In 2005 I walked away from a successful music career so I could spend more time with my daughter. Now it seemed like the more time Jennea and I spent with each other, the worse our relationship got. In just under seven years, I went from Super Dad, who brought home pet hamsters, took her on dream vacations to Disneyland, and made it possible for her to meet her favorite TV stars, to Stalker Dad, who was constantly looking over her shoulder, reading her text messages, and monitoring her Facebook posts.
Even though I was doing it because I loved her and was worried about her, like most teenagers Jennea saw it as an invasion of her personal privacy. She was trying so hard to grow up, and I was trying to keep her my little girl for as long as I possibly could.
Over the years I’d encountered hundreds of broken young people holding on for dear life through the songs I’d written or the words I’d spoken. I’d seen darkness piercing through their eyes, and it was heartbreaking every time. But now here I was seeing that same darkness staring back at me through Jennea’s eyes. I felt completely helpless.
Coming to the realization that your own child hates herself is one of the worst pains a parent can feel. We want our kids to be confident and happy. We don’t ever want to worry about whether they’d do anything to injure themselves—or worse. I’d been through a lot in the past seven years—bankruptcy, depression, betrayal, slander, professional failure—but watching Jennea slowly slip away from me, God, and herself was the most painful experience of my entire life.
Around that time Pastor Clint invited me to come with him to Bethel Church in Redding, California. I was excited to go—mainly because a lot of great music comes out of there, like the artists Jesus Culture, Brian and Jenn Johnson, Steffany Gretzinger, Jeremy Riddle and Amanda Falk, and others—but my excitement dimmed when Jennea started cussing me out via text after I arrived, telling me she hated me because of my problems with her inappropriate Twitter messages. I was at my wit’s end, struggling to be loving but firm as we texted back and forth and, at the same time, wondering how in the world we would get through this.
But God always knows just what we need. He lifted my spirits in that difficult time, and he did it through the most unexpected person.
“Brian Welch? Is your name Brian Welch?” An older woman in her eighties approached me during the service at Bethel.
“Yes, ma’am, nice to meet you,” I answered, wondering how she knew who I was because ain’t no way Grandma could have been a metal fan!
“I’ve been reading your book,” she explained. “Last night the Lord woke me up in the middle of the night to pray for your daughter.”
Wow. I was floored. There was no way she could have known the turmoil simmering beneath the surface, and I was completely blown away by this expression of God’s loving encouragement.
The next day Pastor Chris Overstreet from the church found me in the crowd and walked up to me.
“Brian, God just spoke something serious to me,” Chris said, looking directly into my eyes. “You’re going to have a new daughter in eight months.”
What? How?
Good luck with that, God.
I thanked Chris but turned away, struggling to believe that statement, yet still trying to. It was a lot to take in. I’d been getting cussed out via text message by Jennea all weekend, and though I appreciated the encouragement, the reality of our situation seemed worlds away from the message I’d just been given. But in the end I chose to believe the message anyway. Months later I realized that I could confidently rely on that prophetic word.
The next day I arrived in Nashville and picked up Jennea from our friend Wendy’s house. Things had calmed down a bit by then, but I was still wondering what type of blow-up would come next.
As much as I hated to admit it, the counseling sessions Jennea was doing with Cristi were more of a Band-Aid than a long-term solution. With every passing day and every little fight, I began worrying more and more.
Then one day I realized Jennea had started harming herself again.
We were battling back and forth about the usual stuff—school, chores, Facebook—when I noticed a fresh set of cuts on her arms.
“Jennea,” I started, “Cristi and I told you that if you didn’t stop hurting yourself, we’d have to get you more intensive therapy.”
I could see the lack of concern in her eyes.
“I won’t do it again, Dad,” she said, rolling her eyes.
I wanted to believe her, but we’d played this broken record before.
“You have to tell Cristi that you’re hurting yourself again at your next session,” I told her.
“Why?” she asked, her eyes glazing over with tears. “I said I wouldn’t do it again.”
No dice. This time, I needed her to take responsibility for her actions no matter how uncomfortable it felt.
“Because that’s what she’s here for, Nea. Either you tell her, or I will.”
To her credit, Jennea did have the conversation with Cristi at her next appointment. As for me, after talking with Cristi myself and discussing it with Jesus, I picked up the phone and made the call I’d been dreading for weeks. It was time.
