No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown)

by Stimpson, Michelle

  Chapter 21

  Thank God for the frozen meals. They saved me from choking my husband and neglecting my children. Between Stelson’s ongoing bad-attitude headache and running behind Seth and Zoe, I figured I’d be next for a migraine.

  My prayer time, though productive by comforting me and buffering me in His love, still hadn’t yielded an answer to my husband’s health challenge. He had run through his prescription medications in a week and another bottle of Excedrin Migraine while we waited on the insurance company’s approval of an appointment with a neurologist.

  Peaches had decided that Stelson was suffering from a vitamin deficiency, and WebMD had me thinking he had a brain tumor. I put the whole thing on the back burner and went into survival mode because if I thought about it too much, I’d get discouraged on top of angry.

  Keeping up with Seth’s homework and finalizing plans for his fifth birthday party gave me enough to do anyway. One would think that, seeing as I was a stay-at-home mom (which I’d learned was abbreviated SAHM), I would have planned an elaborate shindig with a clown, a bouncy-house, some Pinterest party ideas, and a whole buncha hot dogs.

  No. I didn’t feel like cleaning up after a slew of kids. Chuck E. Cheese to the rescue. I had invitations sent home with several of his children’s church buddies, along with my father and Jonathan’s marathon-girl’s son.

  The very last person I told about the party was the birthday boy himself because he would have bugged me to death if I’d told him too far in advance.

  With the cake and Seth’s birthday gift in tow, we arrived at the pizza party half an hour early so I could meet with the hostess and scout out the area.

  As the guests arrived, Stelson remained in one spot with Zoe at the main table while Seth and I ran around with his friends playing games.

  Jonathan and marathon-girl, whom he introduced as Krista, arrived a few minutes after our starting time of three o’clock. She was short with an athletic build and a cute teeny-weeny afro. “Nice to meet you. Where’s your son?”

  “He’s spending the weekend with his father,” she said. Her thin grin said it all. She and the ex were obviously not friends.

  “Awww…I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him, too.”

  “Maybe next time,” Krista said.

  “Well, come on over. Let me introduce you.”

  In doing the rounds, I labeled her Jonathan’s “friend”. He didn’t correct me, so I figured it was accurate despite the Facebook status.

  “And this is my husband, Stelson.”

  Krista continued to flash all thirty-two. “Hello.”

  Stelson’s smile was more a grimace than a greeting. “Hi.” No handshake, no nod. Only a blank ‘Hi.’

  He shouldn’t have come to the party.

  Daddy joined Stelson at his booth, relieving him of Zoe for a while. I tag-teamed with Jonathan, who took my place in the game of Skee-ball with Seth. Returning to our table, I found Stelson with his arms folded on the table, his head down. “Babe, do you want to leave? I can get Jonathan to bring me home.”

  “No,” he flared, “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”

  Unfortunately, my father’s keen ears picked up on the nasty response. “She just asked you a question, man.” Though Daddy had no business butting into ours, he’d only said what I wanted to say.

  “You’re right,” Stelson smarted off. “The question was directed toward me, with all due respect. And I answered it.”

  “I couldn’t care less if you respect me or not. But look like you slapped a little funk on your answer to Shondra, if you ask me,” my father continued.

  I could tell the two moms from church at the adjacent booth were trying hard to keep from turning around to watch my family unravel.

  “Well, since nobody asked you—”

  “Really?” I intervened. “This is Seth’s birthday party, for crying out loud.”

  Stelson exhaled heavily. “It’s too loud in here. I’m going to the car.”

  “What?” We weren’t even close to the stage because I had requested an area far enough away to make the music bearable for Stelson.

  He scooted out of the booth and walked toward the exit doors.

  Daddy muttered to himself, “He betta watch how he talks to my daughter. She ain’t no negro slave.”

  “Would you stop with the negro slaves, Daddy?”

  “I’m gonna speak my mind. I knew it was just a matter of time before the real him came out. White folks are sneaky like that.”

