Higher Is Waiting

In this intimate book of inspiration, Tyler Perry writes of how his faith has sustained him in hard times, centered him in good times, and enriched his life. Higher Is Waiting is a spiritual guidebook, a collection of teachings culled from the experiences of a lifetime, meant to inspire readers to climb higher in their own lives and pull themselves up to a better, more fulfilling place. Beginning with his earliest memories of growing up a shy boy in New Orleans, Perry recalls the moments of grace and beauty in a childhood marked by brutality, deprivation, and fear. With tenderness he sketches portraits of the people who sustained him and taught him indelible lessons about integrity, trust in God, and the power of forgiveness: his aunt Mae, who cared for her grandfather, who was born a slave, and sewed quilts that told a story of generations; Mr. Butler, a blind man of remarkable dignity and elegance, who sold penny candies on a street corner; and his beloved mother, Maxine, who endured abuse, financial hardship, and the daily injustices of growing up in the Jim Crow South yet whose fierce love for her son burned bright and never dimmed. Perry writes of how he nurtured his dreams and discovered solace in nature, and of his resolute determination to reach ever higher. Perry vividly and movingly describes his growing awareness of God’s presence in his life, how he learned to tune in to His voice, to persevere through hard times, and to choose faith over fear. Here he is: the devoted son, the loving father, the steadfast friend, the naturalist, the philanthropist, the creative spirit--a man whose life lessons and insights into scripture are a gift offered with generosity, humility, and love.

Autorentext

Writer, actor, filmmaker, playwright, songwriter, entrepreneur, and philanthropist Tyler Perry is the mastermind behind nineteen theatrically released feature films, twenty stage plays, nine television shows, and a #1 New York Times bestselling book. His creative empire has won over audiences and built communities from the Tyler Perry Studios home base in Atlanta, Georgia, throughout the world. His unique blend of spiritual hope and down-home humor continues to shape his inspiring life story, connecting with fans across the globe and always leaving space to dream. Since 2006, the Perry Foundation’s aim has been to transform tragedy into triumph by seeding individual potential, supporting communities, and harvesting real change. The foundation supports education, clean water, health, agriculture, girls’ and women’s rights, technology, arts, culture, and globally sustainable economic development, both in the United States and around the world.

Leseprobe
part one

Planting the Seeds

My childhood was a story of discouragement, belittlement, and unthinkable abuse, and yet I rose above. There was no way I could have found any kind of happiness, hope, or vision if my mother, Maxine, and my aunt Mae hadn’t shown me the grace of God. They, as well as other powerful souls, were my spiritual role models. They didn’t have great mansions or millions of dollars to leave me when they passed, but they planted the seeds of grace, the invaluable gift of knowing God.

As I look back over my early years and as I walk along my path today, I am grateful for those seeds planted in my childhood. From their powerful inspiration grew my unshakable desire to keep reaching higher and my devotion to help all people do the same.

1

Learning God Is in Control

By the time Fridays rolled around I was itching like poison ivy to get as far away as I could from Edgar P. Harney Elementary School. It was especially agonizing knowing Mamma was parked right outside waiting to drive us straight to heaven on earth—Aunt Mae’s house in Greensburg, Louisiana.

Sometimes life travels a complicated route, as it did with Aunt Mae and our family. Mae was really a sort of adopted grandmother, but that information didn’t get to my ears until I was older. I say “adopted” because my father, Emmitt, was abandoned and discovered in a drainage canal at the age of two. He was taken to Mae so that she could raise him. What an extraordinary sign of fate’s fierce power, considering that Mae was only fourteen years old at the time. Years later this extraordinary soul helped save me, too. In Aunt Mae’s presence I could breathe deeply in the sanctuary of nature, the freedom of unconditional love, and the benevolence of God’s embrace.

Lucky for me we went to Aunt Mae’s a couple of weekends every month and also during summer vacations. Emmitt came along with us in the summer. Ordinarily, that would have meant living in anxiety and fear, but my father was a different kind of man when he was around Mae. Instead of boiling up in anger and violence, he was a placid lake. He would even brag about what a fine son I was and about our happy life in New Orleans. Never mind that he beat and belittled Mamma and me all the time, that lies poured out of his mouth like fine grains of sand from a golden sieve.

But Emmitt wouldn’t be joining us this weekend, and I just couldn’t wait to be with Aunt Mae. Every few minutes I’d be checking the classroom’s wall clock, tapping my pencil on the desk, or sliding my sneakers on the wood floor. When our principal finally ended the torture by ringing the copper dismissal bell, I joined the rush of fourth graders grabbing books and papers and breaking through the school’s double doors to hit the sunshine.

New Orleans summers are a hot and humid mess, and the thick air can feel like a heavy-handed slap against your face. Standing outside on the school steps, I’d take a minute to catch my breath and get my bearings. Once I’d hear the familiar honk of my mother’s car horn I’d fix my gaze through the sun’s glare.

There she was: Mamma in her 1969 powder blue Cadillac Coupe DeVille, waving out the window. Sometimes I could see the weight of the world in her face. Today, though, Mamma’s radiating her thousand-watt smile, and her joy makes me feel carefree. Knowing she’s happy and my green suitcase with the metal snaps is packed for the weekend and locked in the trunk means all is right with the world.

When I reach the car Mamma leans over and swings open the passenger door. I slide in and settle down on the roomy, hot-as-a-radiator vinyl seat. She’s wearing one of her usual outfits, jeans and a cotton floral blouse, her café au lait skin glistening in the heat. I’d watched her set her hair in rollers the night before and now it’s brushed forward in a “push do.” Mamma isn’t flashy; she doesn’t have to be. She never wears much makeup because she’s a natural beauty. I always thought my four aunts were jealous because Mamma’s the sister that God gave knock-your-socks-off looks. She’s the one turning heads.

“Ready to go? Did you pee, Junior?” she asks, flashing another smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I hadn’t, but didn’t want to take time before hitting the road.

Mamma doesn’t waste another minute, either. She turns the ignition key, guns the gas pedal, and we’re off. We head out to I-10 then onto I-55, leaving New Orleans behind us. Once we are free from the city, she turns up the volume on the eight-track player in the dashboard and belts out the blues, singing along with Z. Z. Hill, Denise LaSalle, and Betty Wright. I don’t join in but quietly set the lyrics like an easy poem into my memory.

I also know our route to Aunt Mae’s by heart. We ride along a vast bridge called the Bonnet Carré Spillway that takes us across the murky waters of Lake Pontchartrain. I stretch my arm out the window and let the steam…