“Hi, Tiffany,” I said, trying to control the emotion in my voice.
“Hey, Brian. How’s everything going?” Tiffany said, sounding happy yet a little concerned to hear my voice.
I just put it out there. “Listen, Jennea isn’t getting any better. In fact, she’s started hurting herself again.” I took a deep breath. “If it’s possible, can we figure out a good month to get Jennea into Awakening Youth later next year? Maybe in August after KoRn finishes our summer tour.”
I heard Tiffany release a big sigh.
“To be honest with you,” she started, “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I’ve worked with girls in this situation before, and unfortunately, my opinion is it’s only going to get worse from here—especially if you add in the unstable lifestyle of touring. If you wait until August, she’ll most likely be too far gone for me to take her into our program.”
She paused for a second, I think expecting me to say something in response, but by this point I could barely even think straight. That’s when she threw me a lifeline.
“I know I mentioned before that we were booked up, but it looks like we’ll have an opening in the beginning of January after all. So if you decide you’d like to take the spot, let me know as soon as you can so I can hold it for her.”
It was decision time. I knew Jennea would have loved going out on tour with KoRn and seeing all her favorite bands play all summer, and I would have loved to have made that happen for her. But deep down, I knew Tiffany was right. Things were going downhill fast. I needed to get her some serious help—now.
I had given Jennea the best upbringing I knew how, and we’d had a lot of great times, but through this opening in Tiffany’s program, God was showing me he was her Father before me. It was time for him to take over. It was time for him to heal the deepest places of hurt inside Jennea and start preparing her for her next phase in life.
I took one final breath and said, “Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s get her in right after the first of the year.” I had never felt so relieved yet so defeated at the same time.
I knew that enrolling Jennea in Tiffany’s program was the best thing I could do for her, but that didn’t make the decision any easier. In fact, it all but killed me. I could hardly sleep at night because of the anxious thoughts attacking me like a plague. In the course of one phone call, I had gone from spending all summer with Jennea to shipping her off to Indiana while I went on tour without her.
I kept hearing the words, “Dad, if you ever tried to put me in a place like that, I’d run away for sure,” echoing in my head.
I knew this was the right thing to do, but I still had a huge case of the what-ifs.
What if I was wrong?
What if I was damaging our relationship even more?
What if, after the eighteen-month length of the program, Jennea came out unchanged or worse than when she went in?
I needed help. I needed proof that this was 100 percent the right decision. I was 99 percent sure; I just needed that final 1 percent to put everything into motion.
So I called Nicole.
“Brian,” she said as soon as I explained the situation, “I’ve been praying about this, and I really feel this is meant to be. I am telling you, I see an incredible new beginning for Jennea. Not only is God taking you to the next phase in your destiny with KoRn, but he is preparing Jennea for her own life, calling, and destiny. I know it’s difficult and painful, but your decision is going to help launch her into a new existence and bring out the young woman that he is preparing her to be.”
Wow! The storm inside calmed down right after hearing those words. Nicole was right. I knew sending Jennea away would crush her spirit and break her in a way that she had never been broken before, but deep down that’s what needed to happen. How could she get put back together unless she was completely broken with nowhere else to look but toward Jesus, and nowhere to run except to him?
By this point Jennea wanted nothing to do with Jesus. She had been around different churches and Christians since she was six years old, but after she watched all the disasters I had gone through with Edgar, the lawsuits, the repos, and the bankruptcy—not to mention all the Christians bashing me online for my tattoos and for still playing heavy metal—she wanted nothing to do with Christianity. She knew Jesus was real and not some figment of our imaginations, but seeing her own dad go through so much while loving Jesus most likely turned her off to Christianity.
Nicole was right. Getting Jennea away for a while would be the best thing not only for our relationship but for her relationship with God too.
So that was it. The date was set. I was to bring Jennea to Tiffany’s and Travis’s place on January 7, 2013. Now all I had to do was get through the holidays confrontation free. Easier said than done.
I wanted to tell Jennea that I’d enrolled her in Awakening Youth so she could have time to prepare herself mentally and emotionally. But I was afraid that if I did, she’d run away like she had threatened to. So I just played it cool. Well, as cool as one could play it under the circumstances.