  “I will not let you disrespect my husband.” I stood up for Stelson’s position even though he wasn’t exactly on my good side.

  “Well, I’m not gonna let him disrespect my daughter, either. You can put up with it if you want to, though I know me and your Momma raised you better than that. She’d be ’shamed to hear how he talked to you today. Downright ashamed.”

  Me with my emotional self, I stomped off to the restroom and holed myself up in a stall to get composed, keep from crying like a big forty-two-year-old baby. Who does this? By that point in life, I should have been well-versed in strapping on a mask to get through difficult moments. Save the melt-downs for later.

  But this was my baby’s fifth birthday party. One of the first ones he’d actually be able to remember. And Stelson wouldn’t be a part of that memory, all because of some stupid headache and an argument with my father—which everybody knows is futile from the get-go.

  Pull yourself together, Shondra! Get your game face and your big girl bloomers on.

  With this smidgen of self-therapy, I was able to plaster a smile on my face and graciously answer the questions about Stelson, including Seth’s. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t feeling well,” I replied casually.

  “Migraine again?” Seth asked, his face growing long. He’d heard the medical term dozens of times by that point.

  I nodded. “You go ahead and eat your pizza.”

  Zoe became the perfect distraction. She didn’t want to be passed around—or at least that’s what I told anyone who asked. “She has her days, you know?” I clung to her throughout the party, hoping people wouldn’t see which one of us was holding on more tightly than the other.

  Stelson left me the task of putting the kids to bed that night. What else is new?

  “Did you have a good time at your party, Seth?” I rubbed his hair.

  “Yeah. I wish Daddy could have stayed.”

  “I know.” I tugged gently on my son’s ear. “But don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine soon.”

  “Mommy, is Daddy down?”

  “Down like what?”

  “Like when it was in Ecc…leese…mastes?”

  “Ecclesiastes?”

  “Yes. When we had home church.”

  Seth amazed me with the odd things he remembered sometimes. “Yeah, I guess he is down.”

  “Then somebody’s supposed to help him up, right?”

  Ding! My heart took the punch. “Yes. Somebody is.”

  Seth pointed at me. “Is it you?”

  “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Mommy.”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  Father, God, I don’t know what’s going on with my husband’s head, and neither does the doctor who was supposedly a specialist. But You know what’s wrong. Please heal my husband. Otherwise, I don’t know how we’re going to go on with all this arguing. I’m trying to remember that he is under duress. In pain. It’s hard, though. Protect my heart, too, from bitterness.

  Initially, I had wanted to go to the women’s fellowship so that I could meet other women. Now, I was going to preserve my sanity. The fellowship was from nine until noon, but the “Mommy’s Day Out” childcare went until three, which meant I had some hours to myself before Seth’s school released, before Stelson got home.

  He had said the headaches were decreasing in intensity, but I wasn’t sure if he was just telling me that so I wouldn’t worry or if he really meant it. Honestly, I di
dn’t know what to think about the things that came out of my husband’s mouth anymore. I was beginning to wonder if, maybe, Daddy had been really nice to Momma for a long time before he turned into a sourpuss. Maybe I had done what so many women do: married a man just like the one who’d raised me.

  God forbid. Daddy was hardly talking to me after Seth’s birthday party. Given all the tension in the Brown household, I was almost glad to be on non-speaking terms with my father. Less drama for me. We were both content with Jonathan as a go-between, transporting the meals from my kitchen to Daddy’s.

  I know the Lord says to honor our parents. He also instructed married people to cleave to one another. I wasn’t sure how to do both when they were pulling me in different directions.

  A break with a bunch of other SAHMs and retired women would do me fine. Followed by a massage would be even better.

  After signing Zoe into childcare, I registered at the sign-in table. The young woman who was attending the table asked, “Are you a member here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there any particular group you’d like to sit with?”

  “Umm…no. I mean, what are the group types?”

  She smiled graciously. “Well, there are moms with small children and older, more seasoned women, women who have certain things or interests in common,” she listed.

