I am getting a lot better with these attacks, though. There was a time when I used to be completely blindsided by the devil. Now when he gets through, it’s just a minor fender bender. Pretty soon my defense is going to be so tough that I’m going to say, “You’re going to have to come better than this,” while I’m swerving right on out of his path. With God’s help. Can I get an amen?
Pam
A
fter a month in the hospital Troy is ready to go home. He needs crutches to walk. The nurse tries to offer him a wheelchair to the entrance of the hospital, and he looks like he wants to spit in her face. I’m glad she doesn’t insist, because Troy can get real ugly when he’s determined about something.
I’ve arranged for a nurse to visit our home twice daily, and a physical therapist will come three times a week. Troy tried to argue with me on this, claiming that he doesn’t need a nurse and he doesn’t need someone to show him how to exercise. I, however, do not care about Troy getting ugly.
It takes us about a half hour to get from the hospital room to the car parked outside—a trip that should have only taken four or five minutes. Troy refuses to let me open his car door, and he gets angry because I’m not letting him drive. He says that there’s nothing wrong with his legs that would keep him from driving. I don’t even remind him that his left leg is broken. I’m just going to ignore his irrational ravings and get us home in one piece.
Troy woke up early this morning and took great pains to make sure he looked his best on leaving the hospital. He had a friend come and line up his short Afro. He specifically requested that I have his homecoming outfit professionally pressed, and he insisted on wearing some old B-boy jeans outfit. Yeah, he looks just like himself—an old cootie.
My eyes narrow and my lips automatically protrude into a grimace when I pull up in my driveway behind Ms. Aria’s Honda. She’s not in the car, so the nanny must’ve let her in. No wonder Troy was trying to look so good. He’s got himself a party planned.
“What is she doing here, Troy?”
“Woman, didn’t I tell you that I have work to do? I don’t have a day to waste. Aria’s here to finish arranging a few songs, then we’re going into the studio to record.”
“You are not going to that studio today. You can barely stand up.”
“Pam, I’m not going to argue with you about this. We’ve got a show this Sunday. You just go and pick up my prescriptions and have them ready for me when I leave.”
“You don’t think you’re driving, do you?”
Troy sighs. “I’m a grown man, Pam. I’m not crazy. Aria is going to drive.”
“Why don’t I come along? Mrs. Franks can stay with the girls.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Pam. You might mess up my vibe with all your nagging.”
I’m so disgusted I could scratch Troy’s eyes out. The doctors all told him to take it easy. He’s not even supposed to be on his feet for at least a week. He’s opening his car door and attempting to swing his legs out on the side.
“Look at you. Can’t even get out the darn car. How do you think you’re about to go to the studio?”
“I’ll make it. I’ve got faith too, woman. Why don’t you get over here and help me?”
I don’t want to help him, but I go over to his side of the car. How can he not see how weak and helpless he is? I almost want to leave him sitting right there on the front seat until I get good and ready to help him into the house.
“Troy, don’t you care whether you live or die?”
“Mmm-hmm. But right now I’m thinking about making that paper, you know what I’m saying?”
If he uses one more slang expression, I’m going to scream. I wish he would start talking like an adult.
“No. Actually, I don’t know what you’re saying. Maybe if you spoke English . . .”
Troy bursts into raw, unhindered laughter. It sounds healthy and robust, especially coming from a man whose body is broken in several places. They say that laughter is a cure for the soul, and Troy’s sure sounds healing. Contagious too, because I can’t help but join him. We gradually make it to the door, with Troy laughing all the way.
Gretchen and Cicely open the door for their daddy, and they are grinning from ear to ear. They visited him in the hospital, but I think the place scared them. They’re both glad to see Troy out from beyond that sterile-looking gray building. They rush forward and almost topple Troy with hugs. Even though he’s wincing in pain, he hugs them back.
I push the door open all the way to allow Troy plenty of room, and I notice how dark it is in the foyer. I reach over to flick the light, and about twenty or so people jump out and scream, “Surprise! Welcome home, Troy!”
