Читать книгу Strongholds - Vanessa Davis Griggs - Страница 9

Hear the voice of my supplications, when I cry unto thee, when I lift up my hands toward thy holy oracle.

—Psalm 28:2

Fatima

There comes a time in your life when you just get tired of pretending. Get tired of wearing a mask. You know the mask I’m talking about. The one you put on to make people think you’re fine when you’re not. The mask that helps to cover parts of the real you—the you that you don’t want anyone else to even know exists.

Fatima Adams is my name. But I have a feeling I could easily substitute your name for mine and you’d know the story. That’s if you’d be honest and fess up. Now tell me this doesn’t sound familiar to you: you live your life hoping no one discovers the real you, because if they did, you figure, they might surely not care to know you. Or worse: you’re afraid someone is going to find out you’re a fraud…a fake. That you’ve been acting out a script (oh, we all have individual scripts created just for our character) that no one forced upon you, except you.

Sure, you want to tell me right now that that’s not you. You’ve always had it together. Or better yet: the way you are is actually someone else’s fault. Now if you are one of those rare folks who happens to be perfect and always has been, then far be it from me, this imperfect being, to say anything to you. But as I stand here at the altar on this sunny Sunday morning in March (although it’s not a true altar like in biblical days), I see at least four other people I personally know who had the guts to come forward when the pastor called for those who wanted to break the strongholds off their lives.

“Take off your mask today, won’t you?” forty-five-year-old Pastor George Landris pleaded. “God already knows the true you. Don’t be so caught up in what other people think that you miss your opportunity to be set free. For whom the Son sets free, is free indeed.”

I knew he was talking to me. As I glanced at the crowd surrounding me, it became quite apparent that I was not the only one he was speaking to either. Who would know that I-got-it-all-together Fatima Adams—a thirty-one-year-old Christian woman with a knock-out body; perfect hairdo every single time I step out of my three-story, brick house; designer labels gracing me from head to toe; incredible-paying job that affords me the kind of money where I don’t even need a man to take care of me—who would know that I am deeply and hopelessly in love with a married man.

“You don’t have to tell me or anyone else what you’ve done or are doing right now that has caused you to come up here,” Pastor Landris said as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “God already knows whatever it is. But this…this is about you getting things right between you and God.”

Yes, Pastor Landris is right. God already knows. And He knows that I’m not just in love from a distance with a married man; I’m committing consistent fornication while my Mr. Right is committing adultery. Look at him sitting there with his wife as though that’s where he belongs instead of up here alongside me trying to get himself right with God!

“What’s wrong with us being together?” Darius had asked when guilt hit me after the first time we were intimate. “I can’t help it I fell in love with you. Neither one of us sought this out. And God knows that. Besides, I’m planning to make things right with you someday. Soon. I just need a little time.”

Yeah, and “soon” was some three years ago. I’ve tried to walk away. I’ve prayed so hard to God to help me. I even managed to break it off with Darius Connors—the true classic of a tall, dark, and handsome, oh Lord, handsome specimen of a man. He seemed crushed but claimed he understood my convictions and admired me even more for them.

“Fatima, I’ll respect your wishes if you really want me to leave you alone,” Darius said seven months ago. “God knows I wouldn’t ever want to do anything to hurt you. Not ever.”

For three weeks, like a champ, I pushed through the withdrawals of being without him, marking off my mental calendar the number of days behind me as each one passed. But I couldn’t wrestle thoughts of him out of my mind, nor could I manage to uproot him from my heart. And on the third day of the fourth week, there at my front door, he stood.

“Please leave. Please,” I begged him. “I can’t do this anymore with you.”

“Fatima, I will be happy to leave.” He looked at me with those eyes that always made me feel like I was instantly melting. “Truthfully,” he said, “I didn’t come for you.”

My heart fell to the ground with those words. I’m just being honest. It’s okay he was honoring my wishes to leave me alone. But couldn’t he at least pretend like I meant something special to him, make me believe this was as hard for him as it was for me?

After what seemed to be a long pause, he said it.

“Fatima, I didn’t come here for you. I only came here today, to get back my heart. That’s it. I just need to get back my heart.”

