Stepping Down

by Michelle Stimpson

  “I don’t know. It’s all secret stuff,” Jonathan said.

  “Naww. Young folk ain’t got no better sense than to put everything online these days.” Jackson sat up in his chair. “Go on the internet and pull up a ritual book for the Rhos. I’ll bet we can find something. Shoot, I paid four hundred dollars. I got a right to know what my money went toward.”

  Jonathan flipped open his iPad and tapped the screen. Seconds later he announced, “Got it. Let me print it off. I’ll be right back.”

  Jonathan darted from the room, toward the main office.

  “The Rhos are not Theta Phi Mu,” Kit objected in the meanwhile.

  “True, but my point is—it’s important for everyone in this room to understand where I’m coming from.”

  Kit puffed up his chest, then expelled a huge gust of air.

  “I want to know exactly what the words are,” Jackson fussed, caught up in his own drama.

  Jonathan returned, laying a copy of the sorority’s lyrics in front of each man.

  Rho National Hymn

  Rho, dear Rho,

  Our faith we pledge

  For the love and grace

  Bestowed by thee.

  With faith in God and Mind and Heart

  To serve thee is our aim.

  Carrying out the great commands

  Of heaven and earth.

  That the praise of Rho

  May be sung.

  Always.

  Rho, dear, our own.

  Rho, dear Rho.

  The bond of sisterhood

  That we live to be.

  We cherish thy teachings.

  Your light shines

  Across the world.

  That thy glory, thy honor,

  and praises be sung

  Always.

  Rho, dear, our own.

  And when this life is over,

  Rapture our souls to thee.

  We’ll forever be,

  Faithfully,

  Rho, dears, your own.

  Jackson exclaimed, “What in the world is this mess she done pledged to?”

  “Hmmm…” Marshall muttered, “it does sound questionable.”

  “Like I said, Theta Phi Mu aren’t the Rhos.”

  “Let’s pull up their song,” Marshall suggested.

  “That’s disrespectful,” Kit argued.

  “Fine. Can one of them let us know what song they’re singing every time they meet?” Mark asked.

  “If you look on page two, you can see that they’re based on Christian principles,” Kit spewed.

  “That’s just like saying everyone who wears a cross on their necklace is a believer. Based on Christian principles doesn’t mean based on Christ,” Mark maintained.

  Kit threw his hands toward the sky. “You’re impossible. I can’t deal with this old-school, backwards thinking anymore.” He snatched his folder from the table.

  Mark couldn’t believe his eyes. Kit, a man who’d been with New Vision since its inception, was preparing to walk away. “Kit, why are you doing this? I’ve always taken this stance.”

  “That’s the problem! You won’t embrace the new thing Christ is doing in the church!” Kit exploded passionately.

  Mark stood, his blood pumping wildly. “But the gospel isn’t new. The gospel of Christ is timeless!”

  “Everything in the church isn’t about Christ!”

  Mark paused, hoping that the irony of Kit’s statement would hit him. “Kit, come on, let’s pray about this. The Lord will bring us to an understanding.”

  Kit stood on the other side of the table, sweat forming on his distressed forehead, nostrils flaring. “No.”

  And then Mark noticed the torturous gleam forming in Kit’s eyes.

  Kit blinked twice. “I’m out.”

  Mark’s heart ripped down the center as he watched a man he’d once considered a good friend walk away from the ministry they had built together. It was Kit who had been there to negotiate the loans with banks, review contracts, and research the best resources and grants. Granted, Kit was a bit money-hungry, but his obsession with the bottom line had been part of the reason the church was able to operate so smoothly, with little waste.

  More than anything, Kit had once believed in Mark.

  But he was gone.

  Jonathan, Marshall, and Jackson looked up at Mark in shock.

  “You gonna go talk to him?” from Jackson.

