her directly, “Why do
you want to be with him?” Late one
night when I was in my teens, she came
home from a date, her face bruised. She
told Dad that the guy she was with
tried to attack her and she’d jumped
out of a moving car.
H
ow was it possible that
someone so beautiful and
confident on the outside
could also be so insecure,
seeking validation? Didn’t she know
that God loved her and she deserved to
be loved by others? Church and prayer
were a natural part of our lives. Dad and
Renate went to the AME church, while
Mom and I worshiped at Beth Eden
Baptist. Then we’d all gather at home
for Sunday dinner. We prayed without
fail before every meal. At Thanksgiv-
ing, when Renate and I would fight over
who got the turkey wings, we thanked
God for every good thing in our lives—
and for me that always included my big
sister. Why would she look for love in
the wrong places?
One time Renate came to visit me
in Chicago, where I was anchoring
28 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
a morning news show. She brought
along the person in her life, someone
our family knew, and they stayed with
me at my townhouse. That first night
we hung out, went dancing and had
a great time. The second night, they
came to the TV station and she helped
choose my outfit for the next morning.
They seemed comfortable with each
other, relaxed. But later that night, I
was upstairs and heard a commotion
downstairs. A crashing sound, a thud.
I rushed down to see what was wrong.
My glass-topped table was knocked
over. Renate stood there, looking dis-
oriented, the area above her right eye
starting to swell. I glared at the man.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “I didn’t
do anything.”
“Get out,” I said to him.
“She hit me,” he said, insisting it
wasn’t his fault.
“Get out,” I said again and grabbed
the phone to call Dad.
Dad said, “Get him out of your house.
Right away.”
I picked up a broom and waved it
threateningly until he finally left. Then
I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer
to give Renate.
“You’re too good for him,” I said,
sounding just like our parents did.
“You’re beautiful and smart and won-
derful. You can do so much better. You
don’t need a guy like him.” I put Renate
to bed and told her to get some rest.
Not until years later did I learn how
hard it can be to talk someone out of
an abusive relationship. You can’t just
snap them out of it with words of affir-

FAMILY Tamron (in foreground) with her sis-
ter, Renate (far right), and their mom and dad
as they celebrate his seventieth birthday
mation. Mom and Dad and I had tried
that many times. Victims of domestic
abuse get caught in a cyclical bond of
trauma, desperately thinking they can
change things or that they’re not strong
enough to leave. I wish I’d said some-
thing much more direct, something
Renate could have responded to, some-
thing like “You’re in danger with this
man. How can I help?”
I was so upset and afraid for both
of us—and frustrated—that the next
morning I told her that she had to leave
too. I couldn’t have her and that man in
my house again, no matter what he said.
She could come back by herself but
COURTESY TAMRON HALL
never with him. Renate packed up and
left, and we didn’t speak for months.
Finally, at Dad’s urging, we reconciled.
I’m grateful for that. Without it, the
burden of guilt over what happened
next would have been unbear-
able. Still, I ask myself: Could I
have handled things differently?
Could I have made it possible for
her to reach out and talk? Could
I have saved my sister?
The call came a couple of
months later in 2004. Renate had
been found floating facedown in
her backyard pool. She had been
bludgeoned. The police said
there had been signs of struggle,
hair pulled out, her fingernails
broken. Renate had called Mom
the night before and told her that
she was ending the relationship. Now
my sister was dead.
The police told us to sit tight and not
make waves while we waited for them
to collect more evidence and arrest the
person of interest. Meanwhile that man
came to the funeral and sat in front of
me, the man I knew killed my sister. In
the end, he was never charged due to
a lack of evidence. Because of that, I
can’t even legally say his name.
Dad’s health went into a precipitous
decline. Mom said that he died of a bro-
ken heart. He believed that it was his
job to protect his girls. With Renate, he
felt he’d failed. As for me, I didn’t speak
publicly about my sister’s death for
years. It was too painful, too devastat-
ing to talk about. I turned to the Psalms
for solace, and my mom and my aunt
texted me Bible verses every day. It was
only as I learned more about domestic
violence that I started to use my posi-
tion in the media to help others, to reach
out to people like Renate, help them free
29
 COVER STORY

themselves of an abusive rela-

tionship. It can be done.
Mustering all my courage,
I finally spoke out about our
family tragedy at a press con-
ference in 2014. I expected a
slew of questions. Instead a re-
porter shot me down, moving
on to some other topic. I was
shocked. Didn’t he understand
how many people needed help?
The numbers are staggering:
One in four women and one in
seven men have experienced
some form of domestic vio-
lence, and nearly half of all female mur- INSPIRING EACH OTHER Tamron with her
der victims are killed by an intimate audience, whom she calls her TamFam
partner. Survivors of intimate part-
ner violence lose nearly 8 million days you can call the National Domestic Vio-
of paid work each year. Didn’t that re- lence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233. I estab-
porter see how shrouding the issue in lished The Tamron x Renate Fund to
secrecy only made it worse? aid Safe Horizon, a national organiza-
After that, I decided I need to be tion that offers a variety of programs
braver, to be fiercely honest. “God has to support survivors of abuse. I lost
not given us a spirit of fear but of power my sister, Renate. I don’t want other
and of love,” says the Bible. I would tap families to suffer the same.

JENNY ANDERSON/WALT DISNEY TELEVISION VIA GETTY IMAGES

into that power. Every morning I pray before I even
leave the house. I check on my infant

T
oday i use my voice when-
ever I can to help victims of
domestic violence. If you know
someone who’s trapped in an
abusive relationship, listen to them.
Don’t judge. Don’t jump in right away
with advice. Let them talk. Get them
somewhere safe. (Many churches of-
fer counseling and a place to stay.) Of-
fer to do the legwork, making phone
calls, scheduling appointments. To be
connected to a resource in your area,
son, Moses, who is usually still sleep-
ing, kiss my husband and get ready to
go to ABC Studios, asking God to give
me the right words—words that have
meaning and understanding—as I in-
terview people and hear their stories.
I say that prayer when I tell my own
story, urging others to talk about what
they’re going through. Words matter,
and the right words can save a life. G
For more on this story, see FAMILY ROOM

30 Learn how Tamron’s faith helps her in her daily life. guideposts.org/tamron
 TM
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 Power of

PHOTOS BY MATTHEW STAVER

 ANIMALS AND HEALING

a Pup
For the first
BY CAROL KUYKENDALL
Boulder, Colorado

“i’m back!” my husband, lynn, an-

time in 52 years nounced, shuffling into the kitchen
that afternoon last September with his
of marriage, arms full of groceries.
we truly had an “Sooner than I expected,” I said,
empty nest. No without looking up from my computer
kids, no dog and screen. I’d finally hit my stride paying
some bills and catching up on e-mail,
no patience and here he was, back home already!
with each other “No hero’s welcome?” he asked, un-
loading the groceries on the counter
right next to where I was working.
“Sorry. Just trying to get some
things done.”
“I won’t interrupt,” he promised,
putting away the cans and boxes in the
kitchen cabinets. Then, as always, he
left the doors wide open.
“Could you please close the cup-
board doors?” I could hear the edge in
my voice.
“Sure,” Lynn said, not looking at me
as he banged the doors shut. Then he
began loading the refrigerator at a
glacial pace, making me crazy that he
was leaving the fridge door open for so
long, letting all the cold air out. What
was it with him and doors?
I forced myself to hold my tongue and
flipped my laptop closed. “I’ll go in the

