The Pastor's Husband

by Tiffany L. Warren

  “David and Bathsheba gave birth to Solomon,” I reply.

  Lena gives me a frustrated head shake. “I understand why you might be blaming Pastor Nya. I’m just saying you should take a little responsibility too.”

  “I do. And that’s why I want to thank Pastor Greg tonight.”

  “What you mean?”

  “I know Mother Olivia won’t let me on the program, but I know you’re the mistress of ceremonies. If you can just slide me in. I have this proclamation that I want to read to both our pastors.”

  Lena gives me a skeptical look.

  I pull the plaque I had made for this occasion out of the bag. The inscription reads: FOR MINISTRY EXCELLENCE—PASTORS GREG AND NYA HAMPSTEAD.

  “Is this even appropriate for tonight?” Lena asks. “They’re celebrating their wedding anniversary.”

  “I know. It’s just a token of appreciation.”

  Lena shakes her head. “No. I don’t think you should be on the program. You can bring this to church and present it there. Mother Olivia wouldn’t forgive me for allowing you to speak. Sorry.”

  “Sorry? That’s it? After I told you what’s happened to me?”

  Lena touches my arm. “All of that is sad, and I’m praying for you. I even think if Pastor Nya lied to you then she should apologize, and she should pay for that. But I won’t have anything to do with it. And it won’t be tonight.”

  Lena reaches for a few tissues out of a box on the table. She hands them to me.

  “I will leave so you can compose yourself. Your makeup is smudging.”

  Oh no. I can’t let her leave. Not like this. She will ruin everything.

  I take the tissues from her. “Thank you.”

  Then, as she reaches for the doorknob to leave the room, I do what I have to do. I take the pastor appreciation plaque and bring it down on the back of her head. She lets out a yelp as she slides to the floor. There’s just a small trickle of blood. She’ll be all right, and out of my way.

  CHAPTER 53

  NYA

  Greg and I arrive at the hotel and are shown to the honeymoon suite. Tina will be here soon to refresh my makeup and fix my broken nail so that I can look perfect for our entrance.

  “Did you see this spread?” Greg asks from the bedroom. “Mother Olivia sure knows how to spoil us.”

  I step inside the bedroom and my stomach rumbles at the sight of all our favorite snacks. Chocolate-covered strawberries, shrimp dip with pita crackers, grapes and watermelon chunks.

  “I love Mother Olivia. Did I ever tell you she’s my favorite?” I say with a laugh.

  “She is definitely my favorite,” Greg replies.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Tina. On my way up.

  “Tina’s about to come up here to finish my makeup and stuff. I’m gonna close this door so she doesn’t get our snacks.”

  “Please save the snacks from that greedy woman.” Greg laughs as he chomps a huge strawberry.

  I laugh as I go back into the living area of the suite. I am so happy about this, because Greg and I couldn’t afford a honeymoon suite or a honeymoon when we got married in college. Our reception had mismatched potluck foods and we got a hotel room at the Marriott down the street from our campus.

  There’s a knock on the door. Finally, Tina is here to fix this broken acrylic nail. That sting is worse than a toothache.

  I swing the door open. “Hey . . .”

  It’s not Tina. It’s Felicia. Her face is tear-streaked, she’s wearing a wedding dress, and she’s holding a gun in her hand.

  “Hello, Nya.”

  I open my mouth to scream, but she rams the gun into my midsection. The pain is horrific and it knocks the wind out of me. When I double over, she pushes me through the doorway and forces herself into the room.

  Still holding the gun on me, she knocks me onto the couch.

  “If you scream,” she says, “I swear I will shoot you right now, before you get a chance to repent for your sins.”

  Now I’m wishing that the room wasn’t so big. Greg is in the other room, and probably can’t hear anything happening out here. I need to stall this crazy chick until Greg finds a reason to come out of that bedroom.

  “Felicia, Greg told me what happened to you.”

