A rebellious teenager Patsy became a high school dropout, a bride at 17, and a parent at 20. Soon she became a terrified vicitim of agoraphobia and became a prisoner in her own home. Lost in the shadowy darkness of depression, there was little hope for this woman to reemerge into the light, much less excel at life. But reemerge she did. Excel she has. And how!
Standing five feet even, popular speaker, author, and humorist Patsy Clairmont laughingly says, "I grew up little," But this petite body houses a gigantic, courageous heart. And this amazing little woman evokes gales of laughter and joy from hundreds of thousands of women every year as she literally dominates the massive stages of Women of Faith® conferences.
A rebellious teenager Patsy became a high school dropout, a bride at 17, and a parent at 20. Soon she became a terrified vicitim of agoraphobia and became a prisoner in her own home. Lost in the shadowy darkness of depression, there was little hope for this woman to reemerge into the light, much less excel at life. But reemerge she did. Excel she has. And how!
Standing five feet even, popular speaker, author, and humorist Patsy Clairmont laughingly says, "I grew up little," But this petite body houses a gigantic, courageous heart. And this amazing little woman evokes gales of laughter and joy from hundreds of thousands of women every year as she literally dominates the massive stages of Women of Faith® conferences.
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Overview
A rebellious teenager Patsy became a high school dropout, a bride at 17, and a parent at 20. Soon she became a terrified vicitim of agoraphobia and became a prisoner in her own home. Lost in the shadowy darkness of depression, there was little hope for this woman to reemerge into the light, much less excel at life. But reemerge she did. Excel she has. And how!
Standing five feet even, popular speaker, author, and humorist Patsy Clairmont laughingly says, "I grew up little," But this petite body houses a gigantic, courageous heart. And this amazing little woman evokes gales of laughter and joy from hundreds of thousands of women every year as she literally dominates the massive stages of Women of Faith® conferences.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781418515829 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Nelson, Thomas, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 05/04/2005 |
| Sold by: | HarperCollins Publishing |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 176 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Patsy Clairmont is a popular speaker, a coauthor of various Women of Faith devotionals, and the author of such best-selling books as "God Uses Cracked Pots" and "Sportin' a 'Tude." She and her husband live in Brighton, Michigan.
Read an Excerpt
I Grew Up Little
Finding Hope in a Big God
By Patsy Clairmont
Thomas Nelson
Copyright © 2004 Patsy ClairmontAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4185-1582-9
CHAPTER 1
Want Ad
JOB WANTED: Woman seeking inspirational speaking and writing opportunities. QUALIFICATIONS: High school dropout, teenage runaway, and agoraphobic.
Would you hire this woman? Me either! Which is what makes my story one of hope: I was hired. Oh, not right away, of course. It took a gazillion years to move past my phobias, hang-ups, and shortcomings, and the path did plenty of zigging and zagging. But the end of the story is a happy one. Not a perfect one, but a perfectly good one.
When I was about twenty years old, I was knee-deep in emotional instability. By the time the calendar had flipped over twenty-three times, I was drowning. An addict to nicotine, caffeine, and tranquilizers, even I had to confess that my neurotic lifestyle held nothing inspirational. Add to that my obsessive fears, my repressed anger, and my unrelenting guilt, and I was unemployable in any market. As a full-blown agoraphobic (unable to leave home), I clung to the walls of my house, longing for security while smothering those I most loved with my neediness.
So how does one go from housebound to footloose and Jesus free? Folks often ask how I broke out of my prison of fears to now stand before thousands in arenas throughout the nation proclaiming a message of liberty. I can tell you it wasn't easy, quick, or without painful effort. Yet because of the hope of the Lord that flooded into my heart again and again, I took scary steps toward my recovery.
I know, I know, you thought I was going to say I became ensnared in my insecurities, then I met Jesus, and he set me free. Actually, I was a Christian throughout those troubled years, which made the mess my life was in all the more confusing for me. I couldn't figure out why God just didn't fix me. But the Lord didn't plan to stay up late one night and slipstitch my fractured parts back together. Instead, he began a holy procedure of deep, inner repair that required my involvement. It would take me years to sort out God's part and my part in the healing process. Eventually, I came to realize that God isn't a fixer, he is a redeemer. The lost are found, the blind see, the sick are healed, and the lame walk again, but each redemption requires the willingness of the redeemed to be reclaimed.
I was lost in an emotional thundercloud; I was blind to any path that might lead me out of my despair; I was mentally muddled, and my faltering walk was one of obvious dysfunction. In the following chapters, I will introduce you to the people who encircled my life, then lead you into my despairing years and, finally, out into the daylight of God's irrepressible hope.