  Mark gave a short-term answer, “Not now”, but he feared that the long-term answer wouldn’t be much different. As much as he wanted to bring Kit back on board, he couldn’t do so without compromising his own personal convictions. If other pastors wanted to preach motivational speeches and join forces with fraternities, so be it. But as for him and this church, they wouldn’t be mixing the two.

  “Guess since that was the last item on the agenda, we can dismiss,” Jackson ventured.

  “Before we do, I just want to state for the record that New Vision is returning to its first love—Christ. Anybody else who doesn’t feel led to stay with this mission is welcome to leave in peace now,” Mark affirmed to himself as much as the men still sitting around the table.

  “I’m in.” Jackson led the declaration.

  “I’m in.”

  “I’m in.”

  Mark waited until after twelve noon, which was the soonest he could call Pastor Phillips, because before then, the older man would be in his prayer closet.

  At 12:01 he typed his newfound mentor’s number. “Hi, Pastor Phillips, it’s Mark Carter. Tugga.”

  “Hello, son! Good to hear from you!”

  And like a father might listen to his son, Pastor Phillips listened as Mark recounted the state of affairs at New Vision.

  “Well, people—even Christians full of the Holy Spirit—don’t always agree. The important thing is to remove all the malice from your heart, stay prayerful, and keep doing the work of the Lord as you believe you are led. If everybody you know go a diff’rent way, don’t you mind them.”

  “But what if, hypothetically speaking, I’m wrong?” Mark voiced. “What if God doesn’t care one way or the other about the fraternity?”

  “For the record, I agree with you. But you got to remember what Paul said in Romans. We free in Christ to do whatso’never we wanna do, only everything ain’t beneficial. You got to get to a place in God where you hear Him clear as a bell. And don’t let nobody talk you out of what you believe God told you to do. Even if you a little off, He’ll honor your faith in Him and teach you a lesson anyway. Didn’t we just have this conversation?”

  “Yes, sir.” His words reminded Mark of the many times he had to reiterate things to Amani. Sometimes it seemed like words barely skimmed his ears.

  “I want you to look in Acts chapter fifteen. See where Paul and Barnabas, both of ‘em filled with the Spirit of God, had a sharp disagreement. They went their separate ways, but they both kept on doing the work of the Lord.”

  Mark jotted down the scripture reference and thanked Pastor Phillips for his time before hanging up.

  For as much as his heart weighed, Mark was yet lifted by the Word.

  Chapter 33

  The clank of metal on metal behind him raked Mark’s nerves. Nothing like a long-forgotten sound to remind him that though time had passed, little had changed between him and his father. Mark Wayne Carter, II was yet again behind bars, and Mark Wayne Carter, III was yet speaking to his father through a thick glass window.

  Mark sat in the hard orange chair, studying his father’s features for a moment before picking up the blue phone receiver. If Sharla were there, she would have wiped both ends and the handle with a Clorox wipe. Thankfully, she wasn’t. And he wasn’t about to tell her that he’d gone to visit his father for help.

  As far as Sharla was concerned, Mark Wayne Carter, II had done nothing but cause trouble. Every time they tried to get something financed or register to volunteer, there was always the question of Mark’s criminal record, which belonged to his father.
It had gotten to the point where Sharla offered the information up front to avoid the embarrassment or, worse, flat denial that would come otherwise.

  His father had lost weight. Twenty pounds or so. And despite the fact that he hadn’t even turned sixty yet, he looked like he’d lived a long, hard life already. Scars on his forehead and cheeks, a missing tooth, deep lines beneath his eyes.

  “Hey, son.”

  “Hi.”

  “Glad you made it,” his father teased.

  “Me, too.” Mark wasn’t exactly glad about the meeting, but he was glad to have the connection. “Dad, I’ve got a situation.”

  “Yeah. I heard it on TV,” he said. “Thought you might end up in here with me for a minute.”

  “No,” Mark shook his head, “I don’t think so.”

  “You never know,” his father said with a hint of optimism, “Father and son together again.”