These words—I probably don’t have to confess—caused me to fall right back into his arms again.

Literally and figuratively—I fell.

But today…today, Pastor Landris spoke about strongholds and being truly set free. I’m tired of sitting by the phone waiting to hear Darius’s voice, practically willing the phone to ring only for days to pass (sometimes weeks) before he could finally “break away” to be able to call me. I’m tired of not being able to go out in public or to popular events with him because “word might get out” and “ruin things for us both.” Translation: mostly ruin things for him.

I’m tired of spending days upon weeks alone when I could have someone who loves me, someone willing to pledge himself to me and only me. I do deserve to be number one in someone else’s life. Not the spare tucked conveniently away inside some old, dark trunk. But out front—chromed in, with, and surrounded by the good things of life.

God, please…please, God—You have to help me. Please. You just have to!

Desiree

Personally, I don’t think I am totally responsible for my present condition. I have determined—although for the life of me I can’t get a doctor to confirm this or agree with me—that I have a serious allergy and my problem stems merely from an allergic reaction.

I’m allergic to meat, starches, and sweets. Whenever I eat any of these things, my body begins to blow up like a balloon. And since my alternatives for food consumption are vastly limited, my body has no alternative but to continue to manifest this reaction.

My dilemma originated with my smoking. Now I’m a constant eater instead. My stronghold seems to be that I must have something in my mouth at all times to be content. The pattern has held: when I smoke, I don’t eat much; when I eat, I don’t feel the need to smoke.

You should have seen me when I was a chain smoker. I was top-model thin, but of course, that was way back when. Then I started seriously considering what cigarettes were doing to my body, and I said, “Desiree Houston, if you don’t love yourself enough to put an end to this, then who will?”

Boy, did I sound just like my mother when I heard those words come out of my mouth. I’d seen this woman I’d known growing up, all hooked up to a tank she had to carry around with her everywhere she went because she’d smoked. I realized if I continued to smoke, that might be my fate. It hit me like a ton of bricks how cigarettes were actually killing me, and I had somehow become an unsuspecting accomplice to the plotting of my own murder. Yeah, I could blame tobacco companies for adding addictive additives in order to keep me as a profitable customer (for as long as I lived, that is), but that was too much of a cop-out even for me to go out like that.

So I turned my attention to food, and not just any kind of food either. Maybe it’s just me, but I happen to like the kind that tastes good. Why is it the foods that taste the best also happen to be, most times, the ones containing megacalories?

Yes, I know all about calorie counting, glycemic loads, fat intake, carbohydrates, and the benefits of fiber. If there is a diet out there, you can believe we’ve probably met. Let’s see, there was the Cabbage Soup Diet (yeah, that one makes you want to run right out and sign up for membership), the Lazy Zone Diet, the Atkins, Scarsdale, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Hilton Head, South Beach (which was a lot like Atkins only this diet says to lay off the bad fats as opposed to piling them on), the Two-Day Diet, the 3-Day Diet, the 7-Day All You Can Eat Diet (now you know I tried this one!), the 3-hour Diet, the One Good Meal Diet, the Chicken Soup Diet (sure, you can eat whatever you want for breakfast but it’s chicken soup, their recipe of course, for the rest of the day), the Metabolism Diet, the Russian Air Force Diet, the Grapefruit or Fruit Juice Diet, the Amputation Diet (don’t ask, I wasn’t even interested enough to look into that one further, although I do believe in stripping down to the bare essentials before stepping up on anyone’s scale), the low-fat, no-fat, low-carb, no-carb diet, and my all-time favorite—the Chocolate Diet.

Did you know on the Chocolate Diet you can have pasta and popcorn in addition to eating chocolate? Breakfast is always fresh fruit and fruit salad (sounded like the same thing to me, but I worked with it), shredded wheat with nonfat milk and strawberries. Morning snack is popcorn and fruit. Lunch is salad, pasta salad (low-calorie dressing, which goes without saying), and spaghetti. Afternoon snack is popcorn, vegetables (they suggest cutting them into sticks—don’t even ask me why), and a fruit smoothie made from blending one half a frozen banana, a half cup of frozen peaches or whatever fruit you like with one cup of nonfat skim milk. Dinner is fettuccini with garlic tomato sauce (I’m getting hungry just thinking about it), whole wheat pasta primavera, salad, and steamed vegetables. The evening snack consists of popcorn and (here’s the best part) up to one ounce of chocolate. And on all the diets, I can have all the water I can (and can’t) stand to drink.

