Out Of Darkness

by Smith, Stephanie Jean

  I kept waiting for someone to walk by and help him, but no one came. So, I drove around the block so he could get in my van. I asked the man if I could help him. At first he was distrustful of me, which made me feel sad. It was so hot outside that I just knew this old man was going to pass out if he didn’t make it home. I told him that my parents lived in the neighborhood and that I would be happy to take him home. I got out of the van and helped the man into my van; the surprising thing is he only lived a block and a half away from where I picked him up.

  When I pulled up in front of the man’s house, a little old woman, whom I guessed was the man’s wife stood at the fence waiting for his return. She told me that he had been gone for an hour, and she was worried about him. He walked two and a half blocks to Burger King to get his wife a cheeseburger on one of the hottest days that summer. The man’s wife said, “Thank you and God bless you.”

  By the time I got to my parent’s house, I was depressed. I sat at the dining room table and cried. Seeing that elderly man struggle on that street corner made me realize how bleak the “golden” years could be. I looked at my parents who were in fairly decent health at the time, and thought it easily could have been either one of them standing on that corner. My father asked why I was crying. I proceeded to tell him, and my mother what had just transpired.

  My mother told me that it was divine intervention, God using me to help one of his children. How naïve was I, only years later did I realize the significance of a block and a half ride. As I think back it was mid-day in a busy neighborhood housing both a post office and a grocery store, and there was no traffic.

  There was no one to honk his or her horn at me as I sat at the stop sign waiting for an old man to cross the street. There was no traffic when I drove around to offer the old man a ride home. I was supposed to be there at that specific time, on that specific corner, to help that specific elderly man. Was it divine intervention or my imagination at work again? All of you have witnessed miracles or probably been a miracle in someone else’s life. I didn’t tell this story to honor myself, but to sing praises to the Lord because I’m glad he thought I was worthy to be a soldier for his cause.

  Forgiveness

  For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking about forgiveness. What does “forgiveness” actually mean? I teach Sunday School, and children in my class come up with tough questions. One little girl wanted to know why we should forgive people who treat us badly?

  I had to think about this question for a while. My heart wasn’t in the right place, and I didn’t have an answer. The more that I thought about it there were some home truths I had to face myself. It took me years to realize that I’m not a forgiving person. I’ve been storing heartbreak rocks since childhood. I let those rocks turn into boulders that have weighed me down for most of my life. Let me give you some examples.

  When I was six, my brother John, and I were helping our older brother Kenneth as he worked on his car. Actually, John was handing Kenneth tools as I stood there and watched. When Kenneth got his car running he took John to McDonald’s (an immense deal back then), and he left me at home. I got to tell you that I was genuinely hurt. Why didn’t Kenneth take me? I was there too; didn’t I deserve to go to McDonald’s? After that incident, I didn’t talk to Kenneth; it’s as if I “zeroed” him out of my life. I have this mental point system in my head and his actions immediately took his score to zero.

  When I was nine, my sister Fern came to church to pick up my sister Linda to take her to the zoo. I was so wounded; I sat in church and cried because I was left behind yet again. I didn’t “zero” Fern out of my life because hey she’s my favorite sibling of all. However, I never missed an opportunity to remind her how badly she treated me.

  When I was eleven, I was extremely excited about attending my friend’s birthday party. I did extra chores around the house to earn money to buy my friend's birthday present. With the money I’d saved, I was able to purchase her a pair of gold hoop earrings. I was so proud of myself. That was the first time I’d purchased a gift for anyone with my own money.

  As my friend opened my gift, I could tell that she truly liked the earrings. We ate hotdogs, cake, and ice cream then we went skating at “Cheapskate” roller rink. Another friend, Tammy asked my friend if she could wear the new earrings. My friend didn’t miss a beat; she handed over the earrings that I gave her without blinking an eye. My heart hit the floor, and yes, I “zeroed” my friend out of my life. My ex-friend and I attended the same schools from kindergarten through high school graduation. I treated her like a murderer because, in my eyes, she had murdered our friendship.

  I could go on further, but you got the point. As I wrap my mind around these scenarios, they all have one common theme. I’m the wounded party and those visions are through a child’s eyes. As an adult, I look at the scenarios a little differently. In the first example, my older brother Kenneth was trying to teach John about car maintenance and proper usage of tools. Kenneth and John spent most of the day outside working on that car. As I press my memory, I didn’t stay outside the whole time. I played in the back yard, went inside and played with my toys, and I believe I even had lunch. However, I still thought I had a right to benefit from the work they did.

  In example two, my sister Fern was seventeen years old. Her friend Terry was taking her niece to the zoo, and she suggested that Fern bring Linda along to keep her niece company. Fern wasn’t actually in a position to bring me along, but for years I tried to make her feel guilty for something that was beyond her control. In addition, I hate the zoo, the last thing I ever want to do is go to the zoo and smell animal poop all day.

  In example three, my friend wasn’t being a lousy friend, but a child who was trying to make friends with someone whom she felt was out of her class. My friend was always trying to fit in, and the earrings were an opportunity to buy friendship.