NOTHING BUT BLUE SKIES Carol and her

golden retriever, Zeke, now one year old

GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0 33
 ANIMALS AND HEALING
other room to finish up what I’m doing.”
“Sure,” he said again, his back still
turned to me.
I headed down the hall to our bed-
room and some solitude. Sitting down,
I gazed out the window and wondered
why I was getting so nitpicky and
worked up over such minor things
these days. I appreciated that Lynn did
some of the grocery shopping now that
he was retired. But I got annoyed by
things like his goofy wool hat that made
him look like a Smurf or the way he
sometimes shuffled his feet. No wonder
he didn’t seem to enjoy my company
just now either. Of course, marriage has
its ups and downs, but after 52 years, it
seemed as if we’d fallen into a cycle of
mutual annoyance without even know-
ing how we’d gotten there. When did
we stop looking at each other when we
talked? When did we start watching
television at dinnertime? This wasn’t
the way I wanted to love Lynn or live
out our lives. Something had to change.
ater, when i was cutting up
L vegetables to make soup for
dinner, our daughter, Lindsay,
stopped by on her way to pick up the
kids from school.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, leaning over the
counter to grab a carrot. “Where’s Dad?”
“Downstairs in his office.”
“He’s always downstairs. And this
house is too quiet these days,” she said,
then grinned as if she’d just had the
most wonderful idea in the world. “You
and Dad should get another puppy.”
“You know we can’t do that again.
34 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
We’re beyond that season. Especially
the puppy season.”
“Of course you can,” she said. “You two
have always been dog people, and dog
people should have a dog. And there’s
nothing like a puppy to shake things
up and get you out of your own heads.”
After Lindsay left, I wondered how
she could possibly know anything
about our season of life. But she did
know us, and so I thought about her
suggestion. For the first time in our mar-
ried life, Lynn and I were truly living in
an empty nest. We’d always had a dog.
A golden retriever puppy was our first
baby. Then came three children and two
more golden retrievers. Ten years ago,
after we’d both been diagnosed with ad-
vanced cancers, we bought Kemo, our
last beloved golden, as a reward for fin-
ishing chemotherapy. We survived, but
Kemo died of cancer last year.
“Our last dog,” we’d vowed to each
other. We couldn’t go through that
kind of grief ever again. Besides, at this
stage, all our friends had stopped get-
ting new dogs. Still, I had to admit that
our lives without a dog were certainly
less active. Less interesting. Less fun.
That night at dinner, I said, “What
would you think about us getting an-
other puppy?”
Lynn stared at me, his spoon sus-
pended between bowl and mouth. “I
thought you were totally against get-
ting another dog, especially a puppy.”
“Lindsay thinks a puppy would be
good for us. It would definitely be a
challenge, but we’ve always been good
at loving something together.”

DOG PEOPLE “My husband, Lynn, and I
have always been good at loving something
together,” Carol says.
Lynn took his time answering. Fi-
nally he said, “Have you forgotten how
puppies wreak havoc in the house?
They chew up everything in sight!”
“I know, I know. They’re trouble, but
they’re worth it.”
“And what about all the training?”
Lynn asked.
“We’d have to share that responsibil-
ity, but I’d take a dog to puppy classes,”
I said, my enthusiasm growing. “That
would be fun for me.”
We carried on our puppy talk over
the next several days. “I’m still not
sure,” Lynn said several times, but I’d
learned that, when faced with a tough
decision, he asked lots of questions
and voiced doubts in order to reach
the right conclusion. It was clear he
wanted me to convince him even as I
was convincing myself. I researched
local breeders, made a couple phone
calls and texted several dog-people
friends to see if they had any sugges-
tions. One friend got back to me imme-
diately. “Whatever you do, don’t get a
puppy!” she texted, adding the hashtag
#peopleouragedontdopuppies. I felt a
determination to prove her wrong.
The very next day, I got a call about an
available 12-week-old golden retriever
whose initial arrangement to become a
service dog had fallen through. While
we weren’t ready to commit yet, I knew
this “golden” opportunity wouldn’t last
long. To my surprise, Lynn agreed to
have the trainer bring over the puppy
that afternoon. As soon as we saw the
little guy bounding out of the trainer’s
arms, tripping all over himself to meet
us, we were totally smitten. I picked
him up and breathed in that unmistak-
able puppy smell, then handed him to
Lynn. “You want to come live at our
house?” he asked, nose to nose with
the puppy. And that was that. We had
an adorable new member of the family.
The first task we tackled together
was buying a puppy crate, a new bed
and the food the trainer recommended.
“Now we need a name,” I told Lynn. We
pondered this important responsibility
as we looked at the sleeping puppy.
“Needs to be a strong male name.”
Lynn said. “But not like Bruno or Bubba.”
“We’ve always picked names with a
special meaning for us, like Kemo and
Rhody from Rhode Island,” I added.
“What about Ezekiel, after the proph-
et?” Lynn said. “We learned about
him last week in Bible study. Ezekiel
brought hope and encouragement to his
35
 ANIMALS AND HEALING
people, and we could use some of both.”
I tried out the name. “Hmm, Eze-
kiel… No, Zeke! I like it.”
Lynn smiled. “Zeke it is.”
efore we knew it, squeaky
B toys and chew bones once again
littered our floors. A puppy play-
pen filled one corner of the kitchen. In
the bedroom, we wedged Zeke’s large
crate in next to our bed. We fell into fa-
miliar routines, just as we had with all
our other dogs. When I let Zeke out of
his crate in the morning, he shared his
“good morning” joy by jumping on the
bed to snuggle with us. Next up were
twice-daily walks, regardless of the
weather, and trips with us to stores that
welcomed dogs. When we first took Zeke
outside, he’d run around and around in
circles until he tired himself out and had
to lie down on the grass, panting. Best
of all was when we’d tell him sternly,
“No barking!” He’d immediately switch
to a sound somewhere between a low
growl and a hum. We call it Zeke speak.
Of course, there were many days
when our new housemate was nothing
but trouble. I spent countless hours
scrubbing and spraying the off-white
carpet in the living room in a mostly
vain effort to erase Zeke’s little acci-
dents. His favorite search-and-destroy
missions were to our bedroom, hop-
ing to catch the closet door open so
he could practice his shoe chewing.
One afternoon after we’d had him for
several weeks, I found him innocently
gnawing the sole off one of my favor-
ite sandals. The closet door was wide
36 GUIDEPOSTS | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
open, just like those kitchen cabinets!
I yelled for Lynn. “You have to remem-
ber to close the closet door!” I told him
sharply, holding up the ruined shoe.
“Why do I have to keep telling you?”
Lynn looked surprised and irritated
at my tone. It had been a while since
we’d been snippy like that with each
other. But then Zeke looked up at us
with those big brown eyes and tilted
his head, as if to say, “Hey, I’m just a
puppy! What do you expect?” Lynn and
I laughed, and the tension melted away.
“You think it’s time to sign him up for
those training classes?” Lynn asked.
“I’ll see when the next class starts,”
I said. “But I do remember the most
important thing the trainer always
taught us—that real bonding comes
from direct eye contact with the puppy.
She advised us to practice with people.
Let’s try it.” I locked eyes with Lynn. At
first it felt awkward because we hadn’t
had that kind of eye-to-eye contact for
a long time.
“Do you love our puppy?” I asked,
holding my husband’s gaze.
“I do,” he said, smiling. “He makes
our house happier.”
“Us happier too.” I felt proud that
we’d met the puppy challenge at this
stage in our lives.
“But he still needs some serious
training,” Lynn said. “Or we’re both
going to need a lot of new shoes.”
“We’ll manage,” I told him. “Just as
we always have. By figuring things out
together.” G
For more on this story, see FAMILY ROOM
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 NEW BEGINNINGS

love
wins
What if your daughter told you something about
herself that went against
everything you were taught to believe?
BY CHRISTY JOHNSON, Edmond, Oklahoma

M
y 20 -year-old daughter, Oklahoma City’s gay neigh-
Brittany, had left the comput- borhood.
er on in my bedroom. She’d That couldn’t be right.
been using it to chat with friends. The Why would Brittany want
chat session was still on the screen. to go there?
Maybe I shouldn’t have read it, but I’d grown up in a very con-
I’m a mom and I couldn’t help myself. servative church environ-
“We’ll meet you at the WreckRoom,” ment and raised Brittany
Brittany had written at the end. the same way. Where I came
My husband, John, Brittany’s stepfa- from, the Bible was crystal
ther, walked in. clear about homosexuality.
“Have you ever heard of a place Someone who lived that way
called the WreckRoom?” I asked him. was out of God’s favor.
“No,” he said with a shrug. “Why?” Brittany was living at home
“Brittany’s going there tonight.” while working and attend-
I looked up the WreckRoom online. ing community college. In some ways,
What?! It was an all-ages gay nightclub she was a grown-up. In others, she was
on Thirty-Ninth Street, the heart of still pretty naive. Maybe she just didn’t
know what the WreckRoom was.
FILLED WITH GRACE Christy and her And yet…why was my whole body
daughter Brittany rigid with fear?