So here I stand in front of this preacher with dreadlocks feeling drawn to bring my true burdens to the Lord and leave them. That’s one of the reasons I grabbed my husband, Edwin’s, hand and dragged him to the altar along with me. Cause and effect.

My husband (the cause) actually drives me to smoke or overeat (the effect).

I know you think I’m playing the blame game here, but it was Edwin’s actions that caused me to start smoking in the first place. Okay. See, he’s an obsessive gambler, bets on everything from the office pool to the lottery (there’s no lottery in Alabama but that doesn’t stop him and a slew of others from crossing the state lines to get tickets).

We’ve been married for twelve years, and of those twelve years, he’s left me almost every night, including our honeymoon night on the cruise, for some kind of gambling event. No, I am not exaggerating: every night. Mondays through Thursdays, he goes to the dog track; then on Friday nights, he catches a bus down to Mississippi to the bright lights casino and stays until Sunday afternoon. Most of the weekend, you can find him at either the blackjack table or pulling on some lady luck’s steel black arm trying to get three things to come up a match so he can win some money—big or small.

“You don’t have to pull an arm on a machine anymore, Baby-cakes,” Edwin said one day when we were discussing this. “Now you can push a button on the front of the machine and it does the same thing.”

“Whatever, Edwin! Pull, push, it’s still gambling, and it’s still a sin,” I said.

“That’s commandment number what?” he said, folding his arms across his chest as he smiled. “Show me chapter and verse where it says gambling is a sin. Show me.”

I stood with both hands on my hips and just stared at him. He knew he had me; we had been around this mountain several times before. I’d searched the Bible and even posed the question to several preachers for some biblical assistance, to no avail. There was one preacher who took a scripture out of context and tried to make it work for gambling. That dog wouldn’t hunt in my sight, and I was an easy mark. Another preacher talked about how the Roman soldiers gambled (cast lots) for Jesus’s robe. That was his feeble attempt to make it fit the bill. And yet another preacher pointed to a scripture, making the claim that we’re not supposed to receive something for practically nothing.

O-k-a-ay.

“You can’t, can you? You can’t show me anywhere in the Bible where it specifically states that gambling is a sin,” Edwin said as he smirked. “Now, smoking on the other hand, which literally destroys the temple—your body—and gluttony of food, again which can destroy the temple—your body—are different matters. I can prove those.”

“I’ve quit smoking and you know that,” I said, letting my hands hang limp by my side, a clear admission of defeat.

“Yeah, and when you finally did stop, you seemed determined to eat us out of house and home, as if—no matter how hard—it would be the last thing you’d do.”

“Edwin, don’t you dare harp on my weight! I declare, I’m not in the mood today.”

“So I guess that means you’ve either started another grand diet or just finished one?” He opened the refrigerator door. “What’s the name of this one, Baby-cakes?”

“Edwin, don’t try to change the subject. We were talking about your gambling problem.” I watched him as he took out the strawberry cheesecake I’d pushed all the way to the back of the refrigerator so I wouldn’t be tempted. He took it out and practically whizzed it around the room like it was his dancing partner, making sure he passed my way twice before he did a dip with it. “Besides,” I said, “you drive me to do what I do.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” He sliced the cheesecake and placed it in a saucer. When he placed it in his mouth, he made a moaning sound. “Baby-cakes, you know you can outdo yourself. This has got to be the best strawberry cheesecake you’ve ever made.”

“And you have the nerve to ask how it’s your fault?” I walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, took out some prepackaged carrots and broccoli florets, and proceeded to chomp unenthusiastically on them.

“Yes, how is it my fault? I don’t force you to smoke or to overeat. You just need a little willpower, that’s all. You can’t blame me because you don’t have any.”

