Tag: memories

I am the daughter of a preacher-man, and grew up in church, but not necessarily Christian. That is, my lineage and presence of Sunday placements didn’t make me a believer any more than being factory-built and sitting in a garage makes one a car. But I’ve told you that already. If I’m honest, I’ve been more self-reliant than faith suggests. So, the religion of my childhood sort of became a fail-safe measure. I activated it only when all else failed. There was never a “pray until something happens” sort of approach; it was more like “pray if everything fails.”

Over my lifetime, there were times when I knew God had to have looked out for me. That, or I had a guardian angel. After all, God looks out for babies and fools and, for a pretty smart person, I have done very foolish, very childish things. 

While I don’t always count my first marriage a foolish decision, I do consider it unwise. Regretful? No. It brought me to this path, and for that reason alone, I’d do it all over again. But, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to tell you about a real-life story about a sower. So, let me set the stage.

First off, I was unhappily married to my first husband. During the week, I was teaching, tutoring, running an after school program at my church, and on the weekends, I was a hair braider. I had also just started working on my Master’s degree. I know. It was a lot. That’s not the point, though. I’m setting the stage, remember?

Anyway, my marriage was challenging, but we vowed we would not get divorced. We’d love each other through it or stay together for the sake of it because we didn’t want to be another statistic or, as children of divorced parents, perpetuate it within our families. We agreed. But, it’d become so much work to even muster the energy and effort to go home. It was like fighting the world, then coming home to hell. My spirit grew so heavy. 

We tried talking. That led to arguing. We tried having a baby. Yes, I know. Again, not the point. That led to failed fertility treatments. We tried individual therapy. That didn’t help in a holistic way because he didn’t go. He suggested marriage counseling with our former youth pastor, Rev, who now worked for the same church I did, but my (then) husband never showed up to the sessions. Towards the end of the sessions, my husband and I were basically roommates. I wore the ring, but I did life alone, with the exception of both our names being listed on the mortgage. So, in one of my last counseling sessions, I asked about what seemed to me to be the most logical next step: What I’m to do if divorce seems the only option unexplored. I was met with a novel question in response: Have you been released to get divorced? 

I blinked in rapid succession. “Released?” I was genuinely confused. My grandmother and mother both had been divorced. No one ever mentioned being released to do so. I’d asked many divorced people and read about divorce at length–like any researcher worth her salt. In all the primary, secondary, and even tertiary sources reviewed, my bibliographical annotations did not, in fact, include a pre-divorce release. 

“I have to be released to get a divorce?” I asked Rev incredulously. At this point, I was tired of trying. At the same time, the shame of publicly admitting that my marriage was a failure and potentially a waste of time, paired with the guilt of breaking the promise I made myself that I would not be another divorcee in this world made me hope that there was another chance at redemption.

“Have you prayed to God, in earnest, about what you need and want in your marriage?” Rev asked. 

“Yes, if the tears I didn’t want to shed are any indication.” 

Then, he reminded me that the Supernatural Day of Giving was coming up. On Resurrection Sunday, the congregation was invited to sow a sacrificial seed to remember Jesus’s sacrifice on the cross. To show a deeper kind of love and a higher level obedience to God’s will. I reminded Rev I didn’t have any money anyway. Rev’s parting words were to seek God. 

For the next two weeks, I wrestled with that decision. When payday came, I paid my bills. That left nothing. I did hair and that gave me enough to put gas in my car, get groceries, and have one crisp, fresh-from-the-bank 20 dollar bill leftover. Those were my favorite and I’d hold onto them as long as I possibly could. My only weakness was the comfort of hotcakes and sausage, though, remember? So, anyway, I was holding onto that $20 until I was so sad that the only thing that could cheer me up was my favorite breakfast. 

