Captive

Dad said we were rich.

But by fifth grade, I knew the truth. We were poor.

Mom volunteered as a “room mother” for my classroom at school. She came in wearing clothes she found at Goodwill or made for herself at home. Other moms bought their clothes at the mall.

Other moms bought mall clothes for their kids, too. But my mom made me wear hand-me-downs from my cousin. I felt like Starsky & Hutch in a Miami Vice world.

In fact, my parents didn’t buy me anything. They made me buy my own stuff with my own money that I had to go earn. Every afternoon, I went on a “walk of shame,” taking newspapers door-to-door to make a few bucks. I tried to hide my face every time the cool kids rode by on their shiny new ten-speed bikes.

But the worst was our 1978 Chevy station wagon. It had more duct tape than chrome on it. Turning the steering wheel made a pulsing, shrieking sound like the love child of a banshee and a hyena. In my small town, people knew when the Irwins were on the move. They could hear our car from miles away.

I felt like a captive. I wanted out. I swore that I would do better for myself when I got free of my parents.

I grew up. I did get out. I moved far away from home. I noted that Dad and Mom seemed to have more money almost as soon as I left. How did that happen?

Oh well. I made choices that I thought would make me free and rich. I wasted chances. I wasted money. I wasted relationships. I wasted time. I wasted trust. I got poorer than my parents ever got in their lives. I ended up alone, homeless, and hungry. I ended up more ashamed than I ever was in the back of that ‘78 Chevy.

I found out what it really means to be a captive.

But guess who was there to help me get out and get up again.

Dad was right all along.

Grace and peace.