Gift of Faith

by Robert Fleming

Genres: African American; African American Christian; Christian Fiction

Synopsis

Reverend Clint is a man of strong faith, but when an unimaginable tragedy strikes his family, he is suddenly questioning all of his beliefs. His mentor, Reverend Smart, and the members of his church rally around him, but the pain of Reverend Clint's loss is almost too much to bear. Seeking to take Reverend Clint's mind off his troubles, Reverend Smart assigns him a group of church members in need of guidance and wisdom. A sense of spiritual renewal and redemption helps the grief-stricken minister and his band of anguished souls to survive through a period of crisis and challenges. But will his faith be enough to help Reverend Clint endure the most terrible pain of all? In his engaging new novel, Robert Fleming reminds readers that even a man of God can falter in his faith sometimes.

Release date: January 1, 2013

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 288

Sample

There was nothing wrong with my heart. It was my soul. It was working too hard, coldly avoiding the petty pressures of family life like an idiot, and moving through the adult years with so much speed and no mindfulness. Like so many people, just going through the motions.

After the close of the day, I couldn’t wait to get home, the empty home I once shared with my wife and children before “the incident” happened. The incident occurred only a short time ago. My soul was still in pain. I stopped driving my car because of all the medications the doctors had me taking. It was making me woozy, making me forget things. At the insistence of my close friends, I now rode the bus, pushing and shoving to get a seat, jockeying for a window.

Once home, I couldn’t tune out the secular world I’d just left, as I placed the solemn words of my plea to the ear of the Divine. I welcomed staying in the moment, being in touch with the small confines of the room and my inner world. I could hear the soft hum of the air conditioner, the traffic outside, and the chirp of young boys tossing a baseball among themselves.

Prayer was therapeutic. It was very healing. Real prayer and its benefit of deep relaxation was the only thing that got me through when the whole world collapsed around me. Those words of comfort and solace and the holy images lifted me up, past the tragedy of my shattered domestic life, away to a place where I could catch my breath and relax.

Sometimes, if I allowed myself to enjoy the magic found in prayer, my mind cleared of all thoughts and pictures. Sometimes, if I permitted myself the luxury to concentrate on the words of the prayer, I found my body coming back hours later from a velvet cocoon of those sacred words, wrapped in a kind of spiritual warmth.

When my eyes read the words of comfort found in the scripture of Hebrews 13:5, I felt less alone, less isolated:

Be content with such things as you have. For He Himself has said, “I will never forsake you.”

For a while, I felt like I was back in control again, even if I was not.

As my minister told me, isolation and loneliness are some of the worst of human emotions. They gnaw away at your soul, your heart. He was right. During these painful events, our faith must stand like a solid brick wall. In those times, I thought God had left my side, totally abandoned me. Even if the world snatched away my loved ones, my pastor reminded me that I was never alone. Still, I kept hearing the small, wee voice that He was gone from my life. Forsaken me?

One evening only nine months ago, Teresa, my wife, was waiting for me in the parking lot at the church. She was beautiful as usual. Her attire was always smart and current. Not trendy. It was her pinched facial features that let me know that something was wrong. There were bags under her eyes, worry lines along her lovely mouth, and she spoke a mile a minute.

She reached over to her purse and got a cigarette. “We need to talk.”

“When did you start smoking again?” I asked. She stopped her addiction for cancer sticks years ago.

“My horoscope says the next move I make might be the most important I make in years,” she chattered, watching the traffic stop at a light. “It also says that I should take my time and think before I act.”

“When did you start smoking again?” I repeated. “You know it’s no good for you, especially with your asthma. You always get bronchitis from it. Always.”

She ignored me. “And the horoscope says that if I make the wrong move, then I would regret it. I bet you don’t know what sign I am.”

“I don’t know. Taurus or Scorpio or Leo. Leo, right?” I walked over to the car and got in. She followed me with a scowl on her face.

“Right, it’s Leo,” she snapped. “Clint, you ignore me. You’re more involved with the kids, work, your boss, and your parasite friends. You totally ignore me. I’m on the back burner.”

