I’m pregnant.”
After Cori, my 21-year-old, unwed daughter, said those words, I went through all kinds of emotions. Yes, it would be embarrassing. I wrote the book Sanctified Sex. I had criss-crossed the country telling thousands of young adults like my daughter to “just say no.”
Yes, it broke my heart. I stayed awake many nights listening to my wife’s muffled sobs. I came home many days to referee a family feud.
But life had prepared me for this. I remember my 19-year-old brother being pistol-whipped for a measly fifty cents. I remember angry youths firing a .357 magnum in my front yard. I remember seeing a friend, inches from me, get riddled with bullets. That’s life in the ghetto. I clearly understood what pastoring a church in the Smith Homes area, a Detroit housing project, would cost me.
What I may have miscalculated was the price my family would have to pay. I was willing to deal with rats and take a vow of poverty, but did God want this for my family?
Baby steps
Cori has always made it clear that she likes the wilder side of life. She has always learned her lessons the hard way.
She had tried on some of our values, and they did not fit. She seemed willing to pay for the lifestyle she had chosen. After Cori became pregnant, she made it clear: “This was not your fault … this was my decision.”
When others advised her to abort, Cori didn’t give hasty answers. She knew we opposed abortion. But still she said, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Cori was beginning to demonstrate maturity even if it were in a roundabout way. One evening I painted the sobering picture of what life would be like with a newborn—childcare, diapers, rent, utilities, immunizations, clothing, toys, baby food, formula. While she could count on us to help with some of these costs, I said, the bulk of the responsibility would fall on her shoulders. Three days later, Cori came home with a list of support she had rounded up, including donated cribs, toys, and other essentials.
Empty seats
My wife, Roberta, and I have always wanted our home to be a place where no-strings-attached love could grow. My children have always banked on, bathed in, and almost taken for granted my acceptance. They’ve seen it demonstrated to my church members. They’ve seen it given to the baggy-pants-wearing, rap-singing, ghetto-boyz-in-the-hood. Cori expected nothing less.
Cori also expected lots of unloading. Emotional baggage is not carried long in our home. We feel anger. We feel disappointment. We feel embarrassment. We do not deny our hurts. After expressing the emotions surrounding her unplanned pregnancy, we picked up the pieces and went on.
There were prenatal appointments to make. There were insurance policies to secure. There were childcare decisions to discuss. There were church members, leaders, and friends to contact.
One of the first people I told about Cori’s pregnancy was a good friend.
“What’s up, Haman?” he asked as we stood in the hotel lobby.
I replied, “My church is expanding, we just sent a missions team to Kenya, and oh, my daughter Cori is pregnant.”
“Pregnant!” he shouted. “You should quit. You have lost all credibility.”
As I silently gazed at him, I could see he regretted his outburst. But I understood his response. Transparency can make many people uncomfortable, can trigger destructive reactions. However, I believe far more good can emerge from openness.
But still his response took the wind out of me.
Maybe I should quit, I wondered. Maybe if I had cared more for my daughter and less for the unfortunate, this would not have happened. Maybe I have lost all credibility. Maybe my 300-member church will ask me to resign.
One couple said, “Your family should be different. You’re the pastor! How do I tell my kids that your kids are out of control?” They decided to transfer their membership rather than allow their children to rub shoulders with mine.
Some Sundays, tears filled my eyes when I stared at their empty seats and remembered their last words, “I’m sorry, Pastor Cross. We quit!”
Tough risk
The first three months of Cori’s pregnancy, mother and daughter said little to each other. I mediated occasional peace talks.
Even after the baby was born, there were many adult-to-adult discussions about keeping the house rules. If she decided she did not want to keep a rule, such as curfew, there would be consequences. My wife and I told Cori, “If you can’t live under our house rules, you can’t live in our house.”
Once, in the middle of the night, I awoke to the sound of the doorbell ringing. I rushed downstairs and peered through the window. It was Cori, standing on the porch, begging me, “Daddy, Daddy, let me in. It’s freezing out here.”
I saw Michael, my grandson, bundled up in a baby carrier next to Cori. I pointed to my watch and closed the curtain.
She continued to bang and ring, waking up the neighbors, my wife, and my youngest daughter, Sharyl.
“Daddy, let her in,” Sharyl pleaded. “It’s cold.”
“Haman, the baby is out there,” my wife pleaded.
“No,” I said. “If we hold the line now, we won’t have to do this again.”
I wondered about the risk I was taking. I might wound my daughter permanently; my grandson might get frostbite; I might be blamed forever.
For twenty minutes my wife, Sharyl, and Cori begged me to reconsider. “No,” I said. “I’m going to bed. You should all do the same.”
Cori gave up and spent the night at a friend’s house. The next morning she repented, deciding to submit to the house rules and the values of the church. We warmly welcomed her back.
Eating bugs
Throughout this crisis, I have asked God, “Is making an impact in urban America worth all this? How do I model sensitivity and strength when my family is falling apart?”
God replied with several questions: “Will you quit, Haman? Will you quit loving your daughter? Will you quit investing in her life? Will you quit forgiving her as you have been forgiven?”
My answer continues to be, “No, I won’t quit, Lord. With your help, my family will make it.”
We may not have it all together, but when you live in the jungle, or in the ghetto, you learn to eat bugs. This perspective keeps us from living in denial or despair.
That’s life in the ghetto. That’s life in the ministry. That’s life, period.
Haman Cross, Jr., is pastor of Rosedale Park Baptist Church in Detroit, Michigan.
Adapted from Urban Family Magazine (spring 1995). Used with permission.
1996 by Christianity Today/LEADERSHIP journal
Last Updated: September 18, 1996
