The Devil in Pew Number Seven (6 page)

With open arms and bottomless pitchers of sweet tea, Daddy and Momma were introduced to the quiet Sellerstown community, a place where everyone was made to feel like family—a task made easy because most
were
family. And, while I was present for Daddy’s debut, being
in utero
has its limitations. Without the ability to hear or see the worship service, this much I know from those who weren’t confined to their mother’s womb: Daddy and Momma were a hit.

Actually, that’s an understatement.

They were offered the job virtually on the spot.

The prospect was appealing. My parents had mutual feelings for these new friends. Having been captivated by those whom they met, longing to put down roots and establish a routine for their growing family, my parents felt that Rev. Sellers’s overture had all the appeal of an ice cream sundae without the calories. As appetizing as the offer was, over the course of several days, my parents made the decision a matter of prayer.

After all, their extended family lived more than seven hundred miles away. They would soon have a child, and they’d want their baby to know his or her grandparents, aunts, and uncles. And yet delighted over the warm reception offered by these dear brothers and sisters, they accepted the job. Happy to pass the duties of pastor to my daddy, Rev. Sellers invited them to stay in his home until the parsonage was ready.

Daddy was quick to utilize his carpentry skills, nailing sheets of walnut paneling to the living room walls and applying the final coats of paint throughout the parsonage. Likewise, Momma, making several polite suggestions, put her final touches on what would soon be her residence. Among other things, she had a baby coming and wanted the nursery to have plenty of shelving in the closet.

On Thanksgiving Day 1969, Robert and Ramona Nichols moved into their new home. The church threw a housewarming party that was open to the entire Sellerstown community. A fresh turkey, shot, plucked, and roasted, took center stage on the kitchen table. Homemade dishes arranged around the turkey filled the house with an inviting aroma as delicious as the fellowship they shared with their new neighbors.

Momma mingled with the women as Daddy studied the faces, memorizing the names as best he could. Moving from guest to guest, he identified those who currently attended, had once attended, or ought to be attending the church. He knew there was a reason why the congregation had dwindled to about a dozen regulars, and he planned to do everything in his power to make everyone feel welcome under his leadership.

Of course, he knew little about the personal histories of the guests from this tightly knit community now making his acquaintance. For that matter, he wasn’t a mind reader, nor could he see into the future. There was no way he could tell that one visitor in particular would soon betray him with the zeal of Judas.

Chapter 4

The Devil’s in Pew Number Seven

I yelled.

My eyes were pinched shut against a light as harsh as a solar flare. They stung as if sprayed with salt water. From head to toe, my skin tingled as if a blast of arctic air had swept over me. Chilled to the bone, I couldn’t explain the traumatic change in temperature. My body shivered, trembling like a leaf in the wind. And, although I was suddenly cold, my lungs burned with each breath.

In vain, I cried out.

My legs, kicking without regard for the hands that attempted to hold me down, were no match for the masked faces surrounding me. I could not make sense of their muffled voices. Out of control, powerless to hold my head up, I was carried away against my will. With fingers curled into a ball of fury, face as red as Mars, I howled so loudly the wail could be heard down the hall.

Like all of humanity before me, I entered the world staging a protest.

On April 26, 1970, precisely at the stroke of midnight, I was born Rebecca Lorraine Nichols at the Southeastern General Hospital in Lumberton. After the nurses cleaned off my body, weighed, measured, and then wrapped me in a pink blanket, I was presented to my mother. I cannot pretend to imagine the feelings soaring through her heart like an eagle caught in an updraft as she cradled all 8 pounds, 9 1/2 ounces of me for the first time.

Drawing me to herself, inhaling the fresh scent of my newborn skin, Momma whispered a prayer of gratitude. Her arms were embracing a living miracle, and she, more than any of the nurses and visitors doting on me in the crowded hospital room, could fully appreciate the depth of that fact.

I was an answer to her countless prayers.

A dream fulfilled.

A hope granted.

Now that I had arrived, Momma would be my provider, my protector, my friend. And she, no doubt, had big plans to teach me how to sing and play an instrument when I was of age. In due time, she’d teach me about purity, modesty, conversational etiquette, boys, and especially the God who loved her baby. Throughout my life, she wouldn’t permit a day to go by without saying, “I love you, Becky.”

Even before I was born, she took the time to communicate her love for me, crafting a tender note placed inside my baby book. Putting pen to paper, she captured these reflections:

A Letter to Our Little Darling

Your mommy is writing a letter because you haven’t arrived yet. Your Daddy and I are looking forward to seeing you for the first time just two weeks from today. Daddy is like a little boy at Christmas waiting for Santa Claus to bring him a big present. Only Santa won’t bring you because you are being sent from Heaven. We prayed for you and Jesus heard us and is sending you to add more happiness to our lives.

We have wanted you so much for a little over six years now. But, God has a timetable and we had to wait until He was ready to send you. Our Heavenly Father always knows what’s best for us. Your Daddy prays that you will be a good-spirited baby, and your mommy prays that you will be healthy.

You are coming from Heaven and I pray too that after your life is fulfilled on this earth that you will return from whence you came. Our greatest desire is that your name won’t only be written in this book, but that it will be written down in the Lamb’s Book of Life, the great record book in Heaven.

May God Bless Our Little Angel

The joy Momma and Daddy experienced over my birth was shared by the entire church family. I was welcomed into the world as if I were one of their own kin. These dear friends showered gifts and homemade meals, like a heavy downpour, upon our home. A steady stream of visitors flowed in and out of the parsonage, seeking a peek at the miracle baby or dropping by to lend a hand as needed.

My parents couldn’t have been happier.

Life was good. Very good.