38 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
 I racked my brain for reassurance nothing came of it. Other than that, she
that Brittany wasn’t gay. There was had never dated, never had a boyfriend.
SHEVAUN WILLIAMS

that guy she pined over in high school Not that John and I gave her much
who was dating someone else. Later wiggle room. We taught a singles
he broke up with that other girl, and class at church based on the purity
he and Brittany went to the prom—but movement. The idea was to avoid ca-

39
 NEW BEGINNINGS
sual dating and focus on marriage. We
steered Brittany toward group outings
with friends, and she never rebelled
against that.
The only time she and I had a big dis-
agreement over this subject was when
she expressed curiosity about one of
her eighth-grade teachers, who was a
lesbian. “That’s kind of cool,” Brittany
said when she found out.
“It’s not cool,” I replied and followed
up with a lecture about what I believed
the Bible said about sexuality. Brittany
stopped talking about her teacher.
I
called john over to the com-
puter. We stood there staring at
the screen, both feeling deeply un-
comfortable. John’s daughter from his
first marriage, Melissa, had apparent-
ly been questioning her own sexuality
as well. Brittany and Melissa were only
a year apart. Were they influencing
each other?
Melissa had moved out as soon as
she turned 18. She and I had a difficult
relationship. Earlier that day, she’d
driven over from her mom’s house,
where she was living, to hang out with
Brittany. They were out now getting
something to eat. It was clear from the
chat session that they were planning to
go to the WreckRoom together.
“They are not going to that place,” I
said to John.
“No way,” he said, though we both
knew he didn’t have a lot of leverage
with Melissa.
We confronted the girls when they
came back. “Do you even know what
40 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
the WreckRoom is?” I asked Brittany.
“You read my chat session!”
“You left my computer on. You are
not going to a gay bar. Homosexuality
is wrong. You know that.”
An expression I had never seen
before came over my daughter’s face.
Defiance. And something else. She
looked wounded.
“How do you know it’s wrong?” she
said. “My friends go there, and I like it.
I don’t see anything wrong with it, and
I’ll go back as soon as I get the chance.”
She stormed out.
For two weeks, we fought. I quoted
Scripture, gave lectures. Brittany
never outright said she was gay, but I
knew she was fascinated by that whole
subject. Dismayed and bewildered, I is-
sued an ultimatum: “You know what I
believe. If you can’t follow my rules,
you have to move out.”
Brittany packed up her things and
moved into her own apartment.
The following months were a night-
mare. Brittany all but cut me off. She
came over for Thanksgiving, but I
ruined it by using the opportunity to
lecture her.
Emotions warred inside me. Horror.
Fear. Shame. Regret. How could my
own daughter do this to me? And yet I
missed her so much!
Brittany’s childhood hadn’t been
easy. My first husband was a drug ad-
dict who was abusive and neglected
our children. Once, driving under
the influence, he wrecked his car and
killed Brittany’s youngest brother.
I had to get out of that marriage. The

TOGETHER Christy with her husband, John,
and (from left) Melissa, Garrett and Brittany
on their family cruise
divorce and her dad’s chaotic life took
its toll on Brittany. She was never re-
bellious. Just quiet and contained, bot-
tling up her emotions. There was a lot
about her life I didn’t know.
I thought I’d done everything right.
Read Scripture to Brittany and her
brother, Garrett. Monitored what
they watched, who their friends were.
Where did I go wrong?
Reading First Corinthians one day,
I came to the part where Paul says
that if someone “is sexually immoral
or greedy, an idolater or slanderer,
COURTESY CHRISTY JOHNSON
a drunkard or swindler,” a believer
should “not even eat with such people.”
Brittany came over later that day to
do laundry. She sat uncomfortably at
the kitchen table, waiting for the wash
to finish.
A sudden impulse to open my heart
came over me. I joined her at the table
and told her about the Corinthians pas-
sage. “I don’t know what that means,”
I said, starting to cry. “Am I not even
supposed to eat with you?”
Brittany did her best to remain
stone-faced, but she began to cry too.
We stared at each other helplessly.
When the laundry was done, Brittany
folded everything and drove away.
Soon after, her life unraveled. She
flunked out of college and got a DUI.
To my utter confusion, she moved into
a filthy house with relatives who used
a lot of prescription pain medication.
Brittany was sleeping on a dirty mat-
tress on the floor. I went over one day
to visit. Overwhelmed by depression,
she didn’t even get out of bed.
I was overwhelmed too by emotion.
I felt caught between my love for Brit-
tany and my obedience to what I read
in Scripture, what I’d been taught to
believe. I didn’t dare tell anyone at
church. What would they say?
Part of me was relieved that John
was having his own struggle with Me-
lissa. Both he and I had endured rocky
first marriages. It would have been so
easy for either of us to sit in judgment.
One day, I was out getting the mail
when my friend Juli drove by. Juli is
one of the most perceptive, straight-
talking people I know.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s Brittany,” I said.
Juli eyed me. She knew exactly what
was going on. “You blame yourself,
don’t you?” she said. I nodded.
41
 NEW BEGINNINGS
“Let me ask you,” she said. “If Brit-
tany had turned out perfect in your
eyes, would you have taken credit?”
“Of course!” I said.
Juli shook her head. “Then you
would be full of pride. Whatever Brit-
tany did, it’s God’s job to judge. Your
job is to love your daughter.”
Juli drove away, and I stood there,
feeling stung. Then, to my amazement,
a sense of liberation began to build in-
side me. If Juli was right, I could love
my daughter as she was without hav-
ing to answer all the hard theological
questions.
R
ight there by the mailbox, i
prayed about it. As clear as day,
God replied, Why would Brit-
tany ever want to be with someone as
judgmental as you are?
Another passage from Corinthians
came to mind: “Love is patient, love is
kind. It does not envy, it does not boast,
it is not proud. It does not dishonor
others, it is not self-seeking, it is not
easily angered, it keeps no record of
wrongs. Love does not delight in evil
but rejoices with the truth. It always
protects, always trusts, always hopes,
always perseveres.”
I went inside and called Brittany.
“Want to go get coffee sometime?”
“I would love that!” she said.
Slowly we worked to rebuild our
relationship. We got coffee. Went to
garage sales. I called her just to talk
and avoided the issue of sexuality. The
more we talked, the easier it became.
I knew it was a risk for Brittany to
42 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
trust me. I didn’t want to let her down.
John and I decided to take the whole
family—Brittany, Garrett and Melissa—
on a five-day Caribbean cruise. It
sounded kind of crazy. But we realized
that what we needed most of all was
undistracted time together.
We threw a bon voyage party, and
Melissa invited her best friend Rob-
bie and his boyfriend. I had met these
young men before and, frankly, found
them extremely nice and easy to talk
to—once I let go of my judgment.
They arrived with a huge cake deco-
rated like a cruise ship—a peace offer-
ing. I realized they’d had to work just
as hard to accept someone like me, a
conservative Christian who disagreed
with how they lived.
We had a great time at the party
and an even better time on the cruise.
Something must have happened out
there on the water. Soon after we re-
turned, Brittany began pulling herself
back together. She found work and
entered into a long-term relationship.
Her partner, Nicole, became like a third
daughter in our family.
I no longer hide what I tell people at
church because I’m no longer ashamed
of my daughter.
I feel closer to God than ever when
I remember that he extended infinite
grace to me, enabling me to extend
grace and love to Brittany.
I don’t have all the answers. What I
do know is that the Bible tells me to
trust, to hope and to persevere in love.
Those are words Brittany and I can em-
brace with all our hearts. G
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 CLOSE CALLS
Change of Direction
BY TERRY BURLESON, Edmond, Oklahoma
O
n the plains of north-
west Oklahoma, you can see
for miles: nothing but prairie
grass, clumps of cedar trees
and rugged red-rock canyons. But even
with my binoculars, I could barely
make out the helicopters, one after the
other, dumping water on a wildfire at
the horizon. I wasn’t concerned by the
small plume of smoke snaking sky-
ward. It had to be at least 50 miles away,
across the South Canadian River even.
That afternoon, my uncle Larry and
cousin Tony and I had driven to this
4,000-acre ranch for a planned three days
of turkey hunting. Larry had brought
44 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
three horses for us to use, moseying
about the ranch like real cowpokes. At
age 57, I was semiretired from a career
in retail management. It felt great to
get away for some male bonding.
I snapped a few pictures of the bushy
cedars, the canyon rims—nothing but
blue skies above—and texted them to
my wife, Ande, two hours away. “Noth-
ing to worry about,” I typed. “Having a
great time.” She’d seen the fire on the
news and called a few minutes earlier to
EUGENE R. THIESZEN
warn me, but we’d lost the cell connec-
tion. I didn’t want her fretting. I knew
she’d be praying regardless. All that
talking-to-God stuff came harder for