“Willpower, huh? You mean like you don’t have the willpower to stop gambling?” I said. “That’s how you force me to smoke and eat. You’re gone practically every night, Edwin, and most of the weekend. I’m here all alone with nothing to do but watch television and think. My nerves are practically shot from worrying about bills that keep piling up and seemingly getting further and further behind.”

He placed another fork full of cheesecake in his mouth and closed his eyes as he shook his head and smiled. “Well, I bet you I can stop gambling anytime I choose to. I just have never chosen to.”

“Yeah, well, I can stop smoking and bingeing whenever I choose to, but I-I-I…”

“I what, Desiree?” He looked up at me and grinned.

“I guess, I guess…” I felt a tear stinging my eyes. “I guess—you know what, Edwin? I don’t care anymore! Keep gambling! Forget the fact that you’re taking money out of our home and losing it or that you’re leaving me home all alone. You don’t care? Fine, I’m through talking to you about it! You’ve never won any great amount of money, yet you keep thinking and believing you’re going to hit that ‘big one’ because you were ‘so close’ the last time. But you never do! Okay, fine. Have it your way!” I looked at the remaining carrots and broccoli, threw them in the garbage can, and stormed out of the kitchen.

So here at the altar, Edwin and I now stand, holding hands like everything is peachy-keen between us. Suddenly, I realize his hand is clammy, and it’s at this precise moment that he gently squeezes my hand with three gentle pumps. And I, understanding this unspoken message, can’t help but to smile.

Edwin

Desiree grabbed my hand and started for the front of the church before I could protest. I might have put up a better fight, but she caught me totally off guard. Although in truth, I was already debating whether or not I should go up there. Normally, I wouldn’t have even been at church, but my money was acting funny for the bus trip down to Mississippi this weekend. I hung around Birmingham and went to the dog track instead of my usual three-hour ride to the bright lights of the casino.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t have anything against the dog track. In fact, I’m pretty much a regular Monday through Thursday. But I love being able to feel like I have more control over whether I win or not. Holding those cards and making the decision to stay with what I have or letting the dealer hit me again can be such a rush. Or being able to wrap my hand around that black stick on the slot machine and pull it just right, or push the button with precision as I wait for those blessed three symbols to stop one at a time; that’s pure skill with just a tad of luck. That’s me being the captain of my destiny.

With the dogs and the horses, I’m left trying to figure out which animal is going to do its job on that day or other factors I have no control over. Like that time that one crazy dog broadsided that other dog. Now, who could have predicted something like that in advance? And I had that trifecta straight, too: 2–5–7. Right up to the finish line, almost, it was 2–5–7. Then five seconds before they crossed, that crazy number four dog came out of nowhere and clipped the seven dog. Well, seven flipped and rolled, hitting the number five dog. Yeah, you guessed it: the number two dog stumbled, although I have to give him his props; he did try to recover. The trifecta came 4–1–2. Paid $8,267.

I almost had that one also. My ticket said two with one and four, which meant the number two had to come first with the one and four coming in second or third (any order) after the two dog. For four more dollars, I could have boxed those numbers and they could have come in any order and I would have won. But I was so doggone sure about the two.

That’s what I was trying to tell Desiree. I do this for us. Imagine how happy she would have been had I won that money. A few of our financial troubles could have been taken care of with that. She acts like she has major problems with my gambling, but when I hit it big—and I know it’s coming—she’s going to see all of these years have been worth it.

Now, don’t get this twisted. I’m not stupid. I have won money, but it’s a known fact that you have to invest back into any business if you want it to grow. I win, but when I do, I take my winnings and go for an even bigger payout.

Baby-cakes (I started calling Desiree that back when she used to be sweet—used to be) complains that I’m sinning when I gamble. When I ask her to show that to me in the Bible, she can’t. Here’s what I fail to understand: Monday through Friday, I take a chance that I’ll make it to work safely. But that’s okay. I can take money and buy some stock or invest it in real estate. And that’s acceptable. Yet it’s still gambling, if you ask me. I’m putting my money on something I believe will increase my return. I don’t know for sure; I’m merely “taking a chance.” I personally know plenty of folks who “invested”—all right, gambled, let’s just call a spade a spade—in the stock market and lost everything including their homes. Ever hear of E-toys? At least my antics haven’t caused us to lose our house—yet. Although, unbeknownst to Desiree, we’ve come close…mighty close.