At least for the first eighteen months of my life.

And then the telephone rang.

* * *

A jarring
clang
ripped through the night air. An unseen hammer in the belly of the phone beat against a metal bell with repeated blows as if prodded by a hot poker. Unlike modern phones, this one didn’t have a selection of personalized ringer tones to customize the sound of an incoming call. No playful rendition of Tchaikovsky’s
1812 Overture
, Beethoven’s
Fifth Symphony
, or
Für Elise
. Not even a few bars of a favorite pop tune. The black rotary-dial telephone had a single, raspy voice delivered in one of two volumes: dull loud or loud.

A second ring pierced the silence.

This unsophisticated, low-tech communication device, the great-grandfather of the iPhone, didn’t offer Internet access, caller ID, or even a mute feature. At the time, phone customers who loathed being awakened in the middle of the night had to invest some degree of effort to preserve the peace. By design, simply unplugging a phone from the wall wasn’t an option for the simple fact that most phones were hardwired to a wall jack.

For a quiet night, it was necessary to remove the receiver from the cradle, creating a perpetually busy signal for would-be callers. Then, unscrewing the three-inch-round earpiece was necessary to avoid the shrill warning tone furnished by the phone company within thirty seconds of inactivity.

With rare exceptions, his role as pastor prevented my daddy from ever taking the phone off the hook anyway—even with a baby. Daddy knew his role as a leading figure in the community meant expecting the unexpected. Day or night, a parishioner might call for prayer, comfort, a listening ear, parenting advice, conflict resolution, or a request to visit a patient at the hospital. If so, he had to be ready to meet the need.

Without a full-time church receptionist to contact, some people would even telephone the parsonage seeking details regarding an upcoming churchwide picnic, fish fry, or hunting trip. In some respects, a country pastor was as “on call” around the clock as was the country doctor.

It just went with the territory.

The high-pitch jangle beckoned for a third time.

There was nothing unusual about receiving this particular late-night call, at least not at first. Although readying himself for bed, Daddy was prepared to grab his Bible and head out the door should someone be in need of a visitation. Even at this late hour, sleep could wait if necessary. Daddy lifted the receiver, placed it to his ear, and offered a friendly greeting.

“Hello?”

Without identifying himself, the anonymous man proceeded to deliver a threat to our family.

Daddy waited, eyebrow raised, listening for more. No response.

The phone went dead.

* * *

Daddy rested the receiver in the cradle. Could the call have been a prank? A couple of kids fooling around, getting their kicks after dark by startling random people? Maybe. However, the voice didn’t have the high pitch of youth. If not a young person making mischief with a juvenile stunt, who could it be? What kind of man would place a threatening call under the cover of darkness?

The people he had met during his first year in Sellerstown weren’t mean-spirited. Quite the opposite. They’d be quick to give the shirt off their backs, bring a home-cooked meal, or lend a hand if needed. The Sellerstown he had experienced was a place where neighbors helped their neighbors.

If someone had a disagreement with him, why not just face him in the daylight, man-to-man, to air out their differences? That was the way it was usually done in Sellerstown. Receiving a telephone threat suggested he had been contacted by a disturbed individual with deep psychological issues.

Then again, Daddy might not have been quick to dismiss the possibility that the call was just a harmless prank. Daddy was, after all, married to a practical joker who didn’t miss an opportunity to play a prank, even on her own husband, like the time months before when Daddy planned an early morning hunting trip with several men from church.

The men had gathered at the parsonage with their gear just as the timid sun was peeking over the horizon. Right before they set out into the woods, Momma offered the men glasses of sweet tea, which they gladly guzzled.

When the men returned, with a twinkle dancing in her eyes as if she were privy to a private joke, Momma inquired about the success of the hunt. As she could plainly see, the hunters had returned, for the most part, empty-handed. Daddy, sensing Ramona was up to one of her old tricks, explained how the men had been unable to do much in the way of hunting for one simple reason: They had been lined up at the latrine most of the morning taking care of business.

Momma could hardly catch her breath from laughing so hard. Regaining her composure, she confessed she was the responsible party. She admitted to spiking their sweet tea, slipping castor oil in when they weren’t looking. Momma had this playful philosophy about humor. She was fond of saying, “The Bible says laughter is like medicine. So, maybe if we laugh for a while, we’ll all be well!”

As to the wisdom of playing a joke on men armed with rifles, I’m not so sure. Seems to me that pulling a prank on a women’s Bible study would be a safer bet. Nevertheless, the men were good sports about it because they knew how Momma was. According to Aunt Pat, who lived next door, Momma kept more people “cleaned out and regular” than anyone she had ever known.

I should mention that Aunt Pat wasn’t really our relative, we just called her that because in many ways she was family to us. Perpetually kind and graceful, she gave me the freedom to drop in at the drop of a hat. Her pantry was an extension of our pantry; snacks and drinks were served with a smile and a friendly tousle of my hair while I ate. Aunt Pat was one of Momma’s closest friends. So, yes, if Aunt Pat said Momma kept folks “cleaned out” with one of her “special” drinks, she’d know.

But could this phone call have come from one of the disgruntled hunters seeking to get back at them for the castor oil incident? That would be a stretch. Everyone knew Ramona was the guilty party, not Daddy. He had been duped, too, spending time in the latrine with the rest of the men. How, then, had
he
offended anyone enough to provoke a threatening phone call?

For the better part of his first year, the church had been growing by leaps and bounds under his pastoral care. Husbands were now sitting side by side with their wives who, in the past, attended church solo as if widowed. A large number of young married couples were getting saved and filled with the Spirit. Even the numbers participating in Sunday school shot up, from thirty to approximately one hundred.