A raging prairie
blaze and a hunter lost
in the flames
me. It was hard to imagine him actu-
ally listening to anything I’d have to say.
The wind had picked up, blowing
hard from the southwest. We left the
horses in the stable by the ranch house
and climbed into a Gator utility vehi-
cle, Larry driving, to scout for places
to draw out the gobblers the next day.
We headed north on a small gravel
road that hugged the ranch perimeter.
We stopped here and there to look for
signs of turkeys.
We drove for about a mile before Lar-
ry turned to head back south, toward
the ranch house. As we did, my eyes
went wide. A wall of flames was rac-
ing toward us, maybe three quarters
of a mile away. “Get us out of here!”
I screamed. Larry whipped around,
bouncing hard over the gravel road.
How had the fire jumped the river? To
cover that kind of ground so fast would
have taken tornado-like speed. The
flames would be on us in no time.
“What about the horses?”
“What about our trucks?”
“How can we save ourselves?”
We weren’t expecting answers. We
were just trying to keep from totally
losing it. I looked back. Amazingly, we
were gaining on the fire.
Until we ran out of road.
A heavy-duty barbed-wire fence
blocked the way. There was no way to
get the Gator past it. Larry, Tony and I
jumped off and scrambled to the other
side. But it hardly mattered. On foot,
we were goners. I called Ande.
“We’re surrounded by fire,” I shout-
ed over the howling wind. “Call 911! We
need a helicopter to get us out of here.”
The connection went dead.
I looked around. Where were Larry
and Tony? The smoke was so thick,
I couldn’t see more than a few feet
around me. I yelled for the other guys.
All I could hear were the cedars explod-
ing. The dry grass crackling like pop-
corn. It was terrifying. I reached in my
pocket for my cell phone again. Gone. I
must have dropped it. That phone was
my only contact with the outside world.
WILDFIRE The April 2018 fire in
Dewey County, Oklahoma, burned more
than 280,000 acres.
45
 CLOSE CALLS
But there was no time to look further.
I stumbled blindly, choking from the
smoke. Flames reached out and tagged
me, burning my clothes. If I didn’t get
some fresh air, I was going to die of
smoke inhalation. I knelt down, my face
near the ground, gasping for breath.
I’d never needed God as I did now.
But I never felt as if I’d done anything
to deserve his help or his love. Ande
was up every morning at 5:30, pray-
ing and reading the Bible. Me? I’d put
nearly everything else in my life first—
work, family, chores. The only times
God had felt real to me were Sunday
mornings. For years I’d driven two
hours every other weekend to look af-
ter my mother, mow her property. Driv-
ing home, I’d turn the radio to a station
out of Tulsa that played old-time gos-
pel music, those wide-open Oklahoma
skies spreading out before me. I felt
as if I was in the arms of the Creator.
I never got that feeling anywhere else.
I was on my own here. Through the
smoke, the flames biting me every
step of the way, I made it to the top of a
canyon. Momentarily I was above the
fire. To the west, maybe a quarter mile
away, I saw a flat area the fire hadn’t
reached, a place clear of cedars.
I half-ran, half-staggered there, then
collapsed on the ground. I took deep
breaths. After a few minutes, I tried to
stand. Smoke filled my lungs. I fell back
to the ground. Behind me came a roar
like a freight train. I looked back. All I
could see were towering flames.
I pulled myself to my feet. I went one
way, then another, the blaze chasing
46 GUIDEPOSTS | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
me. Somehow I ended up in an area
that had already been burned, the
ground charred black. How I’d gotten
there I had no idea. It was as if I’d been
carried. I lay on the embers—my scalp,
my back burning, blistering. I didn’t
even have the strength to lift my head.
“God, please let me live,” I cried out
in desperation. It was the first prayer
I’d said in years. I knew I was too late
to expect any favors from God. I only
hoped he’d be there for Ande. “Let her
know I love her,” I whispered.
Hot wind whipped dirt and ash against
me. The fire would be right behind it,
burning over me. I dug into my pocket
and found a handkerchief; I put it over
my nose and mouth. Closed my eyes
tight. A peace came over me. I was ready
to die. I just hoped I’d lose conscious-
ness before the flames reached me.
A minute passed. Then two. I opened
my eyes as much as I dared. The flames
had burned a kind of firebreak into the
ground just yards away from me. Now it
was blowing away from me. A miracle.
I stood and started walking, no idea
of the direction I was going. It looked
like a war zone, blackened cedars lit-
tering the countryside. Was anybody
searching for me? I hadn’t seen a single
helicopter. In the distance I saw a wind-
mill and a large, round stock tank on
a concrete slab, a place where I could
lie down, away from burning embers. It
took every bit of strength I had left, but
I got there just as darkness fell.
I dipped my handkerchief in the cool
water I found, washing soot and ash
off my face and wetting my lips. Water,