  Rather than look at his father like he’d lost his mind, Mark ignored the off-track comment. “Well, since you already know what happened, I’ll just tell you why I’m here. The man who was chasing the young lady and me, I think he’s either paying someone off or they’re scared to look for him, but I need him off the streets.”

  “Hmmm,” the senior said, rubbing his stubbly chin. “You got a name?”

  “Boomie.”

  His father’s eyes sparked with recognition. “Yeah, I heard the name. He’s crazy. Likes to shoot people. They don’t call him Boomie for nothin’.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. He might want to finish off the girl, and me, too,” Mark explained.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” His father surveyed the room, then leaned in toward the glass, whispering, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” He resumed an upright position.

  Mark mimicked his father’s movements, settling his back against the chair. His father might have been a drug dealer and a money launderer, but he’d never been a liar. If he said he was going to get Mark a 10-speed bike for Christmas, he got it. If he said he was coming to the birthday party, he came. Mark just had to worry about how his father would fulfill his promise. “Dad, I don’t want him…you know…”

  “What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” he kicked Mark out of the particulars. “I might be an old cat, but I still got my connections. And you still my son. Nothin’ I wouldn’t do to protect you. Some of the guys in here started clownin’ when they saw you on TV. I told ‘em straight up, you ain’t one of them hustlin’ preachers. You ain’t all about the money, ‘cause I always told you, you could make far more money sellin’ crack.”

  Mark thought to himself, “Now, how many Dads have told their sons that?” Still, he had to be grateful for whatever help his father had to offer.

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, I told ‘em you ain’t no average fakin’ and shakin’, jack-legged preacher,” his father bragged. “You the real thang, son.”

  His father’s words hit him hard in the chest. Confirmation, even from a man behind bars, couldn’t be denied. “I appreciate you sharing that with me.”

  “Hey – I ain’t done much for you except give you good looks, you know. So now, when I save your life from Boomie, that’ll count for something, right?”

  “Umm…yeah, that’ll count.”

  “Good. How’s Sharla and Amani?”

  “They’re fine,” Mark answered.

  “How’s your Momma?”

  “Good.”

  “She still married to the midget?”

  Mark had to laugh at his father’s ongoing joke about his mother’s vertically challenged second husband. “Yes, they’re still together.”

  “Well, long as she’s happy with him. Tell everybody I said hi.”

  Everybody, of course, included his brother and sister. As far as Mark knew, they hadn’t gone to Huntsville to see their father. He was out of sight and out of mind, which was usually best, Mark had to admit. If he sat around thinking about his father’s life of crime, he might start to question the blood running through his veins.

  “I’ll see you later, Dad.”

  “See ya.”

  Chapter 34

  Mark got up extra early so he could spend half an hour in prayer before he talked to Sharla about Bria’s request. He could have almost kicked himself for not running it by Pastor Phillips when they spoke the day before. Maybe the man could have given him some guidance.

  But even as he mentioned his negligence to God in prayer, the Father reminded Mark that He knew more than Pastor Phillips. In fact, He was the source of the more seasoned minister’s wisdom.

  “Thank You, Lord,” Mark heard himself whisper into the cup of his hands. Though it seemed almost trite, Mark revisited the story of the two harlots who came to Solomon complaining that the other had stolen her baby. The real mother was discovered by her love for her child; she would rather give him up than split him in two.

  Perhaps I should share this story with Sharla. Or not, seeing as his wife had bribed Amani’s grandmother. At first, Mark couldn’t believe Sharla had done it. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Sharla would have done anything to keep Amani. Back then she was working full-time and probably spent every spare dime on Amani. He was the best-dressed baby, the best cared-for toddler, perhaps even the most worried-over child.

  He recalled one night in particular when Sharla asked him if he would be willing to relocate to Mexico if the judge didn’t award them Amani.

  “Relocate? You mean run away?” he had asked her as they lay in bed together.

  “Whatever you want to call it.”

  He’d looked down into Sharla’s face to gauge the level of intent behind her words. Her somber expression said she was dead serious.