Okay, it was like this: a sure deal. All the experts had followed this one horse and felt pretty confident he would win. I don’t play the horses as much as I do the dogs, but this horse was a guaranteed favorite. Top breed, couldn’t lose. One other reason I don’t play the horses much is because you have to put up a lot of money in order to win a lot when it’s a favorite like that. Plus, you have two more unstable variables to factor in: the horse and the jockey. So I needed $1,000 to put on that horse to win if I wanted to walk away with a measly $3,000 when he won the race. Like I said, it was a sure deal, the way IBM stock used to be once upon a time. I figured I’d use the house money, replace it after I won, and spawn a cool $2,000 profit for all my troubles. Again…a sure deal.

Well, that sure deal turned into an Enron investment real quick. That sorry horse didn’t even show (that means to finish fourth). Didn’t even show! I lost all my money.

“Edwin, why is the mortgage company saying they haven’t gotten our last month’s payment yet?” Desiree asked a month after it was due.

“Baby-cakes, I don’t have a clue. You know how these businesses are. I’ll call them and get it straightened out. You know they’re probably going to blame it on a computer error like most of them usually do.”

Desiree looked at me like she didn’t know whether to believe me or not. I had to replace the money fast, so I took some more from our account and went to Mississippi hoping to hit it big. I did okay. I won about $1,500 but lost all of it back except $200. It took me a while, but after two months, I had us back on track with our house notes. I learned one important lesson from this: if I’m going to use money from our household, make it the grocery money. All that requires is my convincing Desiree she’s gained a lot of weight the past few weeks. I then suggest we skip buying groceries altogether for the next three to four weeks to help her lose some of her excess weight, and I pocket that money.

Trust me when I say Desiree will find a way to buy groceries. Especially when she thinks she’s sneaking behind my back to do it. So in the end, it usually works out.

But she and I got into a big argument Friday afternoon. I needed money to go to Mississippi and she wasn’t falling for the redirected-grocery-money-diet-plan this time around. She had started attending this new church a few months back and had been insisting that I visit with her. This was the first time I’ve been home on a Sunday in years, so there was no getting out of going, especially if I wanted any semblance of peace today. I figured I’d go to church for those couple of hours just so I could enjoy the rest of my day without having to hear a sermon from her on why I was “going to hell in a hand basket.”

Frankly, I’d gotten fed up with going to church. Watching those good-old-holier-than-thou church folks treating collection time like they were playing a slot machine that was hot and on a roll. Then there were the admitted church-bingo-playing-for-money folks who called themselves trying to look down their holy noses at me, with their hypocritical selves. Yeah, I said it: hypocritical selves. A bunch of sanctimonious hypocrites!

“Edwin, how can you possibly compare church folks to you and your gambling?” Desiree asked when we were heavy into this discussion some years back, before I ceased going to anybody’s church altogether.

“Have you seen them when it comes to putting their money in the plate?” I cocked my head to the side and opened my eyes wide after she looked at me like she didn’t have a clue where I could possibly be going with this. “Before they drop their money in the plate, it’s like some of them are doing the same thing I do before I plop my money down. I put my funds in, pull the handle or push the button, or place it down and say, ‘Come on, Jesus!’ Well, few people, Christians included, are actually putting their money in church because they love God and desire to give out of love. A good many, not all of them, put money in the collection plate expecting to hit the ‘windows of heaven’ jackpot. Seven, seven, seven. B-ten—Bingo! They drop their money in and pray for an even larger return. It’s like they’re saying, ‘Come on, Jesus! Rain me down a blessing! Here’s my ten, double or nothing!’”

Desiree shook her head. “Edwin, I just don’t know about you sometimes.”

