The Devil in Pew Number Seven (4 page)

Thoughts of shame gave way to anxiety.

Had anything happened to her baby?

If so, how could she face her husband? What would she say? How might he handle the news? He wasn’t a man easily given to anger, but this was a big deal. Bigger than if she had lost their life’s savings. Money could be replaced. Life has no price tag.

Alone with nothing but a cold silence to answer her endless questions, she cried out to God. Tears soaked her pillow as she begged Him to be merciful. She had faithfully endured the dry, desertlike years consulting doctors only to have received bad news at every turn. How could God allow her to savor those glorious feelings soaring within upon learning she had defied the odds? She couldn’t lose this child. Not now.

Not after all she had been through.

* * *

It was hours before Daddy returned home to learn the awful news. True to form, he was kind, understanding, patient, and above all, prayerful. The matter was in God’s hands as is all of life. Turning out the lights, they tried to get some rest. An unbearable pain, the struggle within her womb, prevented sleep.

The bleeding started at midnight.

Daddy rushed Momma to the hospital. She begged the nurses for something to ease her pain. In spite of their efforts to make her comfortable, she felt as if she would explode. Blood rushed to her head as her blood pressure spiked. Four nurses hovered over her, calling her sweet names while placing cool washcloths on her forehead, but they couldn’t prevent the trauma at work inside.

Two hours before dawn, Momma lost the baby.

She was undone, limp from exhaustion.

* * *

After surgery to remove that part of her she had hoped to treasure for a lifetime, Momma was wheeled back to her room to recover, although there was no way she could really recover what she had lost. Her priceless miracle baby was gone, gone forever, never to be replaced. With a vital part of her now missing, she felt like an empty shell. Sure, time has a way of healing things. Yet Momma instinctively knew this kind of emptiness wouldn’t be easily filled.

To put some distance between themselves and their loss, my parents relocated to Mobile, Daddy’s hometown. When they consulted the want ads in the paper, one particular listing caught their eyes. A large homestead, nestled in a heavily wooded area fifteen miles out in the country and several miles down a beaten path from the highway, was available for rent by a doctor.

After driving out to the property, they walked around in the shade offered by a canopy of tall trees. The house was picture perfect; the moment Momma laid eyes on the place, she fell in love. Even without entering the home to see the inside condition, Momma blurted out, “Let’s take it!” Much to their surprise, the doctor’s wife had recently remodeled the house and left the home completely furnished, including an old wood-burning stove.

While others might have been troubled by the fact that the nearest dwelling was two miles away, my parents were not. If anything, the privacy would allow them to try to start over. The peace and tranquillity would give them a much-needed respite. Hunting, fishing, and long, unhurried walks in the dry autumn leaves with my daddy would provide time for Momma’s heart to mend from the loss of the child they didn’t get to meet.

God had supernaturally intervened once, hadn’t He?

Would it be too much to believe He’d do it again?

Chapter 3

Shotgun Justice in Sellerstown

The leaves fell.

Maple and oak trees shed their summer gowns without embarrassment. A potpourri of discarded foliage covered the path, ankle deep. Each new leaf, drifting peacefully from its roost overhead, took its turn to paint the ground in a palette of brown, yellow, and orange shades. A restless few engaged in cartwheels before lying still.

Brisk country air, scented with the fragrance of fallen leaves, filled their lungs as Daddy and Momma walked hand in hand. They traveled in the wake of a beagle blazing a trail twenty paces ahead of them. Tail wagging, nose sniffing the earth, their newly acquired pet remained on high alert for small game. Catching a faint whiff of a hare, possum, or coon, tail now upright reaching for the sky, he’d pause before continuing his search for the elusive prey.

Deeper in the woods they roamed.

Finding a clearing, a break in the dense timberland, they sat down under a towering red maple whose bare branches seemed to tickle the clouds. The relative silence was broken only by the beagle’s four paws, shuffling through leaves, pursuing the hunt solo. Leaning against the tree trunk, Daddy and Momma listened and waited for the sound of a deer or turkey—or, more consequentially, the voice of God to answer their unspoken questions.

For six months Momma had been struggling to heal from the loss of her baby. My daddy knew that slowing the pace of life was what his bride needed most, so he left his itinerant preaching with its heavy travel demands and instead put his skill as an electrician to work at a local plant. Most afternoons, he’d arrive home by 4:15, where an early dinner awaited. After he and Momma had eaten, they’d slip into jackets and boots and head down the winding path leading to this oasis of reflection.

During these late-afternoon hikes, she wondered whether or not she should trust God for another child. Dare she hope for a second miracle? Would such hope be presumptuous on her part? What if He didn’t grant her request? Would her view of God change? Would He be any less loving if He chose to deny her this one wish?

After Momma lost the baby, Daddy had his share of healing to address as well. That night, pacing the halls in the hospital, he had cried out to God to save their unborn child. He clung to the thread of hope that all would be well. In the dead of night, when the doctor broke the news that their baby was gone, the news took Daddy to the edge of himself.

He was mad at God.

He was mad at his wife.

He was mad at himself.

Daddy had enough sense, though, to keep a muzzle on his mouth. An outburst from an irate husband was the last thing Momma needed. True, he had managed to rein in his anger when he first learned of her slip and fall. Now that hope was lost, it took everything in his power to summon a reluctant dose of verbal restraint.

The blame game was a game with no winners.

And yet the loss of their child had shattered a part of his heart he hadn’t known could break. Was there something he could have done differently to prevent their loss? What kind of man would leave his pregnant wife in a home without a telephone in case of trouble? At the very least, Daddy knew if he had been there, he could have ventured outdoors instead of his wife, and she, in turn, wouldn’t have miscarried.