SPARED “It looked like a war zone,” Terry says
of the scene of the fire.
even though it wasn’t the cleanest, had
never tasted so good.
I collapsed onto the concrete. The air
was still smoky. How much more could
I breathe in before it killed me? Would I
even live till morning? I wished I’d been
able to tell Ande and my kids how much
I loved them. In the distance, I watched
as cedars burst like fireworks, the fire
ravaging everything in its path. The
flames had surrounded me—by any
logic, the fire should have consumed
me too. And yet, as if a shield protected
me, I’d been spared its full fury.
I looked up. Helicopter lights zipped
across the sky. But there was no sec-
ond pass. No one had seen me. I stared
up at the majestic starry heavens. The
view went on forever, beyond what
my eyes could possibly take in. The
COURTESY TERRY BURLESON
only thing I could compare it to were
those drives back from my mom’s. That
overwhelming sense of God’s presence.
He’d been with me then. He’d shielded
me from the flames today. He would
be with me always. I didn’t have to do
anything to earn his love. I thought of
Ande’s prayers, the prayers of folks at
church she had no doubt asked for. I
felt their love too. There on the hard
concrete, without another soul around,
I felt watched over, a feeling I’d never
known before.
“Thank you, Lord,” I prayed. “For
never giving up on me. Thank you for
Ande and the kids, for the life you’ve
given me.” The words came freely, eas-
ily, as if I were talking to an old friend. I
talked to him all night, about everything
I could think of, making up for lost time.
At sunup, I started walking. Before
long, I saw a pickup. Two men got out.
“Have you been out here all night?”
one asked. “We were just going to work
at the oil rig, but we’ll make sure you
get help. You’re one lucky dude.”
“Do you have any water?” I was
downing my third bottle when a silver
SUV pulled up. My son, Jordan, and
sons-in-law, Mark and Sean, and my
good friend Don got out. “He’s alive!”
they shouted. One of them held a phone
to my ear. “Everything’s going to be
okay,” Ande said. “I love you.”
The boys explained that Larry and
Tony were safe. The horses had survived
as well. A helicopter took me to the burn
unit in Oklahoma City. As it lifted off, I
took one last look at the charred land-
scape below. Total devastation. More
than 280,000 acres would burn. But in
the blackness I saw hope, the promise
of a new day dawning, new growth.
I was alive because the fire had mi-
raculously changed direction. And so
had I. G
47
 The hardest
assignment for this
military wife—
starting over

REDEPLOYED BY ELIZABETH GRAY

Alexandria, Virginia

T
ime to move. again.
My husband’s next set of mili-
tary orders arrived. Cody is in
This would be our sixth move since
our oldest daughter, Morgan, was born.
In those 11 years, we’d moved about
JAMES KEGLEY

the Army. He was being assigned to every two years. The moves were hard
Fort Hood, Texas—1,500 miles from our on Morgan, though eventually she
home in Alexandria, Virginia. managed to make friends. Her young-

48 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0

er sisters, Brynn and Hadley, mostly
seemed fine.
The one who dreaded these moves
most of all? Me.
I’m an introvert. Some people get en-
ergized by a room of strangers. Social
OVERCOMING LONELINESS
situations drain me. My comfort zone
is my job—I’m a licensed clinical social
worker who works on military family
programs—my family and my home.
My idea of a good day? A productive
time at work, home at a reasonable
hour, dinner with Cody and the kids, a
cozy evening reading a book or looking
at something online.
Over the years, I’ve developed a
small network of close friends, but
making friends is hard for me. Meeting
new people always feels forced. I have
no idea what to say that doesn’t sound
fake. I’d rather stay home.
Every two years, I went through the
ritual known to most military families.
Pack the house. Say goodbye. Drive
thousands of miles. Find a place to
live (usually off-post). Enroll the kids
in school. Find a babysitter, a dentist
and a hairdresser (the true trifecta of
a military move). A church.
Last and hardest item on that list—
for me anyway: make friends.
“At least it’s Fort Hood,” I said to
Cody. Fort Hood is one of the largest
military installations in the world, with
more than 36,000 soldiers and some
12,000 civilian employees. Surely we
knew someone.
Cody scanned his mental Rolodex.
“Is Ann still there?” he ventured, nam-
ing someone we’d known a few years
earlier.
“She just retired and moved,” I said.
“What about Brad?”
“He and his family are in North Caro-
lina now,” Cody said.
We went back and forth.
49
 OVERCOMING LONELINESS

“There has to be someone!” I said. away. Who comes

There wasn’t. to pick up your kids
Packing the house, I felt a creeping when you can’t?
sense of dread. You’d think by this time I’ve asked peo-
I’d have mastered this process. Instead ple I just met at
it just seemed to be getting harder. Es- a party to be my
pecially the friend part. The thought of kids’ emergency
yet another round of meet-and-greets, contact. I’ve been
stilted conversations and trial-and- asked the same
error coffee runs sapped my spirit. question.
“Anyone know someone at Fort After the surgery
Hood?” I asked my social media net- debacle, I begged
work. No one did. In the military, all God for help mak-
your friends move too. ing friends. God
Driving to Texas, I realized there did not answer that
was an even deeper layer to my dread. prayer by giving
We’d made a home in northern Vir- me a sudden infu-
ginia, finding friends at work and in sion of extrover-
our neighborhood, our day care and sion. Still, I always
our daughter’s Girl Scout troop. We’d managed to make
all said goodbye to a place and people at least one or two
we loved. friends wherever we moved.
Now, as we headed into the un- I knew I should ask God for help
known, I felt weighed down by grief. again. But I also knew what “help” felt
A familiar temptation came over me. like. The enormous reluctance. The
Maybe I could just skip making friends awkward introductions. The strained
and consider this posting a retreat conversations.
from social life. Introverts like to be I just didn’t feel up to it.
alone, right? “Of course you can do it,” my friend
Immediately I remembered the time Mandy back in Virginia said. She was
several years earlier when I’d needed one of the first people I called when we
emergency surgery while Cody was got to Fort Hood. Mandy makes most
PHOTOS COURTESY ELIZABETH GRAY

off on deployment. The kids had ended
up in the care of strangers because
I’d failed to find people to list as their
emergency contacts at day care.
It’s a common dilemma for military
families. Often you show up some-
where in the middle of the school year.
You know no one. Relatives live far
extroverts look introverted. She can
walk into a crowd of strangers and
leave with everyone’s phone number.
“Just talk to people,” she said. “Get
to know them.”
“Easy for you to say,” I said.
“All you have to do is meet one per-
son,” Mandy said. “Then you get to

50 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
Elizabeth and her family are on their sixth
military move in 11 years.
know that person’s people. You can
meet one person.”
Could I? Once, before Cody and I had
kids, I came back to the U.S. from being
stationed in Germany while Cody was
still in Iraq. For several months, even
after starting graduate school, practi-
cally the only people I talked to were
the pizza delivery guy and my next-
door neighbor, who turned out to be a
drug dealer.
Those were some of the loneliest
months of my life. Introverts like alone
time, but we don’t like feeling lonely.
Who does?
I knew what I should do here at Fort
Hood. I just didn’t know if I had it in me.
A month after we arrived, I got an
e-mail invitation to a meet-and-greet
for military spouses. I tried to con-
vince myself the e-mail had been sent
by mistake; it seemed to be addressed
only to spouses of soldiers in positions
different from Cody’s.
“Let me find out,” Cody said. A few
hours later, he called me back. “You’re
invited,” he said. “They specifically
said they want to make everyone feel
welcome.”
“I don’t want to go,” I said.
“Why not? You might meet some
people.”
“I might win the lottery someday
too,” I said, picturing myself standing
awkwardly off to the side as women
chatted happily.
“Just go,” said Cody.
I went, a knot in my stomach and a
smile plastered on my face.
For a while, I did stand off to the side
as women chatted happily around me.
I overheard someone say she lived near
where Cody and I had found a house.
Mandy’s voice sounded in my head:
“Introduce yourself! Maybe she could
be your one person.”
I felt the familiar reluctance.
51
 OVERCOMING LONELINESS
Go, a deeper voice seemed to say. I
will be with you.
Oh, all right!
In order for me to meet that woman,
I would have to cut into her conversa-
tion. Was there anything more mortify-
ing? What if I introduced myself and
everyone just stared at me?
I
stepped forward. when the
conversation paused, I summoned
up my strength, stuck out my hand
and said, “Hi, I’m Elizabeth. I over-
heard you say you live near where my
family lives. I’m new here too. I thought
I’d introduce myself.”
Well, that sounded dumb.
The woman smiled and, to my
amazement, we started chatting—
about the neighborhood, kids, schools,
past deployments.
“Maybe we could get coffee some-
time,” I said.
“I’d love that,” she said.
We exchanged contact information,
texted a few times and…never met up
for coffee.
So much for that.
I tried to convince myself that being
alone was preferable to the struggle of
making new friends. If loneliness was
the price to pay, then so be it. What
could I do?
A month later, a second meet-and-
greet invitation arrived. Apparently
these things happened regularly.
“I am definitely not going,” I said to
Cody. “The first one was a bust.”
“Just go,” he said, then grinned. “You
know, Starbucks is on the way home.”
52 Get the inside scoop on Elizabeth’s moving routine in our video. guideposts.org/elizabethg
This man knew my weaknesses.
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m also getting a
brownie there.”
I kept my ears open for conversa-
tions that sounded promising. Again
I heard someone mention living near
me. Without thinking, I plunged in. “I
think we’re neighbors,” I said.
“Me too,” another woman standing
nearby said.
The first woman introduced herself:
“I’m Lori.”
“I’m Emily,” the second woman said.
A third woman held out her hand.
“Justina. I think we all live close to
each other.”
We also had kids at the same school.
This time conversation flowed. We
were still talking after the event ended.
One of the things we agreed on: how
hard it was to move all the time!
Not long afterward, we got together
for coffee. Talking to these women was
so easy. We arranged to meet at the
park with our kids. Soon we were get-
ting together for lunch and even going
out for dinners periodically.
“Can I put you down as my kids’
emergency contact?” I asked Justina.
I’d penciled in faraway relatives as a
stopgap when we first arrived.
“Sure. Can you be mine?” she said.
Meet one person. We can’t all be ex-
troverts like my friend Mandy is. But
with God’s help, even the biggest intro-
vert can meet just one person. We can
find that emergency contact—and so
much more. G
For more on this story, see FAMILY ROOM
 LIVING WITH CANCER

