How or why I was born, I could never understand.   Who it was who named me Carol, I will never know.  All I know is that whoever she was, my birth mother wanted me raised as a Christian; preferably Catholic. 

By the time I was five years old, I had already lived in nine different foster homes and learned how to deal with all kinds of people. I knew that the best way to stay safe was to be very quiet and blend in with my surroundings.  I could speak a little Russian, a little French, and a little German.  I made it my business to study and to learn whatever habits and idiosyncrasies I would have to emulate in order to make myself invisible.  I knew that the best thing to be was someone who no one would notice.  A non-threatening, unobtrusive, non-entity.  Don’t pester.  Don’t ask.  Don’t tell. 

Daily life was so full of dealing with the apologetic responsibility of having been born that it never occurred to me that there was a wonderful, joyous world of imagination and pretend just waiting for me to discover.  I lived my life in a constant state of fight or flight and spoke only at night, in hushed whispers, to a God whom I knew, in spite of everything, did exist.  But I did not know why I knew it. 

Night after night, as I lay me down to sleep, I would ask the God in the picture on the wall to take me to heaven while I was sleeping.  And morning after morning, upon awakening, I would curse the picture (as much as a five year old can curse anything) for having failed to accommodate me.  Didn't He understand that I was not strong enough to deal with the inevitable nightmare of the day I was facing?  Didn't the God care about me?  I thought the God cared about everyone.  Surely THAT included me… somehow.

Concluding that perhaps He had not taken me because I’d somehow left room for confusion, I decided to make sure He knew it was I.  From the moment of that startling deduction, I would precede my nightly request with an identity tag.  “God, Sir?"  I would start, “This is Carol, speaking..."   (You see, the only possession I had was my name and I treasured it.  I did not like it when someone abused it by referring to me as the girl, the new kid, the little one... or worse.)   The ID tag had not made a difference, though; He did not come for me.  I wondered what was wrong with Him?  Maybe He was not ‘cool’ after all…

One summer morning, a neighbor lady told me something that added to the "name" equation and I thought, for sure, that this information was significant, that it was the key that would change everything.  As we sat on her front steps admiring her yellow and purple pansies she shared with me that God is WHAT He is – just as WHAT I was, was a little girl, but Jesus is His name.  (Maybe His name was as important to him as mine was to me.  Maybe He had not answered me because I did not address Him by name when I spoke to Him!  Maybe He had been too insulted to come for me!)  This was a good thing.  Now that we were on a first name basis, He would surely forgive me my mistake and come for me... 

Night after night I would speak to my Friend and morning after morning I would awaken, disgruntled and disappointed.  And yet, somehow, I felt He was a true friend.  I told Him everything.  (In hushed whispers, of course.)

- - - - -     - - - - -     - - - - -     - - - - -

One day, as I was walking along with a little girl named Megan, whom I had met earlier that day at the playground, we were approached and surrounded by three neighborhood kids who were bigger than we.  The luxurious wisdom of hindsight dictates that they were merely teasing, but at the time, I was sure that they were going to hurt us.  To me, they appeared to be horrible, gigantic monsters.  Furthermore, they were likely to cause me to get my clothes all dirty for which I would surely get another beating when I got home.  Even so, there would be something more fearsome than the injurious sting of the belt awaiting me if I were to get my clothes dirty; it would probably mean they would get rid of me.  No doubt about it, I would have to move again; it was merely a matter of how it would be handled.  Maybe my bags would be packed and I would have to go.  Maybe no one would tell me that I was leaving and after school, I would be sent to the office where a lady wearing a navy blue suit would greet me.  She would take me to a strange brown car and then get into the back seat with me while a man, also wearing a navy blue suit, would drive us to a new home.  Then I would go inside and be very quiet while I learn to live with new adults and their new language and a new culture and new foster brothers and sisters to fear.  Maybe there would be a new God in the picture on the wall whose new name I would have to learn.  Maybe the new God would take me... maybe...  These anticipatory thoughts and fears continued to assail me, escalating with such magnitude that I became paralyzed.  My mind frantically searched for a solution.  'Jesus!  Where ARE You?' 

From my right, I heard a voice. 

"HEY!" 

Turning, I saw an even larger figure walking toward us, a teenager whom I had never seen before.  He was wearing black pants and a white tee shirt with its short sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscles.  The sleeve on the right had an odd rectangular bulge. Cigarettes, I thought to myself, he's got cigarettes tucked in there.  His hair was black, combed straight back at the sides and at the top he had a curl that resembled a tornado, wide at the top and pin-narrow at the point where it dangled forward over his forehead almost to the bridge of his nose.  (To this day, I am convinced that he must have used massive amounts of hair tonic to keep it perfectly in place because his mane was so shiny that it almost looked blue.)  I held my breath as I watched him advance, drawing menacingly toward us without ever having quickened his pace.

I was not the only one who had found him intimidating; those monster kids had run off.

Megan ran to him.  "This is my brother, Nicky," she beamed proudly as she hugged him around his waist. “He’s tuff!”

"You two, okay?" he queried as he lowered himself on one knee and looked into our faces.

We nodded.