Troy smiles broadly, but he doesn’t look the least bit surprised. Me, on the other hand, well, I’m floored. Who in the world planned a party at my house without my knowledge?
I whisper to Troy, “Did you know anything about this?”
He kisses my cheek. “Of course, I did. And I’m not planning on going to the studio. I was just messing with you.”
I smile despite myself.
Lord, what will I do with this man?
Yvonne
I
haven’t been able to eat or sleep since Luke came over here with that little weak apology. He comes to me for my forgiveness, is completely half-baked about it, but still I’m turned upside down. Shouldn’t he be the one walking around like a nervous wreck? It’s not fair. He’s repented, he’s apologized to me, and now he’s free, probably glowing with the peace of God that surpasses all understanding.
It’s even been hard for me to pray about this lately. I go into my little prayer room and just sit there, looking at the wall. I know it’s wrong for me to harbor unforgiveness. I’ve lectured folk on that very subject dozens of times. But here I am carrying the biggest grudge of all and trying to convince myself that it’s righteous indignation.
Luke gets on my nerves. It was so much easier to walk around mad when he was acting innocent. I don’t know how to deal with his apology. Always thought I was a bigger woman than all this.
So tonight I’m sitting on the floor in my prayer room reading my Bible. I’m deliberately avoiding any verses about forgiveness. I’m sticking more to scriptures like Romans 12:19: “Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
Saints, myself included, know we can find a Bible verse—or should I say twist a Bible verse—to fit just about anything that we want. Now I can sit here feeling smug thinking to myself, “I don’t even have to do anything to Luke. God is going to get him.” Real Christlike, right?
No matter how much malice I feel toward Luke, I can’t use the Word of God to back me up. I go ahead and read the next verse in Romans, although I already know what it says. “Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: For in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.” Does that sound like I’m supposed to be sitting back waiting for God to get Luke? Of course not, but it’s easier said than done . . . especially when someone has broken your heart and your spirit.
I close my eyes and open my mouth to start praying. My words sound hollow to me, like I’m reciting a bad poem. If I sound this way to myself, I wonder what God hears. Does he even hear me at all? Or is the prayer hitting the four walls and bouncing back at me; empty words with no power?
I just stop and sit for a while. I have a decision to make. I can either choose to forgive or I can choose to walk around with this poison in my system. It’s not brain surgery, but it’s so hard to admit the right choice! Even for me. Mrs. Saved, sanctified, tongue-talkin’, filled with the Holy Ghost.
I pound my fists on the floor. “Why, Lord! Why do I have to forgive
him
! It’s not fair, Lord!
He
hurt
me
.”
Clear as day, I hear the Lord’s voice in my spirit. Not loud and booming, but still and quiet. It’s calming me.
“Forgive him, because I forgave you.”
Through choked sobs I protest, “But, Lord! He tried to kill me.”
Quietly, yet forcefully
, “They did kill ME. Forgive men their trespasses and I will also forgive you.”
“So I’m just supposed to forget everything that he’s done?” I ask angrily.
“I have.”
I’m rocking back and forth, hugging my body. Tears are pouring down my cheeks. I thought I was done crying over this man. Why can’t the Lord just let me hate Luke? It would be so much easier. My hurts are so big . . . but I feel guilty, because I know that Jesus forgave much bigger hurts than mine.
“Lord . . . I want to forgive, but I don’t think that I can. My heart is hard. O God! Create in me a clean heart and renew a right spirit within me!”
The words of the Lord ring clear.
“Love your enemies, bless them that curse you. Do good to them that hate you and pray for them that spitefully use you. Treat them in love, daughter. That’s all I ask.”
Sorrowfully, I hang my head. There is nothing left for me to do but forgive. My carnal nature wants to see Luke suffer.
“Help me, Lord.”
The voice of the Lord is silent. He has given me the tools for my deliverance, and now here comes the quiz. Will I be able to put away my pride and accept victory? The very thought of Luke brings a bitter taste to my mouth, and yet I am commanded to forgive.
“Lord . . . help me to forgive.”