“Where did you get that from?” I asked. The car filled with choking cigarette smoke and I sneezed.

“It’s true. I see it every day.” She blew two rings into my face.

“Is this what your shrink is telling you?”

She looked straight ahead and frowned. “She says you are completely indifferent to me, that you no longer care. When was the last time you kissed me when you left for the day? You don’t give a darn about me.”

I scratched my head, giving her a bewildering look. Where are you getting this stuff from? Who is filling your head with this garbage?

“We live in the same house but we don’t do anything together,” she remarked angrily. “It’s like we are two college roommates who are polite to each other, raise the kids, but rarely cross one another’s paths. We never have any quiet time, romantic time, for ourselves.”

I shrugged. “You know, our schedules keep us busy.”

“Maybe you could reduce the number of extracurricular activities on your plate and find some quality time for me,” she said. “Say no to some of these people who want your time. Streamline your life. Find time for me.”

“You never said anything before,” I said weakly.

“I just want you to cut back on some activities and spend some time with me,” she demanded. “Is that asking too much? You spend entirely too much time at the church. Why? I don’t understand it.”

“I’m a Christian and all that goes with it,” I said proudly.

“It’s all about the church and work,” she sneered. “Where do I fit in?”

I repeated my earlier protest. “You never said anything before.”

“Because we don’t talk. When I do talk, you look at me like I have two heads and both of them are stupid. You act like I’m speaking a foreign language. Or you find something else to do while I’m talking. You’re always distracted by something. You never listen.”

“Yes, I do listen. I pride myself on being a good listener.” I was ticked off that she would accuse me of being an inconsiderate husband.

She sulked. “You might listen to other people, but not to me. I want this marriage to work. I don’t want to have another woman raising my children or to remarry another man. I want you and that is driving me crazy.”

“But what does the church have to do with everything?”

She opened the car window and tossed the cigarette out and lit another one. “I spent much of my teens in mental wards or foster care. All I remember is taking pills, stimulants, antidepressants, antipsychotics, and mood stabilizers. I had a tortured, gloomy life. When I met you, I figured the sun would shine on me for once. Wrong. Very wrong.”

“I cannot be your rescuer, only the Lord can do that.”

“You don’t understand what I’m saying,” my wife said, her eyes darting from the burning cigarette to my face. “My life is falling apart. I feel like I’m dissolving right before my eyes. I’m tired of crying.”

I looked at her in detail, possibly for the first time since sitting in the car. She had the look of a frightened fawn. “Is your shrink helping at all?”

She lowered her eyelids and spoke in a dull monotone. “She cannot help me. Nobody can. Only you can. Do you remember when all of the meds were having the side effects? And the docs said they had to pursue another course of treatment. When I went off the medication, the depression came back and I almost killed myself. I was hospitalized three times.”

“I remember, Terry,” I said. I recalled she had a series of electroconvulsive therapy treatment. Shock treatment. She was never the same after that. Her father insisted she undergo it. She never disobeyed her father.

I looked at her closely, very closely. She knew how to dress well, but I could tell she was skin and bones underneath. Very, very thin. When did she stop eating? How long has this depression been worsening? She was very emotional, always on the verge of tears.

“I’m glad you’re my husband, lover, and friend, but I have to leave you,” my wife insisted. “It is the only way.”

“The only way to do what?” I didn’t know what she was talking about. Her thinking was all confused.

“To keep our love alive. . . .” Then she started crying and would not stop. No amount of kind words, gentle embraces, or tender caresses could soothe her pain inside.

Three weeks later, Terry, my wife, strangled our two young children, our three-year-old daughter, Selma, and our five-year-old son, Omar, in our bedroom. She then set fire to the kitchen and living room before stabbing herself repeatedly and slashing her throat. The police found her sprawled on the living room couch, with a hunk of electrical cord in her hands. And the bloody butcher knife nearby.