He smiled and stood, placing himself between us.  As he walked us back to her house, Megan on his right, me on his left, he swung his arms protectively around us.  Still unnerved by his proximity, I was afraid to take my eyes off of him long enough to blink; I could not help but stare up at him as we headed down the street toward their house.

He smiled down at me and cheerfully bid me, "Smile."  (It was all he said. It was enough.) 

I did smile.  I blinked.  I turned my gaze forward and reveled in the comfort that his presence afforded.  I had never known such a feeling of safety as I did that afternoon in the summer of 1959 with Nicky's left arm touching my hair and his hand resting gently upon my shoulder.... 

Later, when it was time for me to go home, I timidly expressed my fear that I might meet up with those monster kids who had come at us earlier.  He offered to walk me the four blocks to the house where I lived.  In spite of how he had protected me before, this frightened me.  I knew enough to never allow myself to be alone with a boy.  Learned that from my foster brothers - and not because they had graciously taught me out of concern for my well-being.  But I was backed into a corner; he had already put on his jacket.  Encumbered by an overwhelming sense of disenchantment, I braced myself for the inevitable as I said good-bye to Megan and exited their house with Nicky.  I was bitterly cross at myself for having believed him to be a fortress, as he again swung his arm around me and set his hand casually upon my shoulder. 

All the way to the house where I lived, I waited for the proverbial axe to fall.  It never did.  Instead, we talked about bicycles and carnivals and the lady up the street who fed all the cats.  We even laughed about the funny music she always played - and he never did anything to hurt or frighten me at all.  I was sure he had miscalculated the distance between the two houses and gladly rushed inside before he could figure that out.  He smiled as he waved good-bye and his lack of temper puzzled me.  He had no intention to harm me.  I found that odd.  And amazing.

That night, as I spoke in hushed whispers to the God named Jesus, I told Him that I knew what I needed to make life bearable.  I asked for a brother of my own.  A real brother, I clarified; not a foster. 

The following week, I was moved.  I never saw Megan or her big brother ever again.

- - - - -     - - - - -     - - - - -     - - - - -  

In the new house, my bed was in the basement, directly below the living room where the family's Television Set was placed.  There were four of us, fosters, and though we were not allowed to actually watch the television, we listened to it all the time.  It was our biggest secret. 

- - - - -     - - - - -     - - - - -     - - - - -      

I have no way to remember how much time passed before the night I lay awake in my bed and first heard the gravelly voice that would change everything for me.  But I do remember WHY the voice caught my attention.  I thought that the man to whom I was listening must have a terrible rasp in his throat.  I became desperate to clear my own throat as I listened, unable to shield myself from the sound. (Ever try to stop hearing something?)  I became annoyed over the fact that I dared not clear my throat, because making any noise would let them know that I was awake and that would mean a punishment of some kind, probably attached to a minor beating - a swollen lip or a black eye.  So I listened (begrudgingly) and waited, forever it seemed, for the man to stop talking!   

It is hard to believe that I once despised that voice, for it soon became the sound I loved more than any other.  I do not know how long it took for me to grasp that the man with the raspy voice was called by the name of Jess Harper.  He had a way about him that I found to be something trustworthy.  Maybe it was his honesty about his inability to be perfect.  Maybe it was the way his friends loved him and trusted him.  What opened my heart to him completely, was that I had heard him say he'd lost his parents and he was an orphan, too.  Like me.  He was all alone.  Just like me. 

Maybe he was my brother!  Of course!  That had to be it!  The God named Jesus must have heard me after all.  Surely, if He had given me a brother, then my brother would be coming for me... someday... right?  (It sure was a good thing that The God named Jesus had not taken me when I had asked him to... Then my brother would not be able to find me!)       

Then and there, everything about my life, everything about me, changed forever.

I never let anyone beat on me again.  I never let my foster brothers have their way ever again - not without a fight, and it was not long before they stopped bothering me altogether.  I learned how to take care of myself and I did well when I went to school.  After all, Jess Harper would be coming for me and I must be a little sister of whom he would be proud, right?  (So that he will not be sorry when he comes for me and leave without me.) 

Most significantly, I learned that I had this amazing ability called imagination.  I imagined what Jess Harper looked like and I imagined this place called Laramie where he lived, and I imagined Slim Sherman and Jonesy and Andy.  I imagined myself standing up for what I thought was the right thing.  I imagined myself a good student and a good friend.  It was a wonderful time for me as I put my imagined ethics and strengths into practice and learned how to be a real person.  How to get through life without being a victim.  How to be a friend.  

I was happy. 

Then, one week, on the night when I always stayed awake to listen to Jess Harper's voice, I fell asleep and missed a portion.  Groggily, as I awakened, I heard Slim Sherman's voice instead and it soon became apparent that he was quite upset.  He was frightened because someone had hurt Jess Harper.  This devastated me.  Jess Harper was hurt!  What if he dies!  What if he never comes for me?!

I became so sick with worry that I could not decipher their words enough to hear the conclusion.