For the next few weeks, we were like oil and water. Jennea did the exact opposite of everything I said. It was like Clash of the Titans. I was going into her Facebook account and seeing things like, “My dad’s trying to control me. He says he’s gonna take away my computer and make me get help because I’m hurting myself, but he’s not gonna do anything.”
Oh, is that right? I thought.
As much as it hurt to read things like that, it also made me that much more sure I was doing the right thing. Not that it made it any easier.
Jesus, you have been so good to me, but you’ve also made me face the most difficult battles I’ve ever faced. This one is the worst. I’ve always prayed that you would keep Jennea close to you, and lately it feels like you’ve abandoned us. She is getting worse and worse. I know you are helping us by getting her into Awakening Youth in January, but Christmas is coming, Lord, and things are spiraling out of control. I need your help now. We both do.
“So, are you ready for Christmas, Nea?” I asked as we started the two-hour trek by car from LAX to Bakersfield.
“I guess.” Jennea shrugged, texting away on her phone.
Yeah . . . this is gonna be a fun drive.
My parents’ condo had always been a peaceful place to spend the holidays. They lived on a golf course, so it was a quiet and relaxing environment. Please, let it stay that way, I thought as we pulled into their driveway.
As soon as we walked in the house, Sandy, my parents’ Maltipoo, jumped all over us. It was the first time I’d seen Jennea smile or heard her laugh in a while. Maybe things will be okay after all.
And things did go well—for the first two days. Then the Facebook stuff started up again.
Jennea knew I had full access to her Facebook account, but somehow she thought I’d forgotten about it—or she was just trying to mess with me. Either way, she started sending inappropriate comments back and forth with her friends again. I read everything she wrote to one kid in particular, and to his credit, he was trying to stop it so Jennea wouldn’t get in trouble again. But for some reason Jennea didn’t care.
The last thing I wanted was to have a big blow-up with Jennea at my parents’ house—especially at Christmas—but I couldn’t turn a blind eye and let her do whatever she wanted. So I confronted her.
“Jennea, I don’t know if you think I’m stupid or just don’t care anymore,” I said firmly, “but I checked your Facebook account, and I know you’re acting trashy with your friends and talking to that one kid again after I asked you not to. You promised me you wouldn’t. Why would you do that?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” she said in a tone that showed me she really didn’t give a rip.
I closed my eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath, and started counting to ten in my head. I made it to six before Jennea apologized again, though halfheartedly.
In order to avoid a full-blown war, I told her I would be taking her laptop and phone away for a couple of days, and if she chilled out and listened, I would give them back. I’d decided it was best to try to work out a compromise.
For the next few days Jennea did seem to make an effort. Granted, it probably had more to do with wanting to get her stuff back than anything else, but at least things had calmed down for a while. So, true to my word, after a couple of days of decent behavior, I returned them.
“I’m giving these back under one condition,” I said. “No more trashy behavior, and stop talking to that kid, do you hear me?”
“Yeah,” she mumbled.
Maybe now she’ll get that I’m serious, I thought.
Guess what—surprise! She didn’t.
That afternoon, I went up to the guest room to check on her, and I opened the door to find her typing away on you-know-whose Facebook page.
But that wasn’t what ultimately sent me over the edge. What pushed my nuclear button were the familiar scabby, dried-blood marks peeking out from under her shirtsleeves. But I also noticed something else that reduced my feeling of anger and raised my level of concern; some of these blood marks weren’t dried yet. The blood was new. My heart sank.
“Jennea, let me see your arms,” I said as calmly as possible.
“No,” she shot back, pulling her sleeves down over her wrists.
“Jennea, I’m serious. Let me see your arms.”
“No, Dad. Just leave me alone.” And with that, she turned up the volume on her MacBook, and Blink-182’s “Always” filled the uncomfortable silence between us.
“I told you,” I started again, my entire body starting to tremble. “I told you what the rules were, and you keep breaking them over and over.”
“But, Dad . . .”
I quickly cut her off. “Jennea—no. That’s it. This whole social media thing—it’s over for you. You’re cutting this thing off right now. No more Facebook.”
“You don’t get it!” she spat back at me, standing up. “My friends are the only ones who make me feel like I don’t want to kill myself!”
Man. What are you supposed to say to that?
“Nea,” I said, attempting to comfort her.