  Given the fact that I was often the oldest one in the bunch of pre-schooler moms, I wasn’t trying to join a group where I would feel the pressure of inadvertently mentoring somebody ten years younger than me. No, I wasn’t coming to this fellowship to give. I needed to be the baby in the group. “I’d like to sit with some older women, please.”

  The hostess led me to table four. And, just as I’d requested, everybody there had at least one swath of gray hair, which did my heart good. Thank You, Father.

  The room was set up with roughly twelve round tables. Each table was covered with pastel-colored cloths and a centerpiece with silk flowers. This space doubled as a fellowship hall, so it had a homey-feeling, perfect for receptions and small dinners.

  “I need thee, oh, I need thee,” we sang at our tables. The first chorus activated my water-works. When I was a little girl, I used to hate when they sang those slow, long, drawn-out songs with the same ten words repeated over and over again. Songs like “Yes”—which only has one word, actually—and “I say yes to my Lord.”

  This song comforted me now. “I need you, Lord. I need you, Lord!” If He didn’t help me, there was no help. “I neeeeeed you, Lord!”

  Someone tapped my arm and passed me a tissue. “Have your way. Have your waaa-aay.”

  I could have sang that song for hours. And I did, actually, in my heart. The humility of petition rested on me all through the morning’s Bible study. One by one, the women introduced themselves to me: Hattie, Beverly, Janice, Linda, and Doris. Linda had been at the picnic and remembered praying for Seth’s saga. The rest of the women recalled the news report or the next day, when our congregation rejoiced together.

  “Your son is a handsome one,” Janice said, her smooth brown skin looking like it might have belonged to someone my age. Were it not for the wispy silver hair and the cat glasses, she might have fooled somebody.

  “Thank you. He’s a handful.”

  “Well, enjoy him now because he’ll be a man before you know it,” Hattie laughed.

  I wished I had a quarter for every time somebody told me my children’s childhood would flash by. Perhaps it would feel “fast” ten or twenty years down the line, but from my vantage point, there was no end in sight to the grind.

  Miss Hattie, who was clearly the leader by virtue of her white binder, handled some administrative business. She collected donations for the fellowship coordinator’s birthday gift, then sent a sympathy card for a bereaved family around the table for everyone to sign.

  We discussed plans for a potluck. I took the easy route—drinks and plastic ware. If I couldn’t freeze it, I wasn’t trying to hear it right about then.

  Our speaker, introduced as Sister Olivia Windham, was a tiny, short woman with long, black wavy hair braided into a ponytail that landed at her behind. I didn’t recognize her from our church.

  When she took the podium, I expected to hear a mousey voice. She looked like she was better suited for teaching nice, sweet topics like gardening and caring for kittens.

  But when she opened her mouth, bay-bee, I knew it was on.

  “The hour has come to hear the Word of God. I command the voice of the enemy to be silent in the name of Jesus. Cease from distraction. Spirit of the living God, manifest Yourself in our presence today. Teach us, guide us, lead us and comfort us, as Jesus promised You would. Your Word is established. You gave the prophecy in Ezekiel that You would put Your Spirit in us and cause us to walk in Your statutes and keep Your ways. Abba, Father, we agree with You. We agree. Let all God’s people say…”

  “Amen.”

  I sat completely engrossed in her presence. Arrested by this contrast of a little woman with a big message on intercessory prayer. As she read from the Word, I wrote the scripture references furiously. Simultaneously, the Lord wrote this lesson directly on my heart. Every time she admonished us to “intercede” the word bounced around inside me like a pinball machine. Intercede. Intercede. Intercede.

  “Don’t let the enemy come in and steal your children. Kill your family. Destroy your joy. According to John 10:10, that’s all he comes to do. He’s not here to hurt your feelings, make you sad and angry. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. Honey, his goal is to kill you. Don’t play with him. Fight him. Stand up to him. Defeat him. The victory belongs to God’s people!”