The cops said my wife did the slaughter but they were hard-pressed to come up with a motive. Neighbors in the building were shocked to learn about the crime. One guy from the third floor said he thought somebody else did it, that a good mother could never have killed her children in such a way.

It had been nine months since that dark day. I was amazed at how rapidly the days of our existence passed. Still, the tragedy had refused to release its grip on my soul. The wound deep inside still ached and sent pain throughout my limbs, organs, and mind.

Aunt Spivey once told me that the present is the moment we are enjoying and nothing past that point is promised. Live fully, live deeply. Learn from the bitter and sweet lessons life offered. I prayed and prayed, using my beloved aunt’s adage as a balm for my agonized soul. Live fully.

Then the phone rang. The world intervened on my solace.

A sleepy feminine voice spoke over the receiver, her molasses tone blending with the hiss of the telephone static. “Mr. Clint Winwood, I’m calling on behalf of your aunt. She requests that you pay her a visit. She says she has something important to tell you.”

“What day?” I asked her.

“Tomorrow,” the senior center official said. That was not a request but an order. A royal command.

After I hung up the phone, I returned to my prayers.

During the words of my prayer, I noted another surge of warmth come over my body, starting with my feet and up to my legs. I had reached this state of awareness before, shortly after Terry’s suicide. Quite calm. It was as if I had taken flight, above the clouds, looking down on the roofs. The time spent in traditional bereavement counseling led me down to a series of truths about myself, my selfish ways, my dead ends of wacky reason, all because I couldn’t shake the emotional pain of grief and trauma.

In the months following the funeral of my family, I couldn’t eat or sleep or function at my job. My boss gave me a lot of leeway, allowing me to take off without the proper protocol. I couldn’t focus or concentrate on anything. I developed a severe ache in my chest that didn’t permit me to breathe freely.

“You need to embrace the Lord,” advised Aunt Spivey. “Grieving has made you off balance. Everything gets to you. You’re mentally overwhelmed. You no longer see the world as it is. Only the Lord and earnest prayer can make you whole again. Finding Him will strengthen you and put you on the road to healing.”

Terry never prayed. She didn’t trust God or organized religion. She had no need for a minister or pastor, but enlisted a group of healers. A Thai practitioner of Eastern medicine. An acupuncturist from Latvia. A British homeopath with ties from Johns Hopkins. And three Colombian shaman who specialized in the curing of the auras and the human energy field. A former Taliban princess who specialized in hugs of an ethereal nature. Hugs that could cure.

That mind-body connection failed to save the lives of Terry and our children. I looked on and did nothing. I thought Terry would find the means to save herself. I never considered she would go down in flames.

The talk from my family turned poisonous as far as Terry was concerned. I hated to be around my kinfolks. With bitterness, Aunt Spivey said Terry willingly welcomed the Antichrist into our lives and it cost our family big time. She added that I must understand that the Lord was always on our side.

“The Lord cries with us when we are in pain,” my aunt said. “Remember that. Never feel that the Lord is punishing you. Never think of what has happened to you as something that you brought on yourself.”

Prayer made me understand my pain. When I went through Terry’s things, I sought to understand why she had done what she did. Maybe I would find something that would solve the riddle of her actions. I searched through her suitcases, purses, hatboxes, jewelry cases, even her treasured package of her scented letters and notes at the rear of her closet.

There I found this list, scribbled in her swirling scrawl:


I flipped the list—done on a yellow sheet of a legal pad—over and over. My eyes and mind still didn’t comprehend any of the phrases on it. The list never calmed the inner struggle going on in her: the depression, anxiety, panic attacks, agitation, aggressive moodiness, dangerous impulses, rapid-fire talking, abnormal thoughts, hallucinations, confusion, or the feeling about suicide.

Grabbing a box of matches, I held the list and walked to the bathroom. I placed the sheet of paper into the sink, looked at the words as the match flame charred them into an ash. Looking up at the window, I noticed the snowfall was coming much heavier, covering the branches of the barren trees with a brilliant whiteness.

