Diane Williams - Angels in Action - Stories to Inspire

I walked over to my purse and pulled out some crisp new bills. “I was waiting for you to come home,” I told her. “Thank you for picking me up at the airport and giving me a place to stay last night. I prorated the rent, and I hope this small token is enough to cover some of your expenses.” I smiled as I placed the money in her hand. Fanny’s posture changed as she watched me walk toward the front door.

“Wait,” she shouted. “I’ll help you move. That’s the least I can do.”

I paused and looked her in the eyes. “God woke me up this morning and told me that today was moving day. I went through the directory and made a few appointments with a couple of realtors, and your friend Pete packed my bags in his truck.” Fanny was like a stone statue, standing there with her feet cemented to the floor, her eyelids drooping and her bottom lip hanging.

“Pat said you live by faith,” she mumbled. “Is this what she meant?”

Lovingly, I bade Fanny goodbye.

I moved into a lovely one-bedroom apartment in the suburbs of Dallas and I flew back to New York, picked up my daughters, and we all returned to Texas. After enrolling the girls in school, my attention focused on employment. I opened a 24-hour day care.

One morning, I was driving my New York car on the interstate and glanced over at the man in the lane next to me. He yelled out his car window, “N*****, go back to New York!” I was stunned. I had never had racial epithets shouted at me by a stranger without any apparent reason. The number of racial outbursts I experienced mounted. One night someone wrote the words in bold letters on my car: “N*****, GO BACK TO NEW YORK.” I wasn’t gripped by fear, just concern and uncertainty. My continuous discomfort fuelled my doubts about living in Texas.

But I’d also made several friends, and my day care business was booming. Yet my uneasiness lingered. The small voice was getting louder, and it kept telling me to trust God and move to California. Finally, I surrendered and a peace came over me. I gave the parents of my day care a two weeks notice and phoned my mother to update her on my plans.

I had a furniture sale, packed, shipped my valuables back to New York, picked up my mother at the airport, and mapped my route to California. Arriving in California a couple weeks later, we rested for a day before I drove my girls and their grandmother to LAX. I kissed them, and waved goodbye as they embarked on their flight back to New York, where my girls would be staying with their grandmother while I adjusted in California.

I drove to Inglewood, where my friend from college had invited me to stay with him and his family until I found my own place to live. I found employment immediately. I felt like a fool for having trusted my will instead of the Lord, my inner compass, who has never led me astray.

Reflection: Go within and FOLLOW YOUR GUIDE ...therein lies your power. Your inner guide is the road map God gives you for your victory.

It was Friday. As a supervisor at a boys’ group home, my last task before the weekend began was to give out the allotted allowances. I hurried through the process of having each boy come through my office to pick up his cash so I could leave on time for the girl’s night out my friends and I had planned.

Although I stood just over five feet tall and weighed 105 pounds, I generally held the boys’ respect in group settings. Still I was a little nervous. Many of the boys had been bouncing around from foster home to foster home most of their lives. Now that they were teenagers and had been involved in petty crime, drugs, and gangs, foster families were no longer an option. They were referred to our group home where they were being prepared for emancipation.

To add to my anxiety, my co-worker, Rob, had called in sick, so it really was just the boys and me. Pulling out the books and the cash box, I began to call the boys through. I was down to the last one on the list and so far everything had been going well: They came in, I handed them their money, and they left. My mind was focused on my dinner plans. And then in walked Andy.

Although Andy was only thirteen, he weighed more than 215 pounds, and stood approximately six foot seven. But this was one kid I didn’t have to worry about—or at least that’s what I thought.

The other guys in the home constantly teased Andy because of his size—small head, huge chest, thick hips, and bird legs. They scoffed at his indolence. Andy’s butt imprint was permanently stamped on the left side of the living room couch, where he spent most of his free time watching television and eating junk food. If the remote control was just a few inches out of his reach, he would ask someone to pass it to him rather than move.

While Andy’s therapists had documented his serious psychiatric problems, he was well behaved and usually followed the rules. The staff, including me, would go the extra mile for him. We gave him an abundance of time and attention.

He was still afraid of the dark, and sleeping was a monumental challenge for him. Many nights Rob or I would read him a bedtime story and give him a special night-light and warm milk to lull him to sleep. A back rub was also sure to do the trick. I had discovered he responded favorably to touch. Although we attended to his physical needs, we were most concerned with his isolation from his peers.

Whenever the staff decided to take the fellows on excursions, everyone participated in the planning except Andy. He never had a suggestion or a request. The only reason he went on trips was because of the rule that no child could be at the home alone. Andy never complained. He found a seat, usually next to me, and watched the others, just as he did when the boys played sports. On weekends when the boys were given passes to leave the facility, Andy never used his. He didn’t have any friends, and his family never visited; the staff was his only social outlet. We spent our weekends engaging him in games, jokes, television, and conversation. In spite of his movement away from the other boys, the staff was unwilling to give up, unwilling to let him continue to be disconnected from boys his age. Whenever there was a new admittance, we would try to employ Andy as his buddy. The result was fruitless; Andy would inevitably retreat within himself.

On this day, when Andy walked in and sat down with a silly grin on his face, I knew things weren’t going to run as smoothly as I had hoped. While it was usually a struggle to get two words out of any of these boys, Andy started off the conversation by complimenting my dress and asking me if I had a date that night. With a quick response, I gave Andy his allowance. He looked into his hand and counted the money. “Mrs. Williams, where is the rest of my money?” he asked.

I explained, “You broke Jeff’s fishbowl, and the rule is you must pay back ten percent of your allowance until the property is paid off. You owe five dollars more, so we will deduct ten percent until that five dollars is paid.”

His demeanor changed. He stood up, slammed his hand on the desk, and yelled, “You will give me all my allowance!” He banged the desk again.

“Calm down, Andy,” I said. “You know the rules.”

“I don’t give a damn about any rules. I want my money! ” He pushed over the filing cabinet, making the papers fly out.

I stood up, astonished. Fear gripped me. This wasn’t the Andy I knew—I had never heard him swear before. I took one step toward the door. Andy leaped in front of me, slammed the door shut and locked it. He threw the desk over and demanded his allowance.

Attempting to keep my composure, I said in a quivering voice, “Andy, let me call Dr. Bell. He sets the criteria for our house. If you want the rule changed, I would like you to speak to him.”