The week before Resurrection Sunday was a doozy. One day, I came home to find out he’d given our dog away. She was disloyal, he said. Another day, I came home to find him asleep on the couch, back screen door slightly ajar—just enough to let flies and ants in. The jars of both peanut butter and jelly I’d just bought were open, as was the bread. An entire gallon of milk—the one I’d just bought—was also open. The fridge was wide open and the food inside was tepid to the touch. Most of the groceries I’d just bought had to be thrown out. I didn’t have money to replace them—I only had $20 until next payday, remember? I felt so defeated. It’s easier to be mad than be sad, though, so I immediately started yelling. I tore into him for being irresponsible and wasteful. He jerked awake and told me that my nagging was the reason no one would ever want to be with me. He said I was awful at even attempting to understand what he’s going through, and I always expected perfection. He reminded me that I’m not perfect and said, if we’re honest, I’m not even that great. He listed a litany of my faults, many of which he knew were hot buttons for me.

I tuned him out because my hurt was too loud. I told God that if He can fix this, I’d give Him my last $20. Hotcakes and sausage couldn’t comfort this. I went to my room, showered, and slept. Saturday, I slept some more. I don’t even think I ate that day. I was just waiting for Sunday. I needed to get to church. It was the only place I felt any peace anymore. 

Sunday morning, I still wasn’t totally on board with giving my last $20. But, I was going to go to church anyway. Service was just what I needed. I felt better. My spirit felt lighter. Then, I froze. The call for those who wanted to sow a supernatural seed came. I kept thinking of the what if’s. What if I needed to top off my gas? What if I needed food on the go because I had to work late? What if my car overheated and I needed oil? Two weeks is a long time to stretch $20 but it’s even longer of a time trying to stretch nothing. I asked people around me if they had change for a 20. No one did. 

I heard our pastor say no seed was too small—that God only needs a mustard seed. I sat there, thinking that the line was too long anyway and service was about over. Then, Pastor said that if there was anyone wrestling with what to give or how, to just listen for God’s direction, and we wouldn’t finish without giving everyone a chance to give what they needed. I thought about how I had tried everything I could think of and how nothing had worked, and how I wanted to try God, but didn’t understand why it had to cost me money—specifically why it had to cost me my last. Pastor said, “I hear you, God. Love cost Jesus His life.” I sat at attention. I could not understand why my every thought was responded to by a Pastor I did not know personally and who was more than 50 feet from me. It felt like more than just mere coincidence. Fine, I thought, I’ll do it. But I’m not standing in that line. Something told me to turn and look at the line. I slowly tilted my head. There was one person, and they were dropping their seed in the bucket. I’m not telling my business to a bunch of strangers, I thought. Then, Pastor said that we don’t need to know what the seed is for or how much. That’s between you and God, he said. Share whatever you feel comfortable, he said. 

I didn’t have any excuses left, y’all. I got up, I stood silently at the mic. Head bowed. I prayed for all the things I needed and wanted. My heart grew full as I thought about the marriage I needed, the love I yearned for, and the friendship I so desperately desired. I almost felt like I was floating. As I dropped my crisp $20 in the bucket, I said in a voice just above a whisper, “I’m praying for my marriage. God’s will be done.” I turned on my heels, and plopped back into my seat. People around me rubbed my back with care, shared amen’s, and said they pray that God does whatever I need Him to. I sat upright again, this time with a gasp. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t said my husband’s name. I panicked. How would God know? Then, I remembered my prayer. God knows my heart, I thought to myself, God’s will be done. I sighed a sigh of relief. 

The weeks that followed were crazy. That’s really the only way to describe them. 

That same week, we argued every time I saw him. I started to avoid going home until it was time to go bed unless I knew he wasn’t there. Wearing the ring started to feel like a chore, and I sometimes forgot. One night, he was brought home drunk. His friends banged on the door, jarring me awake, and kept up until I opened it. They’d driven his car, but didn’t know which key was his house key. He woke up just before I went to work and we argued. Again. 

It had gotten to the point where I would go as far through my day as I could without crying, cry as much and as hard as I could just to get it out, and then clean up my face at the church before the after school program started. I got found out by my principal, who also happened to be Rev’s wife. She found me finishing up my cry session in one of the empty classrooms because there was an event that was still letting out, so I couldn’t cry in my car without being seen. I’d thought everyone was in the gym and I had time. She hugged me and it reminded me that I hadn’t been hugged in months. I sobbed even harder. She had known me since I was a middle schooler, and knew that I’d been different—that my light had dimmed, she said. She didn’t want to pry but wanted to know why I was crying. I told her everything. I closed with frustration that, after sowing my seed, things got worse instead of better. Without judgment, she hugged me again, and told me to anoint the house. 

