I Am Worthy

My name is Nobella Worthy. I have a great family. My husband, Pastor Reno Worthy Jr. and I have been married for 20 years, and we have five beautiful daughters. I own a pediatric practice in the Detroit Metropolitan area where I conduct research on childhood diabetes; I’m happy, excited about life and in love. But, my life was not always like this, as a matter of fact, there was a time in my life where drugs, sex, and lies had me on the highway to hell.

My mother was 15 years of age when I was born. I was conceived through incest. Raped by her older brother, five years her senior, she hid the pregnancy in her frail 85lb body. My mother was scared to death of her father who might beat the shit and the truth out of out of her if he found out she was pregnant. But if she told the truth he would probably kill her for lying. Besides, who would believe that her own brother had be molesting her since she was 3 and he was 8, and was soon to be the father of her unborn? Surly not her father.
And sure that her mom would blame her and tell her what a whore she was, my mother, Anne Poor, hid the fact of my existence until the day the ambulance drove her from the doors of Cass Tech High School to the doors of Hutzel Hospital. 13 hours later, out of much labor, fear, shame and embarrassment, I was born into this rude, harsh, unfair world; my birth certificate read, “Nobella Poor, Date of Birth: December 5, 1971; Weight: 5lbs 12oz; Father; unknown.”

The hospital called the family down to see my mother. They rushed to her bed side, seemingly concerned, at least while people were around, hiding the fact that this was a complete shock to them. When the nurse brought me in and laid me in my mother’s arms, the room grew quiet, no one said a word. No one knew what to say. My grandfather looked at my mother with murder in his eyes, hatred toward her because of the shame she had brought to the family. He said, “Either you’re gonna die, or I am before you bring that bastard in my house.”


And my grandmother just looked at my mother, shaking her head with contempt and disgust said “You are the whore I always said you were.” And her brother, he didn’t say a word. There was nothing he could say. He was the golden child of the family, second year engineering major at Eastern Michigan University; he had too much to save, his reputation, his freedom, his future. So my mother just lay there, innocent and pure, yet convicted by everyone else’s sin.

I was 3 days old when my grandmother picked us from the hospital. It was a long ride home. I almost remember hearing my mother’s heart racing a million miles per hour as she replayed the threat her father had made. “you’re gonna die.” Those words caused her entire body to tremble in fear. Would daddy really kill me? She thought to herself. Is he really that evil? Is his heart so hard that he can’t find one iota of love for me; for my baby?

As we pulled up the long driveway time seemed to move in slow motion. It was an unseasonably warm winter day; Wednesday, December 8th 1971. The sun shone bright, it seemed to kiss my mom on the face. She loved the warmth of the sun. As she leaned her head back and her face toward heaven, she slipped away for moment, to that place in her mind where things were “normal.” She was brought back to reality as her moment was interrupted by the shattering screeches of her mother’s voice, “Hubert no!” My grandmother rushed toward my grandfather in an effort to stop him from pulling the trigger. Her brother—my father—came running from his room full speed. He tried to stop him, but my grandfather stood doggedly in his posture as he fired his weapon.


I was 3 days old when my grandmother picked us up from the hospital. And I was 3 days old when I went to my first foster home. True to his word, my grandfather killed my mother. Before she could walk through the door of his house, he shot her with his hunting rifle right between the eyes. I flew out of her arms and onto the porch as her body flew off the porch and onto the ground. Instant death! The answers to all of the questions my mother had asked herself on that long ride home was yes!
His last words before the police took him away, “I said that bastard was never coming in my house.”

By the time I was 15 years of age, I had been in and out of 50 different foster homes. I knew the system like the back of my hand. Be a sweet girl and smile and some nice family would take you home, feed you and love all the pain away. That was the story the social workers fed us kids that needed to be placed in a home. But I knew the truth all too well, and the story rarely changed.
The “nice families” really just wanted the money. They weren’t interested in love. Most of the time there were 3 or 4 of us foster kids in a room. The females in the house hated me, I guess because I was beautiful. And the males in the house, they always found a way to my bed, especially the daddy. Before I started my period, I had had sex with at least a hundred men. To dull the pain, I asked for weed. They would get me high and then really have their way with me. When I learned how to handle myself being high, I started stealing out of their wallets while they lay in a stupor. With all the money, I would skip school with my friends smoking and drinking even more. Smoking weed led to cocaine and excessive drinking. Sex was nothing to me. It had been taken so much in my young life, I just started giving it away for free; besides if I didn’t just give it up someone was going to rape me for it. This way, I was in control. I became one with the streets; you couldn’t keep me in a foster home. I ran away every chance I got, sleeping in abandoned homes and stealing to survive. My life was hell. I wished I was never born.

One cold winter day I was out on the streets, out of money, no place to go, and no reason to live. I swallowed about 6 pills, hoping to die. I remember the sky going black, and the voice of a young man saying, “Are you ok,” as I passed out from the pills. When I came to, I was in a warm bed, in a clean house, and for the first time in my life, I felt safe. I looked up and saw the warm gentle smile of Pastor Reno Worthy Sr., and standing beside him, his wife, and their son, Reno Jr.

The Worthy family loved me and I loved them. They allowed me to stay in their home while I healed both physically and emotionally. They gave me one of the greatest gifts a person could ever receive, salvation. Pastor Worthy told me all about Jesus, and I accepted him into my
heart. Mrs. Worthy told me I deserved to be treated like a queen, she built my self-esteem. And Reno Jr., he loved me then, and he loves me now.