‘I wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now.’ At 87, Bea Hines shares key life lessons

I am writing this column on Feb. 12, my 87th birthday. When I tell you that I am grateful to have reached this milestone in my life, please believe me. You can’t see it, but under this brown skin of mine I am tickled pink!

Like all of you reading this column, my life has had been somewhat of a roller-coaster ride. Often, the ups have been very high, and the downs have been very low. But I’m here, “clothed and in my right mind.” That alone is a blessing.

This morning, as I looked back over my life, I thought of what my life could have been, if the Lord hadn’t moved in certain ways, giving direction first to my mother, and later, to me. So, when I say I am thankful for my life and how God has blessed me, it seems that simply saying “Thank you” to the God of the universe, the creator who made me, is simply not enough. Therefore, I try to live a life that exemplifies my gratefulness to my Heavenly Father, God, and to my fellow human beings.

That doesn’t mean I am perfect. I stumble and sometimes I fall — very hard. But because I have asked a compassionate God to mold and shape my life, to help me to see who I really am, He works lovingly on me, shaping my life to be one of service to others. Every day.

That often means that I am chastised by Him. And while the chastisement is not pleasant, it is what I need to help me be the best me I can be.

So, looking as far back as I can remember, I’ve had a good life. You ask how is that possible when I have had to navigate the waters of racism and hatred throughout my life? I say, life hasn’t always been a bitter pill. Even in times of strife and turmoil, I’ve had glimpses of beauty and peace and, yes, even unity. I have learned that it is easier to be better than it is to be bitter.

I could never count my blessings. They are far too many to number. But one of my first blessings is my late mother Ida Belle Lawton Johnson. She is my superhero, the one who thought enough of me to bring me with her when she left an abusive marriage. I’ve told this story often enough, but I am amazed at the courage that my 24-year-old mother at the time had.

With only a ninth-grade education and a willing spirit to learn, she set out to make a new life for her and her two small children (I was 5, and my brother Adam was 3).

It couldn’t have been easy for her back in the 1940s. But she had a determined spirit. And even when times were tough, Momma was too proud to accept welfare. Instead, she often worked two jobs to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Momma was one of the first blessings in my 87-year-old life. While she didn’t always understand my dreams, I understood where she was coming from. She was born in 1919 in Plant City in central Florida to sharecropper parents, who also picked strawberries for a living. Her future looked bleak to her.

Unlike me, who grew up in the 1940s and 1950s and had been exposed early to the music of Marian Anderson and the writings of Langston Hughes by my teachers, Momma had had little exposure to the works of Black artists as a child.

Because of her lack of exposure, she didn’t understand my yearning and my dreams. It took a while, but I finally understood her reasoning for wanting me to pursue a career in nursing, social work or teaching. Those were “safe” professions for Blacks at the time, professions that Blacks could almost be assured of getting a job.

She never wanted to see me disappointed, so she tried to steer me in the way she thought was best for me. That meant she never showed any interest in my artwork or writing and was not very impressed when I received a scholarship in voice to attend Knoxville College (now university).

And when I went back to school at age 28 to study journalism, I never told her my major. After all, I didn’t want her to think that I, then a widow with two young sons, was still following a pipe dream. She never knew I was studying journalism until I became a reporter. That’s when she realized that dreams, even for a Colored girl (as she called us) like me, really do come true.

So, as I celebrate this wonderful birthday, I am writing these words into a computer that I will later send, via email, to my editor. I am amazed at myself that I can do this. I am not that computer savvy. But at 87 I have a working knowledge of my computer.

Of course, I have a great computer guy who helps me out. And he works for me in exchange for one of my pound cakes as payment! A match made in heaven, I say.

I’ve had so many other blessings in my life. I wish I could name all the people who have stepped into my life over the years, helping me to have a better life.

I am so thankful that I have been blessed to be the mother of Rick (now deceased) and Shawn, and the grandmother and great grandmother of their offspring.

I am thankful for my church family, and the pastors who helped me when I stepped out on my Christian journey. One of them was the late Evangelist Mamie E. Richardson, my first pastor at The Church of God Tabernacle (True Holiness). She taught me that it is a virtue to be humble, to esteem others more highly than myself. I am blessed to have sat at her feet and learned from her.

I am thankful for my childhood friends who have grown old with me. And while we are all moving a bit slower now, we are, thank the Lord, still moving. And we still find the time to stay in touch, sharing a laugh and a story.

I am thankful for the neighbors on my street, many of whom have passed on, leaving behind wonderful memories of sharing and caring for each other.

And I thank God for my Miami Herald family. Many of my mentors have passed on. But I have been blessed to watch many of the younger ones get married, have children and now, some are becoming grandparents.

I don’t know how many more miles I have on this journey, but in the words of an old gospel song: “I wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now…”