She instantly pulled away. “Just leave me alone.” And with that she turned her back on me, hugging her laptop to her chest like a security blanket.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe I had been leaving her alone too much. It’s not like I thought a couple of weeks at my parents’ house would make up for all the time we’d been apart lately.
How did everything go so wrong so fast? I wondered.
Jennea’s shoulders started to shake, and I could hear her starting to cry. It was about all I could do at that point not to break down myself. I slowly made my way around to the other side of the bed, and, as calmly and gently as I could, said, “Jennea, please. Let me see your arms.”
She didn’t budge, so I reached over, took her left hand in mine, and pulled back her sleeve. When I saw the trail of horizontal slash marks running from her wrist to her shoulder, a wave of nausea rolled over me.
Oh, God, what could possibly be so horrible that she would do something like this?
I felt like an utter failure. Again.
I was at a total loss. Not only did I not know how to respond, but because it was so close to Christmas, I had to do something fast. I couldn’t just let her continue to tear her arms apart. And the comment about wanting to kill herself scared me to death.
I racked my brain. Where could I get Jennea help right away out here in California? Then it hit me—Pastor Ron.
“Hi, Pastor Ron? It’s me, Brian,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice and failing. Then I just unloaded. “Listen. I’m at my parents’ house, and Jennea is in a really dark place. She’s been really depressed, and right now she’s in full-on rebellion mode. She’s talking crazy online, cutting herself, and she said she wants to kill herself. It’s not just a cry for help. I know my kid, and I’ve never seen her go through anything close to this. There’s a boarding school I’m sending her to in January that will help her, but I really need to get through Christmas. I want to get her out of the house before my parents see her bloodied arms. Can you help me? Please?”
“Oh man, Brian. I’m so sorry you guys are going through this. Let me think for a minute,” he said. “I’m going to hook you up with one of my best youth leaders. His name is Brad, and I’m sure he’ll be able to help Jennea.”
Frankly, I wasn’t sure anyone short of God himself was going to be able to help Jennea at this point. But I was desperate, so I had Pastor Ron set up an appointment for us to meet with Brad that same day.
Ten minutes into the meeting, as Brad sat there, covered in tats and telling Jennea about his rough background and his “screamo” band, I thought, Hmmm . . . maybe this guy can get through to her. But Jennea wasn’t impressed at first. In fact, she barely looked up from her phone through the whole meeting. Welcome to my world, buddy, I thought.
“Now what?” I asked Pastor Ron privately in a separate room. “We can’t go back to my parents’ house. If they see the marks on her arms, they’ll flip out.”
Pastor Ron stared at me for a minute and then rubbed his face and said, “Tell you what. Debbie and I have a ranch up in the mountains that the church uses for retreats. Why don’t you and Jennea go up there for a few days? It won’t solve any problems, but at least it will give you both some time to calm down before Christmas and hang out at a peaceful place. The only thing up there is nature and my animals.”
“Oh, that sounds awesome!” I said, finally feeling some of the intense pressure lift. “I’d much rather hang out at the ranch for a few days and then call my parents to tell them about Jennea’s bloodied arms so they have time to process everything before Christmas.”
I wasn’t sure that Jennea and I spending time alone together at a ranch in the mountains was the best idea, but it sure beat going home and facing my parents with the news that their granddaughter had been contemplating suicide. Fortunately, we had secretly brought our bags with us before we left my parents’ house, just in case Brad and Ron decided we needed to take Jennea somewhere else immediately. By that time Jennea was texting back and forth with Brad a little bit because we had gotten a CD of the screamo band he was in and she actually liked it—which helped her open up to him a bit more. He was also trying to throw in some encouraging texts to her, and that helped, but she was in too much of a dark place for any quick changes.
Soon after we got to Pastor Ron’s ranch, I called my mom to tell her where we were—and why.
“Hi, Mom, it’s me,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.
“Hi, Brian,” she responded. “Are you all done Christmas shopping?”
Oh, yeah. I had almost forgotten the excuse I used to get out of the house earlier that day.
“I think so,” I said. “Jennea and I are up in the mountains right now. Pastor Ron has loaned us his house, and we’re gonna be staying up here for a couple of days.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Okay.”
