Tindell Baldwin’s words best describe her passion and this book:

“My heart is for teenage girls because my story is much like so many of theirs. I was just a girl who made a lot of mistakes. I was a girl who had sex before marriage and then had a broken heart. I was a girl who did drugs and drank to fill the void that was deep in my heart. I was a girl who was desperate to be popular. A girl who, like so many others, didn’t know the dark side of sin. So my aim is to reach teenage girls, and through an honest account of my darkest sins, show them what they are up against. My heart is that teens would hear my story and flee to Christ. My greatest desire is that God would be glorified above all else.”

Through a two-part journey (“Dark” and “Light”), Tindell details how she said goodbye to her family’s God and pursued popularity at all costs while climbing the social chain in high school. During a night of partying, she even encountered the man suspected of killing Natalee Holloway in Aruba. But God did not leave Tindell. The “Light” part of her story shows how she reconnected with God, changed her ways, and discovered abundant and real life through Christ.

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BOYS, BOOZE & JESUSBy TINDELL BALDWIN

TYNDALE HOUSE PUBLISHERS, INC.

Copyright © 2013 Tindell Baldwin
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4143-7524-3

Contents

Introduction................................................................ixPART ONE Dark...............................................................1CHAPTER 1 Where It All Began................................................3CHAPTER 2 Good-Bye, God.....................................................15CHAPTER 3 Giving It All Away................................................31CHAPTER 4 A Different Kind of AA: Addicted to Attention.....................57CHAPTER 5 Disaster without the Beautiful....................................71CHAPTER 6 Desperate to Belong...............................................85CHAPTER 7 Dancing with Death................................................95PART TWO Light..............................................................99CHAPTER 8 It Feels like Home................................................101CHAPTER 9 A New Song........................................................111CHAPTER 10 Baby Steps to Four O'Clock.......................................127CHAPTER 11 What Does Different Look Like?...................................141CHAPTER 12 Grace-Filled Sex.................................................155CHAPTER 13 Starting Over Again..............................................161CHAPTER 14 Through My Mirror................................................181CHAPTER 15 Something to Believe In..........................................203CHAPTER 16 Brick by Brick...................................................217CHAPTER 17 From Here to There...............................................227

Chapter One

WHERE IT ALL BEGAN

I'M 794 MILES from my hometown, but somehow it all feels so familiar: the lockers, the overwhelming smell of vanilla and Abercrombie, the confusing layout, the kids rushing to class, the couple in the corner making out. I walk the halls and breathe a sigh of remembrance. The bell brings me back to the here and now, and I have no idea where room 2070 is.

Finally I stumble into the classroom, and twenty sets of eyes look at me. A few of them look confused; I'm obviously not their teacher. I tell them that today I'm their substitute. A few more confused looks, and then one brave girl in the back asks, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three," I say, looking down at my instructions. They have a test today.

"You look like you're eighteen," one of the pretty girls in the front says.

I glance up and see the familiar scene. It might be six years since I was in high school, but not much has changed. There's still the loner in the back wearing all black, trying to blend in with darkness; the oversize scary boy who wants me to know I don't have authority; the peppy cheerleader who smiles even when nothing is happening; the angry girl who probably dates the scary boy in row three; the athletes who swish their hair to the side trying desperately not to care; and the rest: the average-for-now kids who get lost between categories. I know they won't take their test until I go through the normal ritual of questions, so I let them ask.

No, I didn't go to school here, and yes, I'm old enough to teach. Yes, I'm super tall, and no, you may not stand next to me to see if you're taller. No, I didn't play basketball, and yes, I'm married. By this point I can normally get them on task, but the brave girl in the back says something I don't expect.

"Tell us your life story."

I look up. Twenty sets of eyes look back. Only forty-five minutes left in class. I wish I could tell them my life story.

I would tell the popular girls to be nice, because later in life they'll realize life isn't about them. I would tell the pretty girls that looks aren't all they have. I would tell the kids in black that this is just a phase and the real world isn't quite so harsh. I would tell the tough girls that getting hurt is part of life. I would tell the pretty boy with the hair swoosh that there will be a million of him wherever he goes next and the only thing that will make him stand out is his character. I would tell the girls trying desperately to fit in that one day it won't be so hard. I would tell the in-betweens that one day they'll have their place in this world. Mostly I would tell them there is a Jesus who loves them, a Jesus who knows what they are going through and has a relationship waiting for them that is more than they could ever imagine. There are so many things I would like to tell this class, but for now they have to take a test.

* * *

So which one was I? Great question. After I watched Mean Girls with my parents when I was sixteen, my dad turned to me and asked, "So, which one are you?" I was Lindsay Lohan's character: a little clueless, but drunk with the idea of being on top of the popularity food chain. I had started off as a no one, but because of a late burst of puberty and my ability to take shots of vodka, I was fumbling my way to the top, making all the classic mistakes along the way.

I was like many teenagers. I hated my parents. I drank alcohol. I smoked weed and the occasional cigarette, had sex, got a broken heart, struggled with depression, and in the end wanted out. I have a classic high school story but with one big twist at the climax. Here's where it began:

Before the alcohol, the hookups, the rebellion, and the aches and pains of teenagedom, I was just a little girl with two parents I adored and three brothers I wanted to be like. There was a time before puberty when I enjoyed being with my family. A time when I still laughed at my brothers' singing. A time when we would catch turtles at Hilton Head. A time before my dad became embarrassing and we still played games together on Friday nights. We were all best friends in the time before life took hold of me and I became too cool.

My dad would come to call the time when I became too cool the "blue eye shadow phase" because I wore a thick layer of blue eye shadow up to my eyebrows, and I thought it looked good. (If you're in this phase, do us all a favor and throw away the blue eye shadow. It doesn't look good.) It seemed the more eye shadow I wore, the witchier I got, and my parents bore the brunt of my hatred. I started drinking because I thought I deserved the freedom to drink. It was my parents' fault my life was so hard, and if they'd just let me do what every teenager does, then we wouldn't have any problems. If they'd just let me stay out all night and drink, even though I was underage, we would be okay.

When I was sixteen, I went through a phase where I refused to tell them I loved them. I thought I could prove how much I didn't need them if I only withheld my love. I would storm off to bed, angry about something I didn't have that I desperately needed, but they'd just smile and say, "I love you." The little girl inside me longed to say it back, knowing I needed them more than ever at this time in my life, but I refused her.

All this denial, anger, hatred, and need were compounded by the fact that my mom was sick. Her first "episode," as we came to call them, happened when I was four. She had a fever and chills and could barely get out of bed. We took her to the hospital, and I remember my dad buying us Happy Meals and letting us play in a park nearby. The doctors told her she was dehydrated and gave her some fluids. But it wasn't dehydration. The episodes came back again and again, and they continued for the rest of my childhood. The doctors would think they were...