“You know I’m right. How many people, in truth, pay their tithes and offerings only hoping to get that back plus some more? ‘Return unto me and I will return unto you.’ ‘I’m believing for a hundredfold return.’ ‘Open up the windows of heaven, God, and pour me out a blessing. Pour me out a blessing!’ Well, that’s no different from what I do. I put my money in the machine, or lay it on the table, or give it to the clerk at the window, and pray for a blessed return.”

The past few weeks, Desiree has been going on about this fancy-talking Pastor Landris and how he was teaching around the offering about giving out of love for God.

And that was precisely what he said today as I sat there. I mean, that man broke it down where even a fool could understand it.

“Don’t give out of obligation or manipulation. Nor out of necessity, but give because the Lord loves a cheerful giver,” Pastor Landris said. “Give because you love God. You see, it’s easy to give and not love; but it’s impossible to love and not give.”

So I gave. Today, I actually gave. And all I thought about during that time was how much God loves me in spite of my shortcomings, and how much I truly love God just for who He is. For the first time in my life, I gave not because I wanted anything back from God, but just because I loved Him. Period. I felt so free for the first time in a long time.

Then Pastor Landris spoke about strongholds in our lives. I was really feeling what he was saying. This man was actually speaking a Word into my life. And when he finished and asked for people to come to the altar for prayer, I felt my body being lifted from my seat even before Desiree grabbed hold of my hand and finished yanking me up all the way.

Standing there with Desiree’s hand in mine, I felt a stirring in my heart. Looking up at the minister as he was talking, I began to realize how much trouble I’d gotten myself in with my problem. And I’m not sure if even God can get me out.

Trinity

“You’re so blessed, Trinity.” That’s what everybody keeps telling me, that I’m blessed. I suppose I’d have to agree with them. All these years I’ve lived with my various internal personalities only to almost totally lose my true self to a personality who calls herself Faith. But thank God, God didn’t let it be so.

My name is Charity Alexandria Morrell, but most people at church knew me first or better as either Hope or Faith. Then I completely lost it while taking care of Johnnie Mae Taylor Landris’s mother, Countess Gates, and the truth emerged. Faith, Hope, and Charity could be best summed up as Trinity—three distinct separate persons in one.

Oh, how I do miss Mrs. Gates. Of course I can no longer take care of her. I have to first get well myself. Some folks call me Trinity because of my three manifest personalities. This way Hope, and especially Faith, aren’t being excluded when I’m being addressed now. And in truth, one can never know for sure which one of us is present.

The doctors have diagnosed me with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). People used to call it split personalities, with Sybil (remember that movie?) being the poster child. I wanted to stick exclusively with my therapist, Sapphire Drummond, a true Christian therapist, as my psychologist, but my personality called Faith doesn’t like Sapphire very much. She refuses to cooperate if she’s present when Sapphire is asking questions. So Sapphire hooked us up with another colleague, a Dr. Holden, and Faith—according to what they tell me—seems fine with him. In fact, Dr. Holden is standing with all of us who came forward because of our strongholds; although for the life of me, I can’t imagine what he could possibly be dealing with.

Dr. Holden and Sapphire have explained Dissociative Identity Disorder more clearly to me. They’re helping me better understand what may have happened to cause Faith and Hope to show up in the first place, as well as when it may have likely occurred.

I understand now how Dissociative Identity Disorder is the most chronic and harsh expression of dissociation. Dr. Holden believes it had to have been brought on by a severe trauma, but for the life of me, I can’t make myself remember it.

“Along with this disorder, distinct, coherent identities can exist within one individual and can manage to assume control of the primary person’s behavior and thoughts,” Dr. Holden said. “In DID, a patient can experience amnesia about personal experiences, which can include the identities and activities of alternate personalities.”

Sapphire had already explained to me how people with DID may experience depression, mood swings, become anxious, have a hard time maintaining their attention span, and even become psychotic. She said a lot of folks try to self-medicate with alcohol or drugs, but I thank God that was never a problem for me.

“People are frequently misdiagnosed as being solely bipolar or severely depressed,” Dr. Holden said. “It’s not an uncommon thing for years to pass before a correct assessment of DID is properly made in order for a patient to be treated appropriately.”