  “He told you how you destroyed my life?”

  I nod slowly. “He told me that you were the one who got the ‘suddenly blessed’ prophetic word.”

  She points the gun in my direction and I flinch.

  “It wasn’t a prophecy. It was a lie,” she hisses.

  “With everything that has happened to you, I agree. That word wasn’t true for your life.”

  “It wasn’t true for anyone’s life! You are a fraud.”

  I nod again. “Maybe I am. I’m so sorry for what happened to you.”

  She looks surprised by this. Maybe she didn’t expect an apology. I sure didn’t expect to give one while she’s got a gun in my face, but I’m going on autopilot right now. Survival instincts have kicked in.

  “Can sorry bring my son back? Can sorry bring my uterus back? I can never have another child now. Because of you.”

  “I wish I could change what happened in the past,” I say. “But I can’t.”

  She presses the gun to my temple, and I tremble. Lord, please don’t let me die like this.

  “You can’t change anything. But you can get out of my way. Greg and I are connected in the spirit realm. He is meant for me. All of this has worked together for my good. But first, I have to get rid of you.”

  She presses the gun harder. Lord, Jesus, please let Greg come out of that room.

  “Do you have any final words before you go tell Jesus everything you’ve done?” she says.

  I hear the bedroom door open.

  “Nya, this dip is off the chain!” Then he sees what’s happening. “Felicia, what are you doing?”

  She waves the gun in his direction. “Stay back, love,” she says. “You may not understand why this has to happen right now, and I don’t want any of this blood on your hands anyway. This is my mission. I have to do this in order for us to be together.”

  “Felicia,” Greg says, “you don’t have to kill her for us to be together.”

  “I do. The only way we can be covenant partners is if she dies and you are widowed. You can’t just divorce her.”

  Greg swallows and glances down at me. “But, Felicia. She’s a liar, right? You don’t think that God will understand me walking away from her? It will be like an annulment in God’s eyes.”

  “And then . . .”

  “Then we can walk in what God is calling us to do. I knew from the moment you brought that alabaster box to the altar that you and I have the same heart for the people.”

  It’s working. Her attention is completely on Greg now, and she’s dropped her arm to her side. The gun is no longer at my temple.

  “Come . . . lay your burden down, Felicia. God wants to give you rest.”

  She walks over to Greg as if in a trance, still gripping the gun in her hand. She sobs loudly and holds her arms out for Greg.

  He holds out his arms too, and I look for something to use as a weapon. Quickly, as if the Holy Spirit has taken hold of my limbs, I snatch the fruit bowl from the table. I take three steps and then lunge at her, swinging the bowl with all my might. It hits her in the side of her head, but it only stuns her. She drops the gun and stumbles to the floor. Greg swiftly retrieves the gun and points it at Felicia.

  “Nya, call the police,” Greg says.

  I dial 9-1-1 while Greg picks up the hotel room’s phone. I listen to him talk to hotel security while I tell the police what is happening here.

  Felicia sits on the floor kicking her feet like a temper-tantrum-having toddler. Then I notice something sticking out from the bottom of her dress.

  “What are you looking at?” Felicia screams at me. “Don’t look at me.”

  She looks at where my eyes are trained, and then wails. “That is my b
aby. You killed him with your lies. You did this.”

  My heart sinks when I realize that the blurred image on the paper is an ultrasound photo. She really has experienced the worst kind of pain. Now, instead of anger and hostility toward the woman who just held a gun to my head, I feel a deep kind of pity.

  “Felicia,” I say, “I am so sorry for your pain. We’re going to get you some help.”

  She hisses and spits in my direction, and even as the hotel security bursts through the doors and takes her into custody, she glares at me with nothing but hatred in her eyes.

  “Take care of her,” Greg says as he hands the gun to one of the security guards. “We’re praying for you, Felicia.”

  When they are gone and the door to our hotel room is closed, Greg lets out a huge sigh. “Jesus,” he says. The one word being more than enough.