While I wouldn't have given the woman who wrote the want ad a whit of a chance of surviving—nor did few others—the Lord took delight in providing for and eventually using her in unexpected ways.
In my journey I've learned that hope was not, as I had feared, hidden away on some other planet. For hope may arrive in a song, a phone call, an apology, a vision, a promise, a sunset, or a new day. Hope, my friends, is just a breath away.
May you find in these pages a sense that "If God would do that for her, there's hope for me," because God is big, even if we are little.
"Oh! May the God of green hope fill you up with joy, fill you up with peace, so that your believing lives, filled with the life-giving energy of the Holy Spirit, will brim over with hope!" (Romans 15:13).
CHAPTER 2
Rebecca of Rosecreek
I grew up little. That shouldn't have been a surprise since my mom's four-foot-ten-inch stature loomed over me throughout my life. Oh, I grew to be taller than she—I'm a full five feet—but Mom was a force to be reckoned with. She was a giant in her faith, which helped moderate the tyrant in her temperament. Mom, a tiny bundle of fireworks, exploded over her family landscape and left a dazzling impact.
Meet Becky. If you ask her, she would tell you she's Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. If you ask those who knew her growing up, they would tell you she was Rebecca of Rosecreek Road, Nebo, Kentucky. And if you would ask me, I'd be quick to tell you, "She's my mom," a rambunctious bundle of love, lectures, legalism, and liberty. A contradiction, as most of us are.
Born Rebecca Ann Myers, she was the youngest in a family of six children. Her mother, Ruthie Ann, died when Mom was a young teen, and her dad, Dempsey, died before I was born. Because Mom was the baby of the family, she was nicknamed "Sister" by her siblings. Being especially small for her age, she found her brothers and sisters were attentive to her needs.
Mom said growing up on a farm during the Depression was to their advantage because they always had food on the table. But they worked hard, even as children, helping with the field chores, including the tobacco crop. All the Myerses' kids hated the task of hunting for the huge worms that attacked the tobacco leaves. The children would have to move down each tobacco row, plucking the worms from the leaves and pinching off the worms' heads. Eew! Sister would dawdle down her assigned rows, knowing that if she waited long enough, her siblings would come to her rescue and complete her task.
Mom didn't talk much about her childhood and even less about her parents. I once heard one of her sisters say their dad was a severe man; the others said nothing about him. When Mom was nineteen, she eloped with my dad, who was twenty-two, to be married by a justice of the peace. Dad was a playfully subdued personality while Mom swung between dynamo and depressed. I would learn the tobacco leaf doesn't fall far from the plant.
Mom and Dad's first home, a petite, three-room house, was two doors away from my dad's parents' house and next door to Mom's sister, Elvira. Mom and Dad had a small coal stove for heat, and in the wee hours, when the embers died out, the little dwelling froze, causing their fishbowl and goldfish to become one solid fish-sicle. The next morning my parents would stoke up the coals, and when the house warmed, the fish would thaw and continue circling their glassy habitat.
One of my favorite stories, because it provides a window into Mom's mighty heart, occurred during Halloween, while my parents lived in that house. An adult cousin disguised herself and stepped into Mom and Dad's house. The only one in the kitchen was my toddler brother, Donnie, who was sitting in his highchair. On seeing a masked person enter the room, he began to cry. The cousin, deciding this wasn't such a good idea after all, bolted out the door and raced down the street for her house.
My mom stepped into the kitchen to see why Don was howling just in time to catch a glimpse of someone dashing out the door. Mom sped for the door in hot pursuit and, being the fleeter of the two, overtook the stranger a block away in a field and tackled her. The cousin was so breathless from the race and subsequent laughter as they scuffled that she couldn't identify herself to Mom before her mask was ripped off. Once my mom discovered who it was, they had a lively chuckle together, but my feisty little mom had made it clear she wasn't about to let any home intruder escape.
Mom's humor surprised me one day when I was fifteen years old. I had just washed my hands in the kitchen sink and was searching for a dishtowel to dry my hands when Mom walked through carrying a load of freshly folded quilts. Feeling fairly safe because her arms were full, I flicked the water from my hands at her, not anticipating her playful response. Before I knew what had happened, Mom dropped the quilts, corralled my head in her arm, and galloped me to the sink, where I got an ample dousing. We both laughed ourselves silly.