  “I’m gonna pray for you ‘cause you’re taking this too far. Demetria told us not to get attached to the baby until the ink dried—if it dried,” he ran the warning by her again.

  “It’s too late. I love him. I can’t let him go back, knowing he’ll be in the hands of a wild party-girl and her mother who raised her to be a wild party-girl. If I turn on the television in fifteen years and see my sweet Amani’s face on a mug shot, I’ll blame myself forever.”

  He’d sent up a couple of half-hearted prayers, but not nearly the kind of intercession his wife must have needed. Once again, he’d left things at home unattended and made room for his wife to fend for herself. She was a grown woman with a will of her own, but maybe if he’d paid more attention to what was happening at home, she might not have been able to get so desperately attached, let alone pilfer $5,000 from their accounts without notice.

  He should have done better.

  Now that he knew the whole truth about how Amani had come to be their son, Sharla’s insecurities made sense. She tried to keep him close, never wanted him to latch on to his teachers, and she worried excessively about whether or not she was being a good mother. No wonder her moods could change at the drop of a hat.

  It had resulted in her nagging Amani non-stop about all that she expected of him, because any failure on his part meant failure on her part.

  But it had to come to a stop. Even if it meant Sharla might have to endure legal consequences; she couldn’t go through life on pins and needles. Mark loved her too much to see her suffer that way.

  Sharla was already up and making breakfast by the time Mark exited from his prayer time. Still in his nightclothes, he joined her in the kitchen. “Waffles?”

  “Blueberry. They’re Amani’s favorite.” She smiled contently.

  Mark stole a piece of bacon from the platter before Sharla could swipe his hand away. “Go on, Mark. Wait until we’ve called Amani down and we’re all gathered for devotions.”

  Somehow, devotions seemed to go better when they broke bread together first.

  “Baby, I need to talk to you before Amani gets down here.”

  “Okay.” Sharla rinsed her hands in the sink and wiped them on her dishtowel. “Go.”

  “It’s a
bout Bria. She wants to see Amani.”

  Sharla rubbed her hands against her white apron. “Oh.”

  Mark watched as his wife tried to hide the fear that must have been creeping up her body, inch by inch.

  She caught hold of the island countertop. “And how do you know this?”

  “She called the church and left a message. I called her back.”

  “What did she say?”

  Though Mark figured he’d already given his wife that information, he repeated himself, “She wants to see Amani.”

  “What else does she want?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Does she want to be in his life?” Sharla squeaked. The tears were forming already.

  “She is his birth mother. I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t…if he wanted to be in her life, too.”

  “I do,” Amani’s voice broke into their conversation.

  Sharla and Mark turned abruptly to find their son standing at the foot of the staircase.

  “Amani, honey,” Sharla said nervously, “um…I made blueberry waffles…”

  “I know, Mom. The smell woke me up. But that’s not what you guys were talking about.”

  Mark gritted his teeth, then relaxed them. “You’re right. Come on, ‘Mani. Have a seat. Let’s pray, then we can talk while we eat.”

  Mark wasn’t sure how the conversation would go, but a part of him was glad Amani would be included. His presence all but insured that Sharla wouldn’t go flying off the handle.

  Sharla served the plates full of food to Mark and Amani first, then she joined them at the table. Mark said grace, asking God for wisdom and understanding as they ate and talked.

  “The lady I was in the wreck with is named Bria Logan. She’s your birth mother,” Mark started carefully.

  “Yeah, I figured. I can Google and read, you know?” He crammed a gob of waffle into his mouth.

  For once, Sharla didn’t point out that he’d put too much into his mouth. She nibbled aimlessly at a corner of a piece of bacon.

  “Here’s the thing, ‘Mani. We don’t know Miss Bria’s family—your family. We don’t know anything about them, anything about their beliefs, their lifestyle. Like I told you before, God has a reason for giving us the privilege to raise you. We want you to get to know your blood relatives. But we don’t want you to be confused about who you are and what God wants to do in your life.”