  “I can’t believe this just happened,” I say.

  Greg crosses the room, closing the space between us. He wraps me in an embrace and kisses my face, lips, neck, and forehead.

  “But it’s over now,” he says.

  I shake my head. This isn’t over. It’s far from over. In order for me to leave this all behind, there’s one more thing I have to do, and it’s not going to be pretty. In fact, I’m terrified that after I do this one final step, things will never be the same. Not for me, for Greg, or for our ministry.

  CHAPTER 54

  NYA

  Rumors of what happened at our anniversary party have spread all over the Dallas church community like wildfire. The stories range from Felicia being Greg’s secret lover to her being my secret lover. I even heard that she gave Greg a lap dance in front of the entire church. Folk know they can spin a tall tale.

  Right now Felicia is in a jail cell, although I assume she will undergo some psychiatric evaluations. She isn’t well. I pray for her healing.

  Because of the scandal, I don’t have any invitations to speak anywhere. Lady Sandy informed me that we have several cancellations of speaking engagements that were already on the calendar. So be it. But the plan that I have for me to retire from Suddenly Blessed requires a pulpit and an audience. I suppose the one at Love First International is going to have to do. Our church is about to get a Sunday-morning big reveal.

  I invited Penelope to sing right before I speak, and although her mother told her not to be seen in public or private with me after the scandal, she ignored it and showed up anyway.

  “Are we still on for the plan?” Penelope asks me in the minister’s room at my church.

  “Yes, if you want. Are you ready?”

  “No, but I have no idea how to get ready.”

  “Don’t think about it. Let God have His way.”

  We hear the praise team start service, which lets us know that soon it’ll be showtime.

  “You still have time to back out if you want,” I say to Penelope. “I won’t think anything bad about you if you do.”

  “I’m good,” she says.

  We go out onto the pulpit and the congregation receives us with much clapping and cheering. It’s almost like they want me to know that they don’t blame me for what happened with Felicia. But, of course, they don’t know the entire story.

  “Praise the Lord, everybody!” I say into my microphone. “Can y’all give a warm welcome to my little sister in Christ, Penelope Bowens?”

  The church roars with applause.

  “You guys are used to seeing us together on TV. No, we’re not going to do a dating game this morning, and nobody is getting a glam squad.”

  “I wanted the glam squad,” Penelope says into her microphone. And her comment draws laughter from the congregation.

  “We’re here for a different reason this morning,” I say. “We’re going to call it ‘see-through Sunday.’ ”

  Penelope nods. “Exactly. Because we’re going to let you see through us the way God sees through us.”

  “Transparent, like a window your mother just cleaned on a Saturday morning. With vinegar and newspaper.”

  “She’s so country, isn’t she?” Penelope asks.

  When everyone laughs again, I realize that we need to pull this service in. They’re used to seeing us banter and entertain them. What we’re about to say isn’t going to entertain anyone.

  “So, can we get real with y’all this morning, saints? Can we tell you the truth without judgment?” I ask. “It’s what we all want God to do—hear our flaws, our mistakes, our mess-ups, and unconditionally forgive. But we rarely extend the same forgiveness to one another or to ourselves.”

  The laughter slowly dies and silence falls over the congregation. Now they want to know what I’m talking about. The truth sounds juicy. And in this case it certainly is.

  “I want to go first,” Penelope says. “If you don’t mind.”

  I give her a head nod, indicating that she has the floor.

  “How many of you-all read the book we wrote about the altar-call experiences of women?” Penelope asks.

  Many of the women clap and some hold their copies of the book in the air, as if they brought them to the church to be signed.

  “I have a chapter in that book, but my real altar-call experience isn’t anywhere in there. I tried to write it. The first draft of this book had my true testimony in it, but I let the devil steal my testimony.”