  I use scenarios like these in my Sunday School class to make a point. In most cases, the children in my class identified with me, but I try to put other perspectives in the scenarios. Quite frankly everyone has been hurt and mistreated by friends or loved ones. I had to learn to forgive others and myself before I could answer the initial question: should we forgive people who treat us badly? The answer is quite straightforward. How can we ask for God’s forgiveness if we have an unforgiving heart? When I pray, I ask God to forgive me for my sins, I forgive myself if I unknowingly hurt someone with my actions, and I also forgive others who may have knowingly or unknowingly hurt me.

  God Always Has a Plan

  Have you ever felt that God sent you to help someone? I’m not talking about providing your co-workers with a dollar so they can raid the vending machine. I believe in God, and I don’t get upset when people say he isn’t real. Other people’s opinions can’t hurt my relationship with God; only I can do that. God answers prayers, the answers we seek may not come when we want them; however, they sure come when we need them. So many things have happened to me, and I know, I mean know in my heart that either God sent me to help someone or He sent someone to help me.

  When I was in fourth grade, I fell and injured my ankle. My ankle hurt badly, but I could still walk. When my mother woke me up for school the next day, I couldn’t stand on my injured ankle. My mother helped me get ready because she decided to take me to the clinic. My dad had already left for the day, so she and I had to take the bus to the clinic because my mother couldn’t afford a cab.

  I lived one block and a few houses away from the bus stop, but it might as well have been a mile. My mother couldn’t carry me, so I had to hop. I was crying and praying that God would send someone to help. We had just passed our neighbor’s house when this woman drove by my mother and me; she stopped her car, got out and asked if she could help us.

  My mother told the woman where we were headed, and the woman offered us a ride. My mother thanked this stranger and accepted the ride to the clinic. I don’t remember the conversation that took place on the way to the clinic,
but knew that I would never forget this angel.

  About seven years later, I saw my angel while I was at my piano lesson. She brought her grandson for his piano lesson; however, she didn’t stay. When I finished my lesson, I sat there and waited for her return. My piano teacher asked me why I was sticking around and I told her how this woman helped me all those years ago, and I wanted to thank her. My piano teacher told me that my angel’s name was Mrs. Johnson.

  When Mrs. Johnson returned I explained to her where we met; at first, she didn’t remember me. I told her about the incident that took place during my childhood. She started laughing and then suddenly she hugged me. I thanked her for her kindness she bestowed to a young girl and her mother. Mrs. Johnson didn’t have a lot to say I think I may have embarrassed her, but she told me one day I could return the favor by helping someone else.

  People don’t want to get involved because they believe that one person can’t make a difference. Jesus was one person, and he changed the world. Mrs. Johnson was one person, and she made a difference to my mother and me. When you thank God, for the blessings He has bestowed upon you, think about how you can be a blessing to someone else.

  ***

  This next story is so close to my heart I remember it clearly as if it happened yesterday. My mother and I used to catch the bus to church on Sunday mornings when we didn’t have a ride. Now understand, buses don’t run that often on Sundays, maybe every 30-40 minutes.

  We lived a block away from two bus stops; a block South was the #8 route and a block East was the #6. The cross street was two blocks away where we could catch either bus. One cold winter Sunday morning my mother was determined we were going to church. Usually on days like this we would have missed church, but my mother was determined that we'd attend church on this particular day. Now the #8 bus took us within four blocks of our church while the #6 took us within six blocks.

  We missed the first #8 bus that would have gotten us to church just in time for Sunday School. Then we missed the #6 bus too; my fingers and toes were so cold I wanted to cry. We ended up taking the second # 8 bus; while riding the bus my mother and I saw my oldest sister walking alone without her children and this immediately alarmed my mother. By the time we arrived at church Sunday School was over, and morning services were already in progress. My mother phoned my sister Fern to tell her my oldest sister’s children were alone and to go by and check on them. Fern contacted my oldest brother, and he drove her to my oldest sister’s house to look for the children.

  The children were alone in the house, and Fern said it was just as cold in the house as it was outside. The oldest child was okay except that she was hungry. The baby was lying on the floor covered with a thin blanket. Fern took off the baby’s shoes to check her feet. She said the baby’s feet expanded double their size, and she knew that the baby was suffering from frostbite. The baby was taken to the hospital and was admitted immediately. The attending doctor called the police and child protective services on my sister and brother thinking they were the parents. This wasn’t the end of the story but the beginning of a long, drawn out custody battle between my parents and my oldest sister.

  I could go on and on about how God’s intervention spared me or used me as a tool to help someone else. Some people would say both situations were merely coincidences. God heard my prayers as my mother and I struggled to make it to the bus stop when my ankle was injured.

  Years later one of my nieces told me that she used to asked God to save her from her mother all the time when she was a kid. No one can convince me that God didn’t want my mother and me to see my oldest sister walking alone that cold Sunday morning. Had we caught an earlier bus, or if my sister had left her house or a little later we would have missed her. God does answer prayers, and he always has a plan.