Again, confusion. I knew, in theory, what an anointing was. What anointing oil claimed to do. But, again, if I’m honest, I didn’t believe it. I also had nothing to lose. She gave me a vial of oil mixed by the women of the church according to the biblical recipe. She handed me a purple prayer cloth. That same night, I did exactly what she said. I washed my hands, and then placed anointing oil on them. I prayed over the threshold that no negative energy or evil spirits were welcomed. I prayed over his pillow that nothing bad slept, rested, or felt peace. I prayed over his work shoes that they only would take him into good, positive situations. I prayed over the television that only things that would uplift us were viewed. I prayed over the room I slept in that only peace and joy would enter my space. Then, I prayed about how thankful I was for Rev and his wife’s presence in my life, how frustrated I’d been about my seed, how confused I was about everything that had happened. I told God that I needed His light to show me the way. When I finished, I didn’t even realize I’d been crying until I felt the dampness of the carpet beneath me. But again, my spirit felt lighter. I slept peacefully for the first time in months. 

He didn’t come home that night. Or the next. When he did, he came home late and drunk, only this time he’d driven himself. I heard him come in. He rustled around. Slammed some doors and cabinets. I heard him smack his teeth a few times. Exclaim WTF a few times. I rolled over, covered my head with a pillow to muffle the noise, and drifted back to sleep. I was jarred back awake. This time, he was banging on the door to the room where I slept, yelling for me to tell him who was in the room with me. I yelled back asking why he thought someone was with me. IN response, he yelled for me to open the door before he opened it for me. He jiggled the knob and cursed at me about it being locked. He hollered about knowing there’s someone else because why else would I have the door locked. I said because I never knew if he’d be alone or not when he did come home. He snorted and reminded me that no one wants me. He said he’d ask one more time. “JESUS,” I yelled, “ain’t nobody in here but me and Jesus. Now let me go to sleep. I’ve got work in the morning.”

I don’t know why that made him so upset, but he immediately started yanking at the door and yelling for me to open it. I had just gotten out of the bed to finally open it when he ripped the door off the hinges and frame, rushed past me, and began searching the room. “What took so long?” he asked. “Had to hide someone?” 

“Jesus doesn’t have to hide,” I retorted. 

He stood up and walked toward me, narrowing his eyes. I almost thought he was going to hit me. But, he got to a certain point and stopped. 

“What’s with all the crosses?”

“What are you talking about?” I had truly forgotten in my grogginess and the intensity of the moment of the anointing from a few days ago. I really didn’t know what he was talking about and my face matched my lack of recognition. 

“The crosses! On the door and the pillow and the TV and the couch. Crosses every-fucking-where. Who did that?” 

My eyes widened. “You see crosses?” Y’all. I put them in the air. The oil was on my hands and I just drew air crosses as I prayed through the house, like Rev’s wife told me to. I couldn’t even see the crosses. 

“Yea! I can’t sleep here. Not now.”

By this time, I didn’t even know how to react. I still wasn’t sure what to believe. “Why can’t you sleep here? How do you even know—you just got home after what, like 3 days since I’ve seen you?”

“The crosses! I’ve been back and forth two days now trying to get some sleep. Now tonight. I can’t rest. I can’t get comfortable. I can’t. Sleep. Here.” His nostrils flared and he clenched his jaw between the fragments of his statement. 

I just stared at him in wonder, my hand clutching invisible pearls. “My God.”

“That’s all you do now is talk about God. I’m sick of hearing about God. Tell you what, since you sleepin’ with Jesus, you and Him can get the hell on. Find another place to lay your head. I put this place up for rent and the tenant moves in soon.”

My eyes grew juicy. I didn’t expect to be homeless.

Satisfied that the tables had turned, he smirked, leaned the door against the frame, and tossed a gruff “sleep well” over his shoulder.