I have a framed picture of my mom as an adult riding a child's tricycle. I've always loved that photograph because it captured the lighthearted side of her that often was squelched by life's intensity.
The Depression sent many Southerners scrambling north for work; my parents and brother were part of that scramble. In 1939 they settled in Detroit, where my dad became a milkman for Sealtest.
I was born on April 3, 1945, nine years and ten days after my brother. Mom was committed to making me into Shirley Temple, but I was definitely more Calamity Jane. Oh, I enjoyed the wardrobe of costumes and outfits Mom made for me, but I was resistant to getting "cleaned up." Hair snarls and mud splats made Mom's eyes roll in disapproval while I felt they gave me a lived-in look. From as young as I can remember, Mom was training me to be a "little lady," and I was stretching her patience with my dirty-face reality.
I'm sure part of her frustration was that she was fastidious in her personal appearance and home—unless she was in a slump. Her emotional downs weren't frequent but, because they stood out in such contrast to her usual sunshiny behavior, they were memorable. During Mom's bouts with depression, I remember the house seeming dark, sad, and askew, and her being withdrawn.
Usually, though, our home sparkled with her diligent efforts. She was a cross between Betty Crocker, Heloise, and Martha Stewart. Innovative, creative, and motivated, my petite mom would tackle almost any job, including rooftops, wall demolition, furniture upholstery, and landscaping.
Mom knew how to take the extra steps to transform ordinary into exceptional. Whether she whipped up a meal, decorated a room, threw a party, taught a class, or sported an outfit, Mom excelled in presentation. Her finishing efforts made her crystal gleam, her throw rugs fluff, her pillows poof, her flowers bloom, her mirrors sparkle, her cupboards arrange, her food delight, and her guests cheer.
But Mom's perfectionism kept her frustrated and those of us who lived with her tense. Her Saturday housecleaning was more like other people's spring-cleaning. I can remember debating with her as a teenager why I had to scrub all the baseboards on my knees and strip the wax off the kitchen floor every weekend.
Even though Mom retained high standards, a definite change in her demands on herself and others occurred when I was nine years old. Two adults arrived each week to visit with Mom. I never got to know them because I always was sent outside while they were there.
Then one day they never came back again. Later I learned that Mom had been on a personal quest for hope and that she had been studying with Jehovah's Witnesses. Mom had just enough background in Sunday school from her childhood that she found herself in constant disagreement with the Witnesses' theology. Even though they stopped coming by, Mom continued to pore over the Scriptures in search of answers. Then a neighbor, who had been taking me to Sunday school, invited Mom to attend. She accepted not only the invitation but also, a short time later, Christ as her Savior. She was forever changed.
Mom embraced her new faith with the same zeal as she cleaned house. Instead of her driving perfectionism wearing her nerves and ours thin, Mom was more settled and satisfied. Oh, she still wanted things tidy, but now instead of being frantic in her efforts, you could hear her newfound hope in the hymns she sang as she cleaned. "In the Garden," "What a Friend We Have in Jesus," and "The Old Rugged Cross" wafted down the halls of our home daily. Of course, I still had to help with chores on Saturdays (rats!), but Mom became overly lenient regarding my bedroom. But that's another story we would need a backhoe to venture into.
As she grew in her faith and grace, we, her family, were usually the recipients. We noticed Mom was less radical when we messed up. She was steadier in her emotions, which made home feel safer, and she was quieter at her core, which made her feel safer. While Mom never was physically abusive, her temper was intimidating enough to make us all quake. When she would rail on and on about my misdeeds, I can remember thinking, I wish she would just hit me and be done with it. Today I realize I had a sensitive nature that just couldn't bear her threatening displeasure. Yet I was also an obstinate child who needed a parent with strength and determination. (Hmm, sounds like Mom was in a no-win role.)
Mom was stylish and loved shopping for clothes. But some of my sweetest memories of her center on fragrances. Her thick, wavy, blond hair smelled of Breck shampoo while she sashayed around leaving To a Wild Rose scent in her path. Our home was fragrant too, as she aired the house regularly, scrubbed the interior with pine cleaners, and used big, fat wick deodorizers throughout the rooms.
A fragrant memory I treasure is of my mom hanging clothes on the line to absorb the outdoor freshness. Her little frame, clothed in a tidy shirtwaist dress, stretched to reach the clotheslines. Wooden clothespins filled her apron pockets while a few were clamped between her teeth. She deftly emptied the contents of her woven baskets onto the lines with the skill that comes only from experience. When the clotheslines were full, the sheets waved in the perfumed breeze, promising her family a night of summer dreams.