  Good Works

  In my lifetime, love and kindness is its own reward. If I did something for somebody, it’s because I wanted to, not because I figured there was a payoff in the end. It’s been my experience that most of the people I know are this way because we were raised to trust in Jesus and love our fellow man.

  When I was a child, my oldest sister neglected her children often and sometimes left them without food. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the look of a hungry child up close and personal, but it’s a sight that hurts you deep in your soul. I’m not talking about the images you see on television, which may or may not be real; I’m referring to someone related to you who didn’t have enough to eat and their bodies' revealed evidence of starvation.

  When my niece was old enough to attend school she was often sent to school in dirty, smelly clothes with her uncombed hair matted to her head. I saw one of her school pictures. Her eyes appeared so empty, and I can only imagine the life of a neglected child. When my parents found out about these incidents it came well after the fact and we all know how cruel children and some adults can be. They weren’t quick enough to shelter my niece from the hurts and humiliation she had to endure because of her mother’s lack love and concern. Their actions always encourage me to help those who are suffering.

  Now this leads me to the point of this story. When I was eleven, I used to braid both of my nieces’ hair to promote hair growth; my mother especially liked the braids because they looked so neat. It was getting close to summer, but school was still in session when a young mother and her two little girls moved into a house several houses away from my parents.

  What became immediately apparent to me was that one of the little girls was dressed just a little nicer than the other one and her hair was always combed. The older girl who was in kindergarten reminded me of how my niece used to look with the matted hair and dirty clothes. Seeing this child reminded me of the trials my niece went through. I asked my mother if it would be okay to braid the little girl’s hair. I think my mother recognized the hurt in me and gave me permission to braid the little girl’s hair.

  In my mind, it was a done deal because my mother gave me permission so everything else would fall into place. I hadn’t counted on the mother of the two little girls questioning my motives. I don’t remember the actual date, but the year was 1976. I walked down to the house where the woman lived with the two little girls. She opened the door, and her hair was wrapped up in some type of scarf to protect her hairstyle, she had a cigarette in her mouth and a beer can in her hand.

  She said in a gruff voice, “Speak little girl! What do you want?”

  I said in response, “I live up the street and my mother told me that it was okay to braid your older daughter’s hair with your permission.” She took the cigarette out of her mouth, blew smoke in my face, and asked me why I wanted to braid her daughter’s hair. I told that her little girl would look cute with French braids in her hair and the style would last a while. She told me no. She didn’t have any money for that bullshit. I told her that I would do her daughter's hair for free because I needed the practice.

  The mother agreed, but she told me that I had to take her youngest daughter with me. I was extremely naïve and readily agreed because I thought that I had won her over. When in reality the mother was just looking for a free babysitter. The first thing I did when I brought the little girls home was take them to meet my mother, she wanted to know if they had eaten, and they said they weren’t hungry.

  I washed the little girl’s hair and to my surprise the suds on her head were brown. I’d never seen anything like that before in my life. That child’s hair was so dirty I washed it three times before applying conditioner. I braided her hair and rolled up the ends, I took the little girls back home. The mother thanked me, and I felt happy about what I did.

  What started as a virtuous deed became a regular appointment. I braided the little girl’s hair for most of that summer; until her mother started to act like braiding her child’s hair was my responsibility. One evening the mother of the two little girls sent them to my house to get their hair braided. My mother told me that I can no longer braid their hair and to send them home.

 
; Well the little girls’ mother came back and asked why I couldn’t braid her daughters' hair any longer; my mother answered the door and proceeded to tell her. She told the woman that she had to make other arrangements to get her daughters’ hair braided because I was a child myself not a hairdresser. At the time, I didn’t understand why my mother was so mad; as I got older I realized that she was protecting her child from an opportunist.

  I was at the grocery store this weekend buying supplies to make potato salad. The cashier who rang up my purchases looked so familiar to me. When she smiled at me and asked me how I was doing. I recognized her as the little girl whose hair I used to braid all those years ago. I gave her the street where my mother lives and asked her if she ever lived on that block with her mother and little sister. She told me yes and gave me landmarks in the area. I asked if her sister’s name is Mya, and she said yes, her sister’s name is Mya. I told her that I used to braid her hair when she was in kindergarten and Mya would come to watch.

  She looked at me and smiled again, and told me that she didn’t remember me. I smile back, and I told her that I didn’t expect her to remember me. Then she joked and said, “Oh my God you mean to tell me that I looked just like I did when I was five.”

  I told her that her face looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure that she was the same little girl until she smiled. I used to hold a mirror up for her to look at herself every time I finished her hair, and she would pat her head and smile. I looked at the cashier’s hair, and it looked like a crown of glory on a beautiful face. As I left the store I know I must have been smiling like a nut, but I was happy to see that she grew up realizing her worth. She’s able to hold a job and her beautiful smile made all the difference to an otherwise solemn face.

  Indulge me for a moment, close your eyes, and think about the kind acts that people have done for you and the ones that you’ve done for others. If you never see those people again, remember that you touched their hearts and some cases maybe changed their lives. I know it’s true because if you received this story from me, it's because I’ve seen the “Good Works” in you.