It was the holiday season, and San Francisco was decked out in red and green finery that not even the city’s perpetual fog could dim. Christmas was a week away, but I’d already received the best gift of all—a group of the most popular girls in my high school had invited me to go shopping with them.
I had no idea why—I was awkward, shy, overweight and acne-ridden. My mother had moved us to the San Francisco Bay Area from Tennessee, and I’d struggled to fit in. Maybe this was my chance.
We went downtown to one of the big department stores, jammed with shoppers. “There’ll be a lot of confusion with all the people,” one of the girls said. “Let’s see what we can pick up on a five-finger discount.
I was no stranger to stealing: I was a sophomore and I’d already been in trouble for taking money from another girl’s locker and other incidents of petty theft.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford to pay for the items I stole. My stepfather made a good living, and before they got married Mom had a glamorous career in the fashion industry as a stylist for major department stores.
Dad was a good provider—an in-demand interior designer—as well as a very generous father. My parents were both so self-assured. They were successful, and they knew exactly who they were and what they were good at. What was I good at? Stealing? I just wanted to be accepted.
Most of the stuff we stole that day we didn’t even want. I slipped a snow globe, of all things, into my purse. We thought we’d gotten away with our Christmas stealing spree until a security guard stopped us. “You’ll have to come with me,” he said.
We sat in his office. One by one he called our parents. Finally he got to my mom.
“Mrs. Sheeks,” he said, “this time I’m just calling you. Next time it will be the police.”
“This is serious, Ashley,” she said. Mom sat me down on the couch that night. “You could have been thrown in jail.” Jail? I was already there. Moving to San Francisco had felt like a prison sentence: I hated my appearance, I hated myself and I hated the way I was acting.
Stealing was wrong. I knew that. So I nodded, but said nothing.
“I’ve prayed about this since I picked you up earlier today,” she said. “And here’s what I’ve decided. This Sunday in church, during the time of sharing, you’re going to tell the congregation what you’ve done.”
It was the worst punishment I could imagine. “No, Mom! I can’t do that.”
“Ashley, I’ve made up my mind. If you don’t stand up and say it, I will.”
Somehow that seemed even worse. “Fine,” I said defiantly as tears rolled down my face. “I’ll do it.”
I dreaded every day, every hour, every minute leading up to church that Sunday morning. And it was worse than I expected. The college kids were home for Christmas. Families who didn’t attend regularly showed up. The place was packed.
“Now it’s time for sharing,” the pastor announced halfway through the service. Lots of people got up to share: about how grateful they were to be with their families at Christmas, how they needed prayers for an ailing relative.
As soon as there was a pause, Mom nudged me. I was sick with fear, but I just wanted to get it over with. I forced myself to stand up. I was fine at first, until I got to the part about stealing.
“Everyone was taking stuff without paying for it, so I put a snow globe in my purse….” Suddenly I started sobbing so hard I couldn’t go on.
I felt an arm go around me. I thought it was Mom, but when I looked over it was the youth pastor’s wife. She stood by me while I cried. She stayed there with me, in that embrace, for what seemed like hours. It was only a minute, really. Then I sat down and the service continued.
I didn’t say anything else. Afterward I was determined to get to our car as fast as possible, but folks kept coming up to hug me. And offer words of encouragement and concern. It was overwhelming— and part of me still felt ashamed. But I knew that they really cared.
Even though I’d stood up and said I was a thief. They accepted me.
My mother and I didn’t always agree, but she trusted that God heard and answered her prayers. In time I realized she was acting out of love and not anger. She knew how the congregation would respond and she knew in her heart what I needed.
It was through the church that I started on the guitar, when one of the musicians there taught me my first chords. Eventually that led to my career as a performer and recording artist.
That painful Christmas confession was an unexpected gift—a glimpse of the unconditional love God was trying to show me and a future I couldn’t have imagined.
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