But I think the best smell was Mom's cooking. Nobody, I mean nobody, could beat her Southern fried chicken, baking powder biscuits, gravy, and banana pudding.
Still, one of my favorite remembrances of Mom is more reflective. Some days I'd walk into a room and see her with her Bible spread out in her lap searching the Scriptures. I now have her Bible, but I don't use it because she wore it out. It's a loose pile of pages with a detached, tattered leather cover that has a golden sketch of Christ shepherding sheep on it.
Mom knew about sheep, especially straying ones. My brother, sister, and I all had extended seasons of rebellion toward her and the Lord. We thought she had too many rules and her standards were too high for us to attain. And each of us believed we could handle life without the help of her God. We were wrong. I'm grateful that the Lord heard our mother's fervent prayers, and he had mercy on us. Each of us eventually gave our sin-sick hearts to the Lord Jesus, and we thanked him that he and our mom never gave up on us. Hope keeps a mother's light glowing.
In 1977, when Mom was sixty-two, I began to notice some changes in her. At first I couldn't put my finger on what was different except that she was more demanding and often seemed offended by other's innocuous actions. She seemed gradually to be losing her pliability, her characteristic humility, and her song.
Then one day she became confused about the voices on the radio and thought they were people I was talking to. That frightened me. After that strange incident I became vigilant around her, watching her behavior, but she seemed fine. I tucked away that scary moment and had almost forgotten it when, a few years later, Mom had outbursts of anger about things that before wouldn't have bothered her.
I told myself that when folks age they become cranky. Mom became forgetful, but then, I thought, so did I. I also noted paranoia slipping in, with Mom layering Band-Aids over the peephole on her apartment door because she believed people were spying on her. But then I thought, If it makes her feel safer, why not cover it? I made many concessions for her because I so wanted my mom to be all right.
Mom started walking, which at first I thought was great exercise for her, but then I noticed it became more of a compulsion than a pleasure. One day she decided to walk to an area drive-through restaurant, two miles away, to buy some hamburgers. That would have been fine, but she had to walk beside a major thoroughfare and under a bridge without the safety of sidewalks, and that wasn't okay. Then, instead of walking beside the busy highway, Mom hiked along on the edge of the road with cars whisking past at high speeds. A man, seeing my little mom toddling along, pulled up by her and insisted she get in the car with him, which she did. He was an angel in disguise, not only taking Mom to the restaurant but also dropping her off at her home and making her promise she would never do that again. As she recounted her adventure to me, I realized that, if my mom were reasoning correctly, she never would have walked where she did, and she certainly wouldn't have accepted a ride from a stranger.
"Mom," I bellowed. "What were you thinking? Why, that man could have hurt you!"
"Oh, I was ready for him." She balled up her mosquito-sized fist.
Then I realized I was the mom and she was my rebellious teenager who didn't understand the ramifications of her choices.
That episode was quickly followed by a number of other threatening events. One evening I arrived at her apartment when she was preparing her dinner.
"Hi, Mom. How are you?"
"Fine." She smiled as she greeted me.
"What's that smell?" I hotfooted it for her kitchen.
"It's just my dinner heating up," she called after me.
I opened the oven to find Mom was warming her dinner on a smoldering paper plate that was about to burst into flames. I quickly remedied the situation but realized she no longer could distinguish between the functions of the microwave and the stove. We unplugged Mom's oven to limit her use to the microwave, but we knew that was a temporary solution.
Sometimes Mom's changing behavior was unexpectedly childlike and comical. One day she called and asked me to come over because she had "a little something" for me. I was involved in some project and told her I'd have to stop by the following day. Well, she didn't want to wait so she loaded up the "little something" into her grocery cart and began the trek over to my house.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from I Grew Up Little by Patsy Clairmont. Copyright © 2004 Patsy Clairmont. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
1. Want Ad.................... 1
2. Rebecca of Rosecreek.................... 5
3. Mac the Milkman.................... 19
4. Lucky Strikes and Dentyne Gum.................... 31
5. Baby Doll.................... 43
6. A Dollar Down, a Dollar a Year.................... 55
7. Song of the South.................... 65
8. Ghost of Gay.................... 73
9. Little Me.................... 87
10. Venturing Out.................... 95
11. God's Garden.................... 105
12. Coconuts and Chocolate Pop.................... 117
13. Say What?.................... 125
14. Real Estate.................... 135
15. String of Pearls.................... 143
16. Scripted Hope.................... 155
A Conversation with Patsy Clarimont.................... 163