Prayers
for
Natalia
My daughter’s illness
has tested us both
BY EGLI COLÓN STEPHENS
New York, New York

I
t’s hard to believe that this
past year, my beautiful daughter,
Natalia, and I are again dealing with
life-threatening challenges to her
health. It doesn’t seem so long ago
that our hopes and faith were tested
the first time.
In 2007, Natalia walked her first run-
way at my sister’s college fashion show,
not far from where we live in Harlem,
New York. At 12 years old, my green-
eyed girl was already five foot nine; she
got her height from her father, from
whom I was divorced. As I watched
her sashay down the runway, I was
stunned by how poised and confident
she looked—she was a natural! “I’m
TODD PLITT

going to be a model,” she announced

after the show.

54 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
 “We’ll see about that,” I told her. It’s
good for a child to have a dream, but
as the first college graduate in my fam-
ily, I hadn’t gotten a doctorate in urban
education and worked as a teacher so
that my daughter could be a model. I
relented a bit, however, and let my
sister do a photo shoot with Natalia.
They’d just begun putting together a
portfolio in January 2008 when Natalia
complained of pain in her right knee. It
was so unusual for my happy-go-lucky
daughter to complain about anything
that I scheduled an appointment with
an orthopedist.
The cherry blossoms were in full
bloom that sunny April day I took Na-
talia to the orthopedist. After X-rays
were done of her leg, the doctor placed
them on a backlit white screen on the
wall. He pointed to a spot about the size
of a lime on the screen. “That lump you
see on her thighbone is a tumor.”
I grabbed Natalia’s hand. “That can’t
be right,” I said.
“Unfortunately, I’m 99 percent sure
it’s malignant, a bone cancer called os-
teosarcoma. The good news is that it
looks as if we caught it early. I’m refer-
ring you to Memorial Sloan Kettering.”
Natalia’s first and only question to
the doctor was not “Will I live?” but
“Will I be able to walk the runway
again?” How could she ask such a fool-
ish question? She didn’t shed a tear, but
I broke down in sobs when we reached
the parking lot. “Do you know some-

UNBROKEN SPIRIT Egli and her daughter,

Natalia, photographed last fall

55
 LIVING WITH CANCER
thing I don’t?” Natalia said. “Stop cry-
ing, Mommy. I’m not going to die!”
In the three days leading up to
Natalia’s biopsy at Memorial Sloan
Kettering, I prayed every waking mo-
ment. I sent out a mass e-mail to ev-
eryone we knew, asking them to join
us in prayer for my daughter’s healing.
My parents and sister came with us to
the hospital. Her dad and other nana
met us there. I peppered Dr. Morris,
Natalia’s orthopedic surgical oncolo-
gist, with questions and suggestions.
Natalia insisted on knowing every-
thing, even the long-term survival rate
for osteosarcoma, which was 70 to 75
percent if the cancer didn’t spread. Dr.
Morris told Natalia she’d know she had
cancer if she woke up with a bandage
on her upper chest; that would mean
they’d inserted a Mediport for chemo-
therapy. I didn’t let go of my daughter’s
hand until the second she was wheeled
into the operating room.
I
walked down the hallway to
the chapel and curled myself into a
fetal position in a pew. “You know
I always trust in you, Lord,” I prayed.
“But the thought of Natalia being cut
open, of losing her… I’ve never been so
afraid! Please help me surrender this
burden to you. Give me your peace.” I
felt some small measure of release.
The nurse came into the chapel to
bring me to Dr. Morris. When I saw the
box of tissues on the table, I knew what
was coming. “Natalia’s tumor is ma-
lignant,” Dr. Morris said. “We’ll start
aggressive chemotherapy next week,
56 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
then remove the tumor and recon-
struct her leg three months from now.”
Anger and disappointment rose in-
side me, but I pushed my feelings down
so Natalia would not see them on my
face when she woke up in the recovery
room. As soon as Natalia opened her
eyes, she pulled away the sheets and
looked down at the bandaged bump of
the Mediport. I held my daughter in
my arms, and all I could think was You
can’t leave me. If you die, I will too.
Memorial Sloan Kettering became
our battleground in the months that
followed. Natalia’s chemotherapy regi-
men was brutal: three drug regimens to
kill the tumor cells. Less than a month
into Natalia’s treatment, her hair start-
ed falling out in clumps. I found her in
the bathroom one morning, shaving
her head into a baby Mohawk. It wasn’t
long before even that little shock of hair
fell out. To match my daughter’s look, I
shaved off my own hair, and we held our
newly shorn heads high all over town.
Natalia named the leg with the tumor
Will, telling everyone, “I will walk
again!” She named the other leg Grace,
for my favorite TV show, Will & Grace.
With each round of chemo, Natalia
would say, “Let’s get this party start-
ed!” but by cycle 4, she was so weak
that I had to carry her to the wheel-
chair to go to the hospital, and she
slept as many as 38 hours at a stretch.
I would lie next to her, pleading with
God for a miracle as I listened to the
melody of my daughter’s heartbeat. I
felt helpless in the face of her intense
pain, but after I set up a blog where we