  “I have a secret,” she continues. “And when my parents found out about it, they told me to bury it. They wanted me to hide it from you, from the church community, and from the world. In their defense they thought they were saving me from your criticism. But they couldn’t save me from being disappointed in myself. And guess what? My secret wasn’t buried. It was planted. Today it blossoms forth.”

  Penelope closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “When I was sixteen, I got pregnant. Please don’t blame my parents for having a church. It wasn’t their fault. I got pregnant, and because I wanted to handle it on my own, I didn’t ask for their help. I got an abortion and thought that I’d handled it.”

  “No one prepared me for how broken I’d be after that. No one told me how many nights I would cry myself to sleep at the loss of my baby. But I did. If there’s any woman here who is grieving a baby they aborted, I want you to either pray at your seat or come to the altar, so we can lay hands on you and let you put your shame behind. And if you’re thinking of having an abortion, come down to the altar too. It’s not too late to let God come into your heart.”

  I am shocked at the number of women who come to the altar with tears streaming down their faces. They connect with Penelope’s story. I am not sure if they’ll connect so closely with mine.

  But it’s time for both me and Penelope to get free.

  “Praise God for this altar call. Praise God for the women coming and for the women in their seats who couldn’t find the courage to come. God can touch you right at your seat,” I say.

  I gaze out over all the women standing in front of the altar. “Y’all stay right here. We’re going to pray in a minute. But first, I need to share my burden as well.”

  “How many of y’all in the congregation heard my Suddenly Blessed message?”

  There are claps, amens, and hallelujahs from all over the sanctuary. I’m pretty sure that almost everyone in this church has heard of the Suddenly Blessed movement.

  “And how many of y’all believed that word, made changes based on it, and pursued a new business or venture, because you thought that message was prophetic for you?”

  There is more chiming in; not as much as the first question, but still many, many people respond.

  “What if I told you that it wasn’t a prophetic word at all? What if I said I felt pressured that day, so I said that God told me something that He didn’t? What if I said the prophecy wasn’t a prophecy? Would you feel differently about me if you knew I thought up those words in that moment and said they came from God? I’m sorry, church, but that one time, I misrepresented God and disrespected my gift. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret it.”


  From the heaviness of the silence, no one would guess that there are thousands of people here. This is deeper than a teenager getting an abortion because she made a mistake; my sin was deliberate. The woman of God will be held more accountable than the poor teenage Penelope.

  For a moment, I regret saying anything. Maybe I should’ve taken what’s left of my secret to the grave.

  I look over at Greg, and he can’t hide his shock. I know he never thought I’d tell. Never thought I’d give it up. But I don’t care if I never preach in another pulpit or never utter another prophetic word. I want my joy back.

  Then Greg jumps up out of his seat and rushes over to me. He grabs the microphone from my hand.

  “Y’all not gonna encourage my wife?”

  After a very pregnant pause, the applause starts. It’s spotty and from different parts of the sanctuary.

  “Some of you are confused right now. Or maybe you’re even mad. You’re upset ’cause you think my wife lied to you. And she did lie. God didn’t give her a prophetic word that night, but He did create her to be an encourager. She has the innate ability to look inside someone’s situation and give them a word of encouragement that can change their lives around.”

  “We love you, Pastor Nya!” someone screams from the audience.

  I feel a tear form in the corner of my eye. I didn’t know how hard this would be.

  “Does anyone know why my wife decided to reveal this now? In an open forum like this? The Bible tells us to confess our sins to one another. She gave that word in front of you all. In front of the nation. In front of the Bowens’ Internet audience. The day she lied on her gift was the lowest moment of her life. She told you this way, because she preached the word this way. Those of you who might be sitting in judgment of her, I want you to ask yourselves one question. Would you like to be judged on your lowest moment?”

  Something about this question floors me. I grab hold of Greg’s arm as I feel my legs buckle. He holds me up, though; he doesn’t let me fall.

  Still holding on to the microphone, Greg kisses my forehead and squeezes me.