“Listen, Mom. I want to prepare you for something,” I said. “I know I told you that Jennea has been struggling a bit lately, but it has gotten worse—a lot worse. She’s hurting herself, and it’s gotten pretty bad. She has cuts all the way down her arms, from her shoulders to her wrists.”
I heard my mom gasp.
“I know that the first reaction is to freak out, but I’ve been talking to a friend of mine named Tiffany who runs a boarding school out in Indiana. She has seen this kind of thing countless times, and she says the best thing to do is to keep a close eye on Jennea’s safety, and although it’s emotional for us, she says we should try not to draw unneeded attention to the cutting—overreaction could escalate the behavior.
“I’ve already enrolled Jennea at the school in January. She’ll be there for at least eighteen months. She doesn’t know about it yet, and it’s important that she doesn’t. She’s threatened to run away if I ever tried to put her in a place like this. I’ve been praying about it though. I’ve talked to a lot of people, and I really believe that this is God’s plan.”
Mom was silent for a second, and then she blurted out, “Eighteen months? She’s going to live there full time? Are you sure this is the best thing?” I knew what she was worried about. It was the same thing I was worried about—leaving Jennea for an extended period of time, just like I used to do back when I was touring with KoRn.
“Mom, this is meant to be,” I said. “Jennea’s gonna be a legal adult in three and a half years, and this place will help prepare her for when that time comes. Touring with KoRn full time will in no way be beneficial for Jennea.”
Mom sighed. “Okay, Brian. It just kills me that she feels this badly about herself. She is such a beautiful, intelligent girl. I wish she could see that.”
“She will, Mom. She will,” I said with more confidence than I felt at the moment. “It’s just gonna take time. I’m not about to let my little girl fall apart. I’m doing everything I can to see her completely healed. And I’m being led by Jesus, so I know things will be okay, even though it’s really scary right now. Will you talk to Dad for me? Let him know what’s going on?”
“Of course I will,” she promised. “You take care of yourself—and Jennea too. See you in a couple of days. We love you both.”
Considering what I had just unloaded on them, my parents ended up taking everything extremely well. They agreed to take Tiffany’s advice and not bring any attention to Jennea’s injuries. If we didn’t focus on it, then hopefully Jennea wouldn’t do it anymore—or at least as much as she had been. I also asked my mom to call Jennea’s aunt and uncle, who we’d see on Christmas Eve, and fill them in on what was happening in case they noticed the cuts on her arms.
In the meantime, Jennea and I tried to make the best of our time away from the world.
Pastor Ron’s cabin was actually pretty cool. He had a couple of cows and horses that Jennea and I fed, which was fun—especially the horses, because they had these huge teeth, massive gums, and huge lips that flapped all over the place when they ate. At Ron’s advice, we also carried a baseball bat outside with us just in case a mountain lion attacked, which he had seen lurking around a few times. It was definitely an escape from the norm.
Some moments helped us forget about the war that was going on, but there were also darker moments. Jennea had sent another inappropriate message to a friend on Facebook with her phone (yes, I gave it back to her for the sake of peace), and when I confronted her about it, she totally snapped on me.
“Jennea! Why are you talking like that on Facebook again?” I firmly asked.
“Get a life, Dad! And get off my Facebook account!” she screamed back. “You’re such a control freak! I hate you!”
You could practically smell the Christmas spirit.
We yelled back and forth, and then things escalated a bit; she came after me and punched me in the back as I turned and walked away, leaving her to scream out her rage. When I got to the bedroom, I flipped on the television, found a good crime drama, and turned up the volume until I couldn’t hear her screams anymore. At least someone has a more screwed-up family life than me, I thought as I dove into the TV show about murder and whatever else.
On Christmas Eve, we left Pastor Ron’s place and headed back to my parents’ house. Though there was still some tension between Jennea and me, things had brightened up a little bit with the promise of Christmas and presents looming on the horizon. It didn’t hurt that every year we went to my Aunt Deia’s and Uncle Tim’s house with a bunch of our extended family, so Jennea got to hang out with her cousins.
We all exchanged presents and had our annual Mexican potluck dinner, and Jennea got what she always requested at that time in her life—iTunes gift cards. So for the moment, she was content. We had a pretty good time, and it did help lift the heavy load we’d been carrying that year—if only for a few hours.