POSITIVE THINKER Natalia named her right
leg Will, for “I will walk again.”
could post updates, I felt I was at least
doing something useful. The blog be-
came our bridge to friends and family.
In mid-June, we shared the incredible
news that Natalia’s scans were clear.
The cancer wasn’t spreading.
In addition to removing the tumor
and the affected parts of her femur and
replacing it with an internal titanium
prosthesis, the doctor would also need
COURTESY EGLI COLÓN STEPHENS
to do a knee replacement, she said. Will
this ordeal ever end? I wondered. Yet
Natalia remained as resilient as ever.
On the day of her surgery, the rain
poured furiously from the sky, just as
it had the night Natalia was born. I took
it as a sign that the operation would go
well, which it did. Natalia finally came
home after her string of surgeries, and
before she was even out of her wheel-
chair, she insisted on taking my red
stilettos with her to physical therapy.
“My goal is to be able to walk in these
heels,” she told the physical therapist.
“Let’s get to work!”
Within five months, Natalia was
back to dancing around the house. She
ended up putting so much weight on
the leg she called Will that it broke,
along with her internal prosthesis. On
January 12, 2009, nine months after her
diagnosis, she finished the last of her
agonizing 19 cycles of chemo. In mid-
February, another reconstructive sur-
gery was performed. She was left with
an 18-inch scar.
The worst seemed to be behind us.
Natalia had excellent health during her
teenage years. I enrolled her in enrich-
ment programs and continued to push
her hard in the direction of academics,
but she remained as obsessed with
modeling as ever. At a parent-teacher
conference her sophomore year, Nata-
lia’s teacher told me she was distract-
ed and not turning in her homework.
When I got home that night, I found
her practicing her runway walk down
the length of our living room instead of
doing schoolwork. “Listen,” I told her,
“you’ve got to let go of this modeling
idea. You’re going to need a good job
with security and a stable future.”
Natalia looked me straight in the
eye. “I understand that a regular job
can give you security,” she said, “but
what about joy? You know how much I
57
 LIVING WITH CANCER

love you, Mommy, but I’m not going to positivity in the fashion industry, she
live a life half-lived, not even for you.” insisted that the scar on her leg never
It was as if we were from different be airbrushed away in photographs.
worlds entirely. Oh, Lord, I asked, why Then in January 2019, we found our-
did you give me such a strong-willed selves back at Sloan Kettering. Natalia
child? I put Natalia on a weekly con- was diagnosed with renal medullary
tract to keep up with all her school- carcinoma, a rare cancer of the kidney.
work; if she failed to do so, her privi- Her right kidney was removed, and in
leges for the weekend, such as going March she was declared cancer-free.
out with friends, were revoked. Her We were ecstatic. But our happiness
academic performance dramatically was short-lived. In mid-October, the
improved, but she still
insisted on modeling in
school and community I’ve learned that God gives me peace
fashion shows.
Natalia made her of-
in my heart when I’m making the right
ficial debut on the run- decision and anxiety when I’m not.
way at a New York bridal
show when she was 18. I
watched as she glided down the catwalk doctors informed us that the cancer
in a sparkling long white dress. Not only had returned, this time in her lungs.
was she breathtaking, but she radiated Natalia decided that after such a hor-
pure joy and comfort in her own skin. ribly draining experience 12 years ago,
Suddenly I understood: This beauti- she would not undergo any chemother-
ful dream was what had sustained her apy. Instead she embarked on nontra-
through all the grueling trials of her ill- ditional treatments. She said, “This is
ness and recovery. I clapped my heart what God is telling me, Mommy.”
out for my daughter, bursting with In the years since Natalia became
pride that she had fought tooth and ill the first time, I’ve learned that God
nail to reach her goal. gives me peace in my heart when I’m
While attending college, Natalia did making the right decision and anxiety
more fashion shows and photo shoots, when I’m not. Back then, I spent my
although she didn’t sign with an agent days drowning in fear and anxiety, un-
until she was 23. That’s when her ca- able to fully surrender to the mystery
reer really took off: She walked in sev- of the unknown. But this time, as I fully
eral shows at New York Fashion Week support Natalia in her decisions, I am
and was featured in Elle and Vogue at peace. I can let go because God made
magazines. She appeared on Season 17 my daughter so strong, so grounded in
of Project Runway on Bravo TV. As a faith. Her spirit remains unbroken, and
way to advocate for inclusion and body so does mine. G

58 Egli shares how she has stayed positive during her daughter’s illness. guideposts.org/egli
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 GUIDEPOSTS BOOKS
(Extra)ordinary
Women
BY RICK HAMLIN, Executive Editor
I
was listening to my favorite
Bible podcast when one of the
guests—a guy, mind you—pointed
out, “You know, it’s the women
in the Gospels who get it about Jesus.
They’re often the first to really under-
stand who he is.” Wow, I thought, that’s
something I’d never noticed before.
I took down my Bible and turned to
Luke’s Gospel. Mary is there in the first
chapter, of course, startled to learn
from the angel Gabriel how she’s been
called by God. She then goes to visit
her relative Elizabeth, pregnant with
John the Baptist, to share the good
news. These two women are major fig-
ures in the age-old story, but as I kept
turning the pages, it was the lesser-
known women whose stories jumped
out at me.
Like Anna the prophet, who had
been waiting her whole life for the ap-
pearance of this savior. An 84-year-old
widow, she never left the temple in
60 GUIDEPOSTS | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
They were strong.
They were tough.
They were faithful.
And they were mostly
unheralded, until now
Jerusalem, worshiping and praying
day and night. When the infant Jesus
is brought there to be blessed, Anna
praises God, knowing that this is the
one who will bring redemption to the
world. It’s a cameo appearance. She ap-
pears, sees Jesus, understands who he
is and then is gone.
Other women come onto the scene
and, unlike the 12 disciples, don’t even
get named, yet their holiness is called
out. For instance, as Jesus watches
the rich people making a big show of
putting gifts into the collection box at
the temple, calling attention to their
wealth, he points to a poor widow
who throws in two small copper coins,
a mere mite. The rich are just giving
their spare change. She has given ev-
erything she has.
Or consider the woman who had
bled for 12 long years. She’d spent all
her money on doctors, to no avail. Des-
perate for healing, she merely touches

the hem of Jesus’ robe in the midst of
a crowd. Her bleeding stops. He feels
the power leave him and calls her out.
“Daughter, your faith has healed you,”
he says. “Go in peace.”
There is the woman with the alabas-
ter vase full of perfumed oil. Uninvited,
she enters the Pharisee’s house where
Jesus is eating and kneels at his feet.
Characterized as someone of dubious
reputation, she weeps, wetting Jesus’s
feet with her tears, wiping them with
her hair, pouring the oil on them. The
Pharisee is appalled. Not Jesus. “You
didn’t anoint my head with oil,” he says
to the man, “but she has poured per-
fumed oil on my feet.” He lets her know
For a free preview, go to shopguideposts.org/ordinarywomen
her sins are forgiven. “Your faith has
saved you.”
In some traditions, the woman is
thought to be Mary Magdalene, who
makes an appearance—named—in
the next chapter. The point in all these
instances is that the people who come
to Jesus in humility, in need and in
the most abject circumstances know
who he is. And their lives are changed.
I thought back to an Easter sermon
our pastor once gave. She noted that
at the Crucifixion it was the women
who’d followed Jesus from Galilee who
stuck around till the bitter end, mourn-
ing their loss. And they were the ones,
going to the tomb with spices, who
were the first to bear witness to the
Resurrection. It was as though being
present during such grave sorrow al-
lowed them the vision that was beyond
their greatest hopes, a reminder that
sadness can open us up to unexpected
revelations.
Every character in the Bible feels
extraordinary—in extraordinary times
and extraordinary situations. But those
who got called out are often not the ones
who called themselves out. They are
everyday people. People like us. Ready
to love, ready to be changed. G
Editor’s Note: Guideposts has
launched a new fiction series, Ordinary
Women of the Bible, imagining the
lives of people who make the briefest
of appearances in Scripture and yet
have much to tell us about how to live
in faith and expectation. For more in-
formation, see the insert after page 18.
61
 WHAT PRAYER CAN DO®
POWER IN OUR DAY-TO-DAY LIVES