The list was burned. I cursed her to hell. Why would she do something like this? Damn her soul. I sat on the edge of the tub with the deepening quiet echoing in my place, and thought about my visit to my beloved aunt. Slowly, the sadness rose up in me, and I covered my face and cried without stopping.

The January snow was really coming down that next day. Along the highways, my car crept around the automobiles stuck in drifts, between two large trailers overturned, and a major collusion between a Jeep and a cargo truck. The side roads were totally impassable. I was careful to keep my windshield wipers uncluttered from the sludge so I could see the vehicles ice skating wildly across the road.

It took me almost three hours to get from the city to Aunt Spivey’s senior center in the highlands upstate. Westchester County. Tired, I pulled into the parking lot, which had not been plowed yet, with cars and vans jammed into a jagged line amid the piles of caked snow. The air was frigid.

I walked quickly across the lot, hatless, moving toward the large Art-Deco building, which was formerly a residence for a grade-B actor who fled east from Tinseltown. The entrance was one of those electric sensor jobs: when your foot would break the laser, you could come forward to the security desk. A couple of stout men, appropriately suited, stood nearby.

“Mrs. Spivey, please,” I said. “Could you tell me where she is?”

“In her room, at her quiet hour,” the receptionist replied.

“What is the procedure? Can I go up? Can she be disturbed? Or would you rather I wait? Which?”

The woman glanced at one of the guards and then turned to me, saying, “Wait.” She was very proud of her crisp white uniform and her rank among the nurses. She didn’t have to deal with any of the residents, just the stupid public.

A rotund man, with horn-rimmed glasses and tufts of blond hair over his ears, walked up to me, with a notebook under his arm. “I guess you’re the nephew, Clint. Your aunt can be a real handful. Depending on her mood, she can be really difficult, but if you catch her on one of her good days, she can be an angel.”

We walked to the elevator and blended into the crowd there. The doctor was talking about her case, her quirks, her flaws, her medical ailments, and her advancing years. No one knew how old she was. She was born in the Deep South at a time when they didn’t keep official records.

“How old do you think she is?” the doctor asked me.

“I really don’t know.” I shrugged.

“Are you the only family she has?” the doctor asked. “You’re the only person who has visited her in over eight years.”

“I would have visited her sooner but I didn’t know where she was,” I said. “We still have some family. Some of her old sorority buddies said she has gone back down South. Possibly Atlanta or Charleston.”

We got off on the fourth floor. You could hear a pin drop. The quiet was deafening. I imagined that the rooms of the residents were soundproof, insulated to muffle any shouts or screams, so a nurse or attendant couldn’t hear them. I surmised that the interior of the living spaces were televised so their activities could be monitored.

“It’s so quiet,” I said.

“Believe me, we know what’s going on at all times.” The doctor chuckled. “We have our ways. Nothing misses our attention.”

“I see,” I replied and let myself be led to a reinforced glass window in a series of similar portholes.

We watched the old, wrinkled black woman through the window. She sat in a wheelchair, motionless, with a vintage copy of Ebony magazine across her lap. Eartha Kitt was on the cover, riding a bike. Her well-toned legs were the first thing I noticed about the photo.

I noticed that my aunt wore clean white gloves, the kind that the old ladies wore at church. She was dressed in the drab yellow uniform of the senior center, for the house rule mandated that the residents couldn’t wear their own clothes.

The doctor opened the door to her room and announced her visitor. I walked over to my aunt with a bounce in my step and kissed her on her withered cheek. She smiled and stared at me warmly.

“They say I’m difficult so I didn’t think they would let me get visitors.” She grinned. She said that remark for the benefit of the doctor, who scurried away.

“I came as soon as I got your call.” I pulled up a chair. The room was sterile, antiseptic, and almost bare. I couldn’t see how someone could call this room home.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Clint,” my aunt said. “Your blood flows in my veins and vice versa. We’ve got a lot of history in our bloodline. Did you know my mother was one of the ten thousand colored folks who marched down Fifth Avenue. . .