  She pumped me so full of the Word, I was ready to drop-kick the enemy. How dare he try to come in and destroy my family? Take my husband’s health? Take my children’s good memories of their father? I don’t think so!

  After the lesson, I hopped up on my feet and applauded to thank her for being a vessel for the message, as did most of the women gathered.

  We were instructed to have a discussion among the people at our table, centered on questions which had already been distributed to the group facilitators. “Glory to God. Bless His name.” Hattie took a second to settle down enough to read the first one aloud. “Okay. Mmmm mmm mmm. She sure can preach. Let’s start with question number one. What is the enemy trying to steal from you?”

  “My peace,” from Beverly.

  “My money,” Janice added.

  Since I was near the center, I spoke up. “My family’s joy and my husband’s health.”

  “You don’t say?” Hattie probed. “Well, we sure can’t have that happening. What’s the matter with your husband?”

  Well, I did want to be the baby in the group. And the baby does get all the attention. “Lately, he’s been having terrible headaches. He’s been extremely cranky. Mean. But I know it’s because he’s in pain.”

  “Mmm hmm. Wonder is he…does he have any, you know, sin in his life,” Linda suspected. “You know, sometimes, we get sick because of our own fault.”

  What in the world?

  A chorus of “mmm-hmmms” spread around the table. I looked to my left. My right. Heads nodding in agreement.

  “Well, I mean. My husband is not perfect, but he’s—”

  “Step one is a good soul-cleaning. We can’t expect God to step in and clean up when we’ve been sinning,” Hattie added. “That’s what I told my sister. Doctor told her she had cancer. I told her the first thing she needed to do was forgive her ex-husband, else she wasn’t gonna ever get better. She never did. Not even on her death bed. So now, before I pray, I tell people to get right with God first ‘cause ain’t no need in us praying when somebody want to stay sick.”

  “Yep,” Doris cosigned. Then added, “Healing starts at home first. And you got to build up your faith, too.”

  Did we all hear the same message?

  “Most definitely,” Beverly echoed. “Without faith, it’s impossible to please the L
ord. You can’t expect a thing from God without faith and obedience!”

  “And a clean heart,” Janice piled it on.

  Awkwardly, I questioned, “Umm…Jesus didn’t tell people they had to be perfect before He healed them.”

  “But what did He tell them afterward? Go and sin no more!” Beverly said.

  “Yes. After, and—”

  “You just keep on living,” Hattie interrupted me. “You’ll see. People that ain’t livin’ right can’t lay claim to the promises of God. Period. He will not be mocked. Every woman at this table done lost somebody who wouldn’t turn it all over to God.”

  “Mmm hmmm.”

  I might as well have gone to a prayer meeting with my father, with all this negativity. Thank God I knew enough of the Word to recognize when I was sitting at a table full of people who had more faith in their experiences than the Word.

  I had to shut them out. Completely.

  When it came time for us to pray as a table, Hattie asked the Lord to “do Your will” in my husband’s life. “Lord, we know You can heal him. But like the Hebrew boys said, even if you don’t, we’ll still praise you.”

  Note to self: Do not sit at table four again.

  I was so angry and disappointed; I didn’t even want to come back to the church again to get my baby. I checked Zoe out of the nursery and walked to the parking lot. As I was securing her in the car seat, someone’s shadow shaded me from behind. “I’m sorry. I’ll be out of your way in just a second.”

  “Oh, no rush.”

  Sister Windham’s distinct, heavy voice caught my attention. Up close and in person, she had an even more inviting demeanor than when she’d been teaching.

  “Oh my goodness, you blessed me so much today,” I straightened to greet her.

  “God bless you, sweetheart,” she reached for a hug.

  She barely reached my neckline, and yet the love in her embrace overwhelmed me. “I hope you don’t mind, but could you pray for my husband?”

  She stepped back. “Surely. What’s going on?”

  “He’s got migraine headaches. They just came out of nowhere. I mean, my husband is healthy, he runs, he doesn’t eat a bunch of junk. We’ve been to a couple of doctors but they don’t really know what the problem is.”