On Christmas morning my parents woke up Jennea and me around eleven. Lots of drama makes you extra sleepy, I guess. My brother, Geoff, his wife, Lola, and my nephews, Max and Sam, had already descended on my parents’ house, and the kids were anxious to start unwrapping their presents. My mom had mentioned the cuts on Jennea’s arms to Geoff and Lola, but we didn’t tell Max and Sam because they were too young. That morning, however, Sam, the youngest, noticed the cuts, and curiosity got the best of him.
“Hey, what happened to your wrists?” Sam asked innocently.
“I fell on my skateboard,” Jennea said uncomfortably as she yanked her sleeves down over her hands.
Definitely a bittersweet Christmas morning.
Getting through the holidays at my parents’ was hard enough, but getting through New Year’s was going to make Christmas look like . . . well, Christmas. Don’t ask me how, but I let Jennea talk me into letting her visit some of her friends in Arizona. Since so many of her issues were attached to this circle of friends, I didn’t want to let her go. But at the same time I felt like I had to since they were also the only real friends she felt she had. We agreed that she would stay at her friend Bridget’s house. I was pretty good friends with Bridget’s mom, Syra, so before Jennea left, I gave her a call.
“Hi, Syra. It’s Brian, Jennea’s dad,” I started. “I wanted to call and tell you a little bit about what’s been going on with Jennea these past few months. There’s no easy way to say this, but she’s been really depressed, and she’s started experimenting with self-harm.”
“Oh no,” Syra responded, sounding genuinely concerned. “Why is she so depressed?”
“Well, it’s a lot of things, but I’m getting her some help after the first of the year,” I said. “Can you please just keep an eye on her while she’s there? I’m sure she’ll be fine because she’ll be having fun with Bridget and her other friends, but I just wanted to take extra precautions.”
“Of course, Brian. No problem,” Syra promised. “I’ll make sure she has fun.”
In the end, Jennea did have a good time with her friends, but she still struggled a bit. I was keeping up with her through Facebook, and she’d write things to certain kids that were not cool for a dad to read, so we still had a few clashes here and there.
I also checked in with Tiffany while Jennea was away.
“Brian, you’ve got to let go and to stop checking her Facebook page,” she said firmly. “It’s only going to drive you crazy and hurt both of you even more. As difficult as it may be, you have to try to keep the peace until she enters Awakening Youth.”
I knew she was right, but I couldn’t stop being a dad. And somehow, by God’s grace, both Jennea and I made it through the holidays. I would need every bit of that grace, though, to get me through what was coming next.
January 7, 2013. The hardest day of my entire life had arrived.
Instead of flying her straight home to Nashville, I told Jennea I wanted her to meet me in Chicago, where I had a speaking event booked a few days earlier. The only thing I mentioned to her was that we were going to visit a boarding school in Lafayette, Indiana, on our way back home. She didn’t ask many questions, which was good.
After I picked her up at Chicago O’Hare airport, we drove to Lafayette, got a hotel room, and settled in for the last night we’d spend together for a while. I was an emotional wreck inside, but I didn’t show it. Jennea had been pretty quiet on the drive, opting to blast her new Blink-182 album as opposed to talking. But once we got to the hotel, she opened up a little.
“Dad, what’s next for us?” she asked.
Whoa. Communication? As I watched her carefully wind up the cord to her earbuds, I realized for the first time how much she resembled me—both inside and out. Though her hair still showed traces of her latest dye job—kind of a festive Christmas green, but way brighter—the resemblance was obvious.
Jennea and I both had our own unique way of expressing ourselves. With me, it was tats and dreads. For Jennea, it was dying her hair all sorts of wild colors. In the past year alone, her hair had been dark purple, lavender, magenta, pastel pink, deep blue, light blue, gray, and now green. We both loved the same kind of music. We were both crazy night owls, and we both loved being out on the road. We also shared a lot of anger and insecurity issues. We both battled depression from time to time, and we both had our share of struggles with self-harm. For me, it was drugging and excessive drinking. For her, it was physically hurting herself. The only thing we didn’t share at the moment was a deep faith in God and the unwavering belief that he was going to pick up all the broken pieces of our lives and make everything okay. Man, how I wished we had that in common.
“Nea,” I said, brushing my dreadlocks out of my eyes. “Let’s just take one day at a time and trust God to lead us.”