I quietly slithered out from my cover and knelt on the cement floor to pray for Jess Harper.  It was the first time I ever prayed for someone besides myself.  (I was not even sure if one could do that, but...)  I had to.  There was no doubt that it was the only thing to do.  I prayed all night that night, and the next, and the next... It was all I could do to get through the week it would take before I would know if Jess Harper was all right.  Indeed, if he had survived. 

What an unparalleled comfort!  Prayer!

That was the beginning of my life as I know it today. 

- - - - -     - - - - -     - - - - -     - - - - -    

As the years went on, I developed a deep and abiding faith in God and, as I learned to pray for many others, I continued to pray for Jess Harper as long as I could. 

How I learned or figured out that Jess Harper was a figment of someone's blessed imagination and that he was, in reality, no more than an actor playing a part, I cannot remember.  I do know that I was lost without him and decided that, even though he was not real and would clearly never be coming for me, I still needed him desperately.  So I threw caution to the wind, asked God to indulge me, and continued to pray for him, changing his name to 'the Jess-man' because I did not know the actor's name and I had no way to find out.  (I would never be so foolish as to start asking questions about him, thereby letting someone know that Jess was somehow important to me, lest they take him away somehow.) 

Selfishly, I prayed that he would always be Jess Harper, because I needed him so...  I prayed that he would be happy, because he had made me happy and I prayed that he would have a family, because he had given me a sense of family.  I faithfully opened and closed with thanks to God for having sent me a brother, albeit an imaginary one, to raise me.  And just at the time when I understood that a brother was what I needed.  (You think it was a coincidence?)  And most of all, I prayed that nothing would ever knock him down, ever.  I would then read Psalm 139.  -- I have prayed these things for forty-four years.  (As a matter of fact, alongside Ps.139, in every Bible I have ever owned - and there have been many - I have written the words, "for Jess Harper" or "for the Jess-man" or "for Buddy").

Oh, I changed his name somewhere along the line when I felt I could no longer pray for him as the Jess-man.  There was a period of time when I felt that my prayers were stopping at the ceiling.  Previous to that, I had conducted a personal study on names in the scriptures and was thrilled to learn, through Biblical text, of the significance of name in God's eyes. (Possibly because I had a fascination with name, too; what do you think?)  I determined that my problems in praying for the Jess-man stemmed from the issue of a proper name.  Armed with faith in my conclusion and increasingly discomfited by my inability to achieve communion with the Lord on the subject of the Jess-man, I knelt on the linoleum floor in front of the large un-curtained window in the dormer of the attic room I then occupied with two other fosters.  It was the spot where I always prayed (well, for as long as I had been living at that home).  I asked God to help me learn the Jess-man's real name so I could pray better for him. (Don't get spooked; I did not come up with Bob or Robert or any variations thereof.) 

As I waited for some mystical, magical answer to swoop in from the heavens, I continued, for some time that morning, in a prayer pattern of petition/listen, petition/listen... I don't know; maybe I thought that God would write the Jess-man's real name in the clouds... or maybe some passerby would mysteriously yell it out.  Nothing like that happened, of course, but I did receive a solution, uh, conclusion, uh, answer that helped.  It came at approximately the same time when I had become frustrated and had begun to negotiate with God.  After all, I was eight years old by then and we had been on a first name basis for three years, already; surely we had developed enough of a friendship for me to suggest He compromise with me: 

OK, Jesus, how about a name for the  'in between'  time?  You know, like  'in between'  the character's name and the man's real name?  "Jess-man" is for babies and it's not working anymore.... Come on, Jesus, just tell me; give me a name that will work for both of us - You and me.  I've got to know that he will be all right.

Unfortunately, or miraculously, as the case may be, I had become distracted from the listening portion of my prayer pattern by this annoying little object that had been obstructing my view of the sky.  It was a lone paper cup that sat tauntingly in the center of my windowsill, daring me to move it.  Inside the cup was a science project.  (Remember the white paper cups coated with wax that had a delicate leaf pattern border around the top?)  In Science class, we had each been provided our own cup.  We put some sand, soil and water into it and planted seeds.  As the seeds started to sprout, we proudly took our cups home to nurture our plants and watch them grow.  We had been warned not to move them around, lest they wither and die from the shock.  Too bad, I decided, as I stood up to move it.  You will just have to protect it, I instructed God as I reminded Him that I was becoming upset with Him.  Just then, as I looked down at the helpless plant, it occured to me that it had grown to the point of  'in between'.  It was not a seed but it had not yet flowered.  It was... a bud.  BUD-DEE!.  

As you, no doubt, have surmised by now, I named him Buddy.  As corny and strange as it may seem, I have prayed for him by that name for many, many years, and still the name is fond and acceptable to me.  -  Even now, after I have been given the gift of Laramie by the most wonderful, loving man a woman can have... Even now, because of that gift, after I have finally seen the face that belonged to the disembodied voice that I cherished more than any other in my childhood...  Even now, after I have finally learned that his real name is Robert Fuller... Even now, after he, Robert Fuller, himself, has told me that he is Jess Harper, he is still Buddy when I pray.  (And often I have wondered, if I had been given a real brother of my own, if that might have been his name or if it would have been a term of endearment.  Who's to say?) 

What has it all brought to me?

Well, I shall tell you...