Regrets for what he might have done differently gave way to nagging questions about God’s hand in the matter. Even after Ramona’s fall, God could have prevented her miscarriage, right? Why, then, did this God of love allow such pain to scar their dreams? Was there a lesson God wanted him to learn the hard way? Wasn’t there an easier way for God to make His point?

Was he being punished for something?

Or were they being prepared for something?

A series of clipped barks pulled him back from his musing. Their beagle, ever vigilant, dashed off in hot pursuit of an unseen quarry. Neither Robert nor Ramona saw fit to join the chase, although Robert had his rifle within reach should a wild turkey emerge from the brush.

Watching the dog disappear in the dense undergrowth, he returned to his thoughts. For whatever reason God saw fit to take their child, he knew his wife’s miscarriage was not some sort of punishment or payment for past misdeeds. God had already bought his life with a heavy price. His sins had been covered, his debt had been paid. No further payment was required. God had already sacrificed His only child on Daddy’s behalf.

In spite of his intense grief, Daddy yearned to tell others about the God who had a yet-to-be-revealed purpose for their present grief. God was still good, even when life sometimes didn’t make sense. After all, this was the same God who had rescued him from a life of unrestrained vice. He was living proof that God changes lives.

Before making his peace with God, Daddy could raise Cain with the best of them. As a young man in his midtwenties, fresh out of the Navy, Daddy had spent his free time going to bars and brawling just for the thrill of it. Giving no thought to anyone or anything else other than the pursuit of beer and women, Daddy took frequent jaunts on the wild side.

Recognizing the self-destructive path Daddy had been traveling, my grandpa urged Daddy to attend a revival service at their small country church. For five weeks Daddy rebuffed the offer. A revival service? Right. There were bars to visit. Drinks to be shared. Friends to laugh with and women to chase. Going to hear some preacher rattle on about sin wasn’t just low on Daddy’s list; it didn’t even make his list.

Grandpa persisted, prayed, and asked again.

During the sixth week of the revival, Daddy agreed, albeit reluctantly, to attend. Anything to humor his father and get him off his back. At first, he only half listened, checking his watch in the hope that he could catch up with his friends at the bar while there was still beer left on tap. Everything about the revival made him feel as awkward as a pig at a barbecue, even though, with the skill of a mason, he had constructed a wall around his emotions. The wall was a tribute to his first wife, who had taught him a hard lesson: the more you love someone, the more you have to lose when that someone decides you’re no one. And yet there was something about the preacher’s message of faith that chipped away at his heart of stone.

One by one the bricks were knocked out of place.

He stopped checking his watch.

By the end of the service, he was convicted by the simple truth of God’s love for him. With knees on the ground, Daddy prayed for Jesus to come into his heart. His life would never be the same. For starters, Daddy lost his taste for beer and gained an insatiable thirst for the Scriptures. At night he’d read the Bible until the sun crested the horizon. He loved talking with other godly men from church for hours on end.

More than that, he learned to love God so much that if he wasn’t holding a Bible, he made certain he had one tucked into his pocket. He’d steal unused minutes from the day to absorb every ounce of truth on the printed page. Daddy’s transformation was every bit as spectacular as when a caterpillar morphs into a butterfly.

How could he not tell others?

Not surprisingly, Daddy’s old drinking buddies weren’t thrilled at this changed, Bible-toting man. Much to their surprise, when they’d invite Daddy out for a night on the town, Daddy would tell them he didn’t live that way any longer and then turn the tables by inviting them to church with him. They liked the old Bob Nichols, the ex-Navy womanizer who chased the skirts and drank long past midnight.

So radical was the change in Daddy’s life, and his zeal for God so infectious, his pastor asked Daddy to preach his maiden sermon just two months after his conversion. Within half a year of falling in love with the Lord, Daddy felt the hand of God, like a powerful magnet, drawing him into full-time ministry. He gladly quit his factory job at the Scott Paper Company to hit the road as an evangelist.

On January 5, 1964, Daddy walked into the Church of God on Warren Street in Bogalusa for what would be his second revival. There was no way at the time he could have known that God had someone special waiting for him at the organ. Someone who would be a perfect helpmate for him.

Someone with neon pink rollers in her hair.

Momma.

Now almost four years later, Momma was waiting for him again. This particular autumn afternoon, with their dog prancing through the underbrush and chasing small game, she wanted to know what was weighing so heavily upon his heart. She knew Daddy struggled with his desire to be a father. And yet, she sensed there had to be some deeper longing, some unmet desire, tossing and turning within him like a storm at sea. Content to wait until he felt safe enough for the words to be expressed, she didn’t pry.

As if reading her thoughts, Daddy turned to Momma and said, “You know what, Mona? I was called to preach the gospel, but here I sit at ease in Zion. I will rest just as Jesus took time to rest,” he said. Then he added, “But when He opens a door, I won’t hesitate to return to my calling.”

Momma wasn’t entirely surprised to learn what had been stirring within her husband. She knew once people have a call on their lives to share Christ, they’re not happy doing any other type of work. In a way, she resonated with this longing. She missed the joy of sharing Jesus with others. The thought that maybe it was time for them to reenter the ministry had been growing in her, too. They were, after all, a team.

Month by month her body was growing stronger. Even her wounded heart was beginning to mend. She knew there was nothing that could change the past, and with courage, they would once again face the future. While it was still light enough to see the trail, they started back home with an unspoken yet renewed sense of purpose.

* * *

In July 1969, the call came. Sensing an inner prompting from God to reenter the “harvest fields,” as he was fond of calling them, Daddy wasted no time resigning from his job and made plans to reenter the ministry. Part of his transition back into the pulpit required Daddy to attend a series of meetings in Montgomery, Alabama. Without hesitation, thrilled at the chance to help the lost dedicate their lives to the Lord, Momma packed their bags, frying pan, and coffeepot for the trip.