The next morning came quickly. Too quickly. After wolfing down a quick Starbucks breakfast, we piled into the car and headed off toward Tiffany’s and Travis’s school. When we got within a mile or so, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and tell Jennea a small piece of what was about to happen, but not the entire truth—yet.
“Jennea, remember that couple who had all those kids with them from the boarding school that came to the Love and Death show?” I asked, staring straight ahead and gripping the wheel way tighter than necessary.
“Yeah,” she said, still clueless, scooping the whipped cream up from her grande vanilla Frappuccino.
“Well, that’s where we’re going,” I said, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye.
She shot me a suspicious look. “Why?”
“I just thought we’d check it out,” I said, trying to play it cool so she wouldn’t figure everything out and make a run for it.
“Whatever,” she mumbled, turning to stare out the side window.
Once we got there, we got out of the car and rang the doorbell, and a couple of college-aged students came to the door and invited us in. Then Tiffany and Travis appeared.
“Hey, Brian! Hey, Jennea! It’s so good to see you both,” Tiffany said, giving us each a hug.
“It’s good to see you too,” I said.
“Hi,” Jennea answered as she stood there, frozen, eyes darting around the room.
“Why don’t we head downstairs so we can talk?” Travis said, breaking the awkwardness.
I have to admit, it felt a little weird being in that house—mostly because it seemed too small for so many girls. Tiffany must have read my mind because she quickly mentioned that they were planning on purchasing a piece of property that used to be a nursing home so they could expand. The house was only temporary.
“Travis, why don’t you take Brian out to see the new property?” Tiffany suggested. “Then Jennea and I can talk.”
Jennea shot me a quick deer-in-headlights look, and I instinctively took a step toward her, but before I could say anything, Travis spoke up. “Sure. Come on, Brian. Let’s give the girls a little time to check out the place.” And with that he led me up the stairs, leaving Jennea and Tiffany alone.
When Travis and I got back to the house about forty-five minutes later, Tiffany greeted us as we stood at the top of the stairs.
“Brian, why don’t you come on down? I’d like to talk with both you and Jennea,” she said, pointing Travis toward the kitchen.
As Tiffany sat down, Jennea stood behind her, quietly yet frantically mouthing and hand signaling to me. No way. I will not go to this school. Let’s leave.
I was a little nervous that Jennea might try to make a run for it when I told her she was staying. But I knew that Travis was upstairs, so that helped with most of my nervousness.
“Come on over and sit down, Jennea,” Tiffany calmly suggested.
Jennea, not wanting to be rude, did as she was asked, and Tiffany started telling us more about the school.
“So the program is eighteen months and even though it is hard for you to imagine now, almost every single girl ends up loving it, or at least appreciating the value of the experience by the end,” she said, shooting reassuring glances back and forth between Jennea and me.
“We work with a limited number of students at a time. This gives us the opportunity to tailor a program that is individual to each student and her family. We create an environment and culture that allows for students to regroup, heal, and find who they really are. There is a lot of travel, music, art, and new experiences to be had. We don’t push God. We allow for a therapeutic environment of peace, and in that we get to watch him build a relationship and bring about change in their lives as we work with them on school, family, teen issues, and overall life. We also do group sessions and discuss all the issues that young women go through in society and culture. And no subject is too controversial or shocking to discuss. If it’s an issue in one of the girl’s lives, we’ll deal with it head-on; this includes interpersonal issues among the group—everyone has a voice. But if it were a private matter, I would do a one-on-one session. Every student is different in her emotional, spiritual, and social capacities. We assess where the girls are and take them from there to where they are going. The huge benefit of a residential approach is that I will really get to know both of you and be available as situations are actually occurring.”
Jennea didn’t look convinced.
“How many girls do you have enrolled right now?” I asked.
“We have fourteen right now, but we are looking to expand a bit when we relocate,” Tiffany answered.
I could obviously tell that Jennea wanted nothing to do with this place, and it didn’t look like Tiffany’s description of Awakening Youth was changing her mind, so after Tiffany gave me the go signal by nodding her head, I decided to come out with it and hit Jennea with the cold, hard truth.
“Jennea, we’re not here to visit,” I said, my heart pounding in my throat. “I’m enrolling you today. You’re staying here.”
