The Blueprint Begins

The Beginning

I never would have imagined there was such a thing as a “Heaven blueprint.”  

Growing up in survival mode—surrounded by chaos, confusion, and abuse—I didn’t even know what Heaven really was.

Don’t get me wrong, I went to church with my grandma. And after my mom and dad divorced, my mom would toss us on the church bus whenever it rolled through our neighborhood—probably just to get a couple hours of peace (and now, after raising four kids myself, I totally get it).

I enjoyed going. We got a snack, we sang songs, and for some reason, I was always captivated by the messages. It was a Southern Baptist church, and the pastor preached hellfire and brimstone like it was his full-time job. Honestly, I credit his vivid descriptions of hell with why I gave my life to Jesus at just 8 years old. No way was I trying to go there.

Shortly after, my little brother knelt in front of the TV while we watched The 700 Club and got saved too. Then a neighborhood friend gave his life to Jesus after I explained it to him. I remember being handed a little fishing hook pin—symbolizing being a “fisher of men”—and being so proud, even though I had no clue what it really meant. I just knew I felt safe and  seen at church. It was one of the only places I got fed—both spiritually and physically.

My mom was an amazing woman, but raising two kids in the early 80s wasn’t easy. We lived in a small town, where everybody knew your business and felt entitled to an opinion. According to them, because my mom was divorced, my brother would end up gay, and I’d be some spinster schoolmarm with no life.

I didn’t even know what a schoolmarm was, but now I look back and realize how foolish people can be.

My mom did whatever it took to keep us fed and clothed—and some of it was questionable. She was always searching for love, but it seemed to elude her. After four marriages, she finally decided to go to nursing school. That’s when she found her Heaven blueprint. She served as a nurse for the next 30 years, mentoring interns who would later become incredible physicians. (Let’s be honest: nurses run hospitals. Always have. Always will.)

While she studied and worked hard to give us a better life, I was navigating trauma. The authorities didn’t always protect me. After my parents’ divorce, I was placed in therapy—but my principal and his secretary, who transported me to and from appointments, were inappropriate. And the therapist my mom found privately? He assaulted me.

I remember crying in the bathroom while my mom wiped my tears, telling me it would be okay. And like many families did in that era, we shoved it under the rug. It was the 80s—we just didn’t talk about that kind of stuff.

The abuse continued when a neighbor, sent to check on me while I was home sick, violated my trust. That’s when I decided: I have to protect me—and my little brother.  

That’s when the control started. The manipulation. The survival skills. They stayed with me for years.

Eventually, my mom’s nursing career led us to a better life. We moved to a bigger town just south of our old one—and I had culture shock. It was upper-class, and I didn’t belong. In my old town, race didn’t matter and hand-me-downs were the norm. But here, it was all about appearances.

I remember asking my mom for name-brand jeans—"GUESS" jeans. She literally laughed and said, “I am not paying $50 for a pair of jeans.” And that was that.

So I started babysitting, earning my own money. At 12, I was working. By 14, I had my motorcycle license (thanks to a rare gift from my “Disneyland Dad,” who only showed up once or twice a month). I bought our school supplies, sometimes even groceries. Mom worked nights and weekends for better pay, and my brother and I basically raised ourselves.

I don’t fault my mom. She did the best she could. She was amazing—just stretched thin and doing what it took to survive.

Therapy wasn’t something people did back then. Gen X really is built different. We pulled ourselves up by the bootstraps, wiped our own tears, and just kept it moving.

I’ll leave it here for today. Next time, I’ll share about my teen years, early marriage, and how the broken pieces eventually started coming together.

This is just the beginning.  

There *is* a Heaven blueprint for your life, too.  

You might not see it yet—but trust me, it’s there.