“Yvonne, what’s bothering you?”
Taylor and I are at a little coffee shop located inside our favorite Christian bookstore. I’m sipping my cocoa and munching on cookies, but I’m not talking. We’ve been here all afternoon. I thought that I needed to get out of the house, but being here is not lifting my spirits.
“Taylor, Luke paid me a visit,” I state wearily.
“What! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She sits back in her chair as if relieved. I think Taylor was waiting for the sky to fall when I finally saw Luke again.
Suddenly, there are tears in my eyes and I’m blurting, “He has another daughter.”
Taylor’s jaw hangs open in surprise. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“She’s all grown up now. He even paid for her college education.”
I don’t know what I expect her to say. I know she can’t imagine what I’m feeling. I’m the one married to this man who keeps finding ways to betray me.
I ask, “Taylor, how do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“How do you keep your head up through everything you’re going through?”
Taylor looks a little shocked at my conclusion, but she is the most courageous person I know. If I’d gotten pregnant by a minister in my church, I would’ve gone into hiding. I would never have been able to then go to that minister’s wife and ask for forgiveness.
Taylor smiles. “Yvonne, I don’t have anything extra in my character, I just tell myself, ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’”
“Girl, I serve the same God as you and read the same Word. I still admire your faith.”
It’s funny, when I first took an interest in Taylor, I thought that I had so much to teach her. I wanted to show her how to be a woman of God and how to take care of her child. She ended up teaching me more than I ever taught her.
Taylor asks, “Yvonne, you’re strong too. What about when you walked into the church after Luke beat you? That had to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”
“It’s easy to be a victim. I stood in front of the church and had everyone’s pity, but you endured everyone’s scorn.”
Taylor nods in silent agreement. She goes back to sipping her cocoa and bobbing her head to an upbeat gospel song playing in the background. I am so glad to know this girl—the unlikeliest of heroes.
Pam
I
t’s only eight o’clock in the morning, and the house already smells like Sunday dinner. Well, it’s Saturday, but I’m cooking today like it’s Sunday. I’m five months pregnant now, but even this mild June heat is making it difficult to cook. I haven’t really cooked for Troy in a long time. I’m making one of his favorite meals. Roast beef with gravy, cabbage, rice and my homemade five-cheese macaroni and cheese.
Today, when I opened the mail, I got a nice little surprise. It was one of those funny friendship greeting cards that they sell in the drugstore. On the outside it said, “Just a note to say I’m thinking of you”; on the inside, “. . . and that twenty bucks you owe me! Pay up!” I laughed hard and saw that the card was from Taylor. My friend Taylor. I’m definitely going to have to return the gesture. I hope it gets to be a habit. Maybe I’ll go and take Joshua off her hands for a few days.
Troy comes hobbling into the kitchen, wincing with every step. He knows good and well that he needs to stay in bed, but I can’t force him to do anything. He stands next to the counter, using it to help him stand.
“It smells good in here!”
“I’m making a roast.”
“That’s what I’m talking about! A brotha got to have a near-death experience to get a home-cooked meal around here?”
I throw a dishcloth at him. I know he’s only joking, but it still hurts.
Troy laughs. “I’m just playing, Pam! I better not mess with you while you’re cooking. You might burn something.”
“I don’t burn food, Troy.”
Troy leans lower on the counter as if he’s getting tired. I can see his arms straining, trying to keep from putting any weight on his hurt leg.
“Troy, why don’t you go sit down if you’re tired?”
“Because I want to talk to you.”
“About?”
“You know this accident . . . I’m not going to lie . . . it scared me, Pam.” I see tears in his eyes, but he blinks them away. I try to comfort him.
“Well, you’re okay now, Troy. You’re going to be fine.”
“I know, I know. But do you think that maybe this whole thing is God trying to tell me something?”
Is this a trick question? Of course, I think that God is trying to tell Troy something. He’s been trying to tell him something for years. I don’t think that God would hurt him to get His point across, though.
“Well, Troy, God does not afflict us to get our attention. I think that he saved you from the car crash for a reason.”