Jennea jumped up out of her chair. “No! I’m not staying here! F—that! F—you!” she cried. She looked around for an exit, but Tiffany took control.
“Jennea, you need to sit down,” she said steadily. “Calm down and relax.”
“I don’t have to listen to you!” Jennea cried.
Now I was the one frozen in my tracks.
Tiffany pulled up a chair. “You either sit on the couch or sit in this chair, but you need to sit down somewhere.”
Defeated, Jennea sat down in the chair and started crying angrily. My heart shattered into a million pieces. I saw the fear and shock in my little girl’s face, and it all but killed me.
“You have two choices,” Tiffany continued. “You can either calm down and accept the choice your dad has made to enroll you here, or I will be forced to enroll you in a more restrictive program for a month, after which I will think about letting you come back here.”
Whoa, I thought. She really knows what she’s doing.
“Your dad has given me the authority to help him in your family’s situation,” Tiffany continued. “I don’t want to have to call a transport service and have them take you to another program, but I will. It’s up to you.”
That was it. It was over. And Jennea knew it.
I knew I was doing the right thing, but I was dying inside. I had never known pain like this before. The only thing I can compare it to was when I had to take Jennea to the doctor as a baby and hold her down while the doctor stuck a needle in her. In both instances she was sick and needed to get better. And as her dad, I was just doing what needed to be done to make that happen.
“Brian, can you go upstairs and give us a few minutes?” Tiffany asked, snapping me out of my trance. “There’s some paperwork that needs to be filled out before you leave anyway. Dee will be up there to help you.”
After walking through the most intense few minutes of my personal life, I knew it would be very beneficial for Tiffany to have a few minutes alone with Jennea. She had to lovingly, yet sternly help her submit to the difficult beginning of the process. And to be honest, I was grateful. I couldn’t bear seeing the look of hurt and betrayal in Jennea’s eyes one second longer.
It took fifteen or twenty minutes to finish all the paperwork, and by the time I got back downstairs, Tiffany had already snatched Jennea’s most prized possession out of her hands—her iPhone. And with it went any and all connection Jennea had to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or text messaging.
I could read Jennea’s face like a book. She knew her life would never be the same.
“Jennea,” Tiffany gently said, “give your dad a hug good-bye. It’s time for him to go.”
Jennea walked over to me, latched on, and started sobbing uncontrollably.
It.
Was.
Brutal.
“I’m sorry.” Jennea slowly hiccupped in between sobs. “I’m . . . really, really sorry, Dad.”
“Jennea, I will never abandon you,” I promised her, my voice shaking. I completely lost it. Tears flowed down my cheeks and onto Jennea’s shoulder. It was almost more than I could bear.
I was there when Jennea took her first breath. I was there on her first day of preschool. I was there when her mom left. I was there from first through eighth grade, and now part of me felt like I was letting her down. Still, deep down, I knew everything was unfolding the way it was meant to. I knew God was in control and that he would bring healing to Jennea, to me, and to us.
“Bye, Jennea. I love you,” I said through tears.
“Bye, Dad,” Jennea said with the saddest, most broken voice I’d ever heard from her. “I love you too.”
And with that Tiffany led me back upstairs while the college students sat with Jennea.
“She’ll be fine, Brian. I promise,” Tiffany said, trying to reassure me. “What you just did was as hard as it gets.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that everything was going to be okay. That Jennea was going to be okay. That this wasn’t the biggest, most epic mistake I’d ever made. There were a million emotions, thoughts, and questions running through my head, but when I opened my mouth, all I could say through my flowing tears was “I gotta go.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Tiffany asked as I opened my car door to leave.
“Yeah.”
That was it.
It was done.
And so was I.
The next three hours driving back to Chicago alone were the longest I’d ever experienced. I don’t think I stopped crying once.
The road from Lafayette to Chicago is almost completely flat and straight. It was freezing cold, and the sky was a gloomy steel gray—exactly the way I was feeling inside.
“God, I trust you” were the only words I could speak during the three-hour drive as the road stretched out before me.
By the time I boarded the plane to Nashville, I was completely spent—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. My being couldn’t handle anymore. As soon as I settled into my seat, I passed out.
When I got home, I put my key in the lock and slowly opened the front door. The house was dark, cold, and silent.
Just like me.