BY THE BOOK tion for me. Bring her one of your

“Y
   our boots will be ready in two
weeks,” the saleswoman said,
practically brushing me off. “Pick
books, he seemed to say. The one
about humor.
Praying for a rude stranger was bad
them up then.” enough. Now God wanted me to give
“Thank you,” I muttered, a little her a book? A book that had taken
resentfully. I’d always had friendly ser- me several years to
vice at this shoe shop, so the sales- write? It seemed
woman’s behavior came as a surprise. like a waste, but I
“She was perky and friendly at signed the book
first,” I said to my husband, Kevin, and put it in my
after we walked out. “Then her purse. Maybe I’d
friends showed up and she couldn’t throw it at her.
get rid of me fast enough.” I spied the sales-
“Maybe she’s new at this,” Kevin woman the mo-
said. “She’ll learn.” ment I walked into
“She should have learned already,” JEANETTE the shoe store.
LEVELLIE
I said. “Maybe I’ll say something I held up the book
Paris, Illinois
when I go back.” and called out to
I didn’t plan to give that rude sales- her in my cheeriest
person another thought until then. But voice. “I have a gift for you!”
the very next morning, when I made The woman’s face lit up. “This is just
out my daily list of people to pray for, what I need!” she said, flipping through
her face popped into my mind. It felt the pages. “I’m going to share this
as if God wanted me to include her. with my aunt. She hasn’t been well,
Really, God? I thought, scribbling a and she needs all the laughter she
note on my pink notepad. She certain- can get these days. How did you know?”
ly didn’t care about me. Maybe God I was tempted to tell her but
needed my help to change her attitude. thought it best to let the gift speak
When the time came to return to for itself. “It just came to me,” I said
the store for my boots, the salesper- with a genuine smile. I’d needed to
son’s face popped into my head again. give that book to her as much as she
It seemed God had another instruc- needed to receive it. G
KATIE HOGIN

NEED PRAYER? Visit ourprayer.org or go to guideposts.org/prayer-request

to submit your concerns and join the OurPrayer community in praying for others.
Give your spirit a lift by visiting facebook.com/ourprayer.

62 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
 FAMILY ROOM
MEET THE PEOPLE IN OUR PAGES

“C
   oming back to
Virginia was like
coming home,” says
Elizabeth Gray (Rede-
ployed, page 48). Her
family completed its sixth
move last summer when
her husband, Cody, got a
new Army assignment.
Per tradition, the trip had
a few stops. First up
was an elephant park in
Oklahoma. “I promised
the girls something big,
but they didn’t guess
GRAY Elizabeth and her family are flourishing in their new home.
it would be as big as an
elephant!” Then an old
diamond mine in Arkansas, where
they found neat rocks (but no dia-
monds). They also stopped at the
“M
   y prayers have truly been
answered by all the help and
support I’ve been given during
National Civil Rights Museum in my writing career,” says Debra H.
Memphis, Tennessee, before reaching Goldstein (My First Calling, page 16).
their new home. Getting Her first two books were
settled was easy—they supposed to lead their
TOP: COURTESY ELIZABETH GRAY; BOTTOM: TAMIKA MOORE

moved back into a house respective series, but one

they’d rented before,
the girls reunited with
friends, and even the
boxes got unpacked in a
timely manner. Better
yet, Elizabeth says, some
friends they made at
Fort Hood relocated to Vir-
ginia around the same
time. “The Army is small,
but my circle gets bigger
with every move.” GOLDSTEIN
publisher went out of
business and the other
stopped doing mysteries.
Her latest series features
Sarah Blair, a culinarily
challenged receptionist
at a law firm whose chef
sister keeps winding up
in scandals. Three Treats
Too Many comes out in
September. Guiding
Debra Debra have been fellow

63
 FAMILY ROOM

members of Sisters in Crime and

Mystery Writers of America. “I’ve
made friends with writers just
starting out, as well as some big
names I’ve read for years,” she says.
Debra has also made her mark
with short stories. “The Night They
Burned Ms. Dixie’s Place,” a sub-
mission to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mys-
tery Magazine, was a national finalist
in two contests. Read more of her
work at debrahgoldstein.com. HALL Tamron on her talk show set

“W
   e’re stronger when there are
people willing to stand with
victims of domestic violence and hold
their hands,” says Tamron Hall (A
Impact Spirit of Power, page 26). The Tamron
x Renate Fund at Safe Horizon (visit
“I start every day safehorizon.org) helps survivors
with the Thought by educating their family members
Conditioners so they can develop into a strong
booklet and turn to support system. “I wanted to find
a way to help the next sister, mother,
it in stressful times. The
friend who does not know what
phrases from Scripture and to say but knows there is a problem,”
guidance from Dr. Norman Tamron says. She also dedicated
Vincent Peale keep my an episode of her new syndicated
thoughts in the right place.” Tamron Hall Show (weekdays on ABC)
to domestic violence, interviewing
ANITA MUSGRAVE ANDERSON one of her late sister Renate’s sons,
Apple Valley, California
Leroy, as well as three survivors.
It’s part of her show’s mission to talk
For more information on to people in all stages of life and
Guideposts’ outreach programs, visit highlight what they have in common.
guideposts.org/helping-others, “I tell people, If I peel off my mask
write to GUIDEPOSTS FOUNDATION, and you peel off yours, we can have
TOP: TODD PLITT

100 Reserve Road, Suite E200,

Danbury, CT 06810 or e-mail us at a conversation.” You can check
outreach@guideposts.org. out who Tamron’s talking to next
at tamronhallshow.com.

64 GU I D E P O S T S | Fe b r u a r y 2 0 2 0
 A fter 52 years of marriage, Carol
Kuykendall (Power of a Pup, page
32) and her husband, Lynn, each have
a favorite Valentine’s Day card. Carol
has saved one from Lynn filled with
gratitude for sticking by him as they
both battled cancer several years ago.
Lynn’s favorite is the one Carol gave
him the year of their fiftieth anniver-
sary. It says simply, “I did. I do. I always
will.” As Carol says, “I like an acknowl-
edgement of Valentine’s Day. Love mes-
sages matter.” The Kuykendalls have KUYKENDALL Carol and Zeke the dog

three children, and Carol describes

well the rewards of parenting in her best season of parenting right now,”
book Give Them Wings. “We’re in the she says, “enjoying our adult children.”
MATTHEW STAVER

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 CONTINUED
HOW A STORY MADE A DIFFERENCE

A CONTINUING MISSION BEYOND ROOTS

A s part of the Our Returning Troops

series, I wrote about how ballet
training helped me get through my
A
Guideposts
reader mailed his
January 2019 issue
Marine service, including the Iraq war, to David Poore in South
and how starting a dance company, Exit Charleston, West Vir-
12, eased my transition back into the ginia. In it, I had written
civilian world (Fearless, March 2014). Mr. Haley’s Table about buying a desk
That story brought a lot of good to once belonging to Roots author Alex
my life. Guideposts readers supported Haley (shown) from David’s late wife,
the company; as a result, we’ve been Martha, an antiques dealer. David
able to engage veterans in workshops asked to meet me for lunch. “I’m not
and performances in the United trying to sell you anything,” he joked.
States and abroad. A documentary At lunch, David showed me a box of
about us, Exit 12, won awards at five memorabilia from Mr. Haley’s desk—
film festivals and made even more photos and his personalized stationery.
people aware of our work. Then David said he wanted to give me
In 2017 I received a a sculpture for honoring Martha with
Fulbright Award to ex- my story. Behold Baby depicts a poig-
FROM LEFT: RACHEL NEVILLE; © ALEX GOTFRYD/CORBIS/CORBIS VIA GETTY IMAGES

plore the impact of war nant scene in Roots, in which a slave

on soldiers through presents a newborn to the heavens.
choreography, which I Mr. Haley’s stationery said to “Find
did at Trinity Laban the good and praise it”—and that’s
Conservatoire of Music exactly what David and I did during
and Dance in London, England. I’ve our marvelous visit.
found choreography gives audiences ROBERTA MESSNER
a better understanding of war, an Huntington, West Virginia
understanding that will lead to a more
peaceful world. To find out more and FOLLOW US ON INSTAGRAM
watch the film, visit exit12danceco.org. @guidepostsmagazine
ROMÁN BACA “LIKE” US ON FACEBOOK
Bronx, New York Go to facebook.com/guideposts

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