For years, especially in my church upbringing, people were frowned upon if they had to seek out a head doctor.

“All you need to do is pray about it,” people at church would say. “God can work it out. He will heal you. You just need enough faith.”

And I agree that God can work it out and that He can heal me. That’s why I’m standing here at the altar and being up-front about my stronghold. But I’m also aware that God can send various people to help us through our healing process. That’s where Sapphire and Dr. Holden come in. Sapphire stresses to all of her patients the importance of seeking the Lord and praying, and she prays and asks God to help her bless His people with the knowledge and skills He has endowed her with.

My faith in God is strong, which is ironic because my personality named Faith is also strong. She knows her time is short as an independent persona. She’s also aware that we don’t want her to leave until I face what happened to split my personality in the first place. I think I was around seven or eight, but it’s important that I remember the details clearly so I can heal.

Faith remembers. But she’s not talking.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just as well that I don’t remember. Maybe the best thing for me to do is to get this dissociative stronghold out of my life and move on, whether I know what happened or not. That’s why Faith won’t tell us anything. She knows once I recall everything, I’ll get better. She’ll have to go, or what the doctors say, “assimilate,” no, “integrate” with me. Hope knows something, but only Faith knows everything—the whole truth. I am getting stronger mostly because I’m learning to stand in the power and might of God Almighty. And yes, I believe I’m delivered now. Now.

“‘For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal,’” Pastor Landris said as he continued his sermon on strongholds, quoting Second Corinthians 10:4–5. “‘…but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds. Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.’”

I’ve got to do this. I must cast down images and every high thing that exalts itself against what I know of God. I must bring my thoughts into captivity.

“Captivity has the Greek word conqueror with the word sword attached to it,” Pastor Landris said. “We have the Sword of the Spirit—the Word of God. Use your sword to conquer your stronghold. Use your sword to bring down wrong images and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God. God knows, but we must look our stronghold in the eye and let it know that I believe what the Word of God says, and the Word of God says…then you speak the Word that applies to your situation. Speak the Word that you’re standing on. Whose report are you going to believe? You have to take a stand and let the devil know you’re going to believe the report…the Word of the Lord. Say it like Jesus said: ‘It is written…’”

So I stand here at this altar on this Sunday in March, believing that God is a mind regulator. That Jesus has given me His peace, perfect peace…a peace that surpasses all understanding.

I believe it today and I speak it: I have the mind of Christ.

Bentley

When you have a last name like Strong and a first name like Bentley, you know you’re being set up for some great things in your life. Of course children made fun of me. Most of them had heard of a car called Bentley, so that just made their teasing that much easier. Now that I’m twenty-five and doing very well, those same people who picked on me years ago are flocking to wherever I happen to be, asking for financial handouts.

It turns out that being a computer geek at the age of eight (even though we were dirt poor and didn’t even get a computer in our home until I was eleven) was an additional blessing unto itself. But my mother always told me as long as I owned a library card, I had the whole world—along with some of the most brilliant minds and teachers ever to live—forever at my fingertips.

“Just reach out and take hold of all you can get,” she said.

My mother was the brilliant one. The library was full of books and access to computers. The librarians were so impressed with my diligence; they allowed me more time on the computer back then than they were supposed to. I, in turn, taught them some things they didn’t know how to do. When it was time to upgrade to newer, more powerful models, the main librarian, Ms. Kemp, did something that ended up literally changing the course of my life.

“Bentley, you’re a bright young man,” Ms. Kemp said one cloudy afternoon. “I’ve arranged for you to have something, if you would like it.” She led me to a storage room. “We were required to wipe all of the information off the hard drive other than DOS, but if you can get someone to come pick this up for you”—she pointed at the lifeless, monstrosity of a machine, an IBM computer—“then it’s all yours.” She then handed me a bag filled with various types of software.

“For real, Ms. Kemp! I can have it? Flat out own it and take it home with me?”

She smiled. “Yes, flat out own it and take it home with you.”

My mother came and got the computer. She couldn’t thank Ms. Kemp enough. Some five years and a brand new computer later, I learned how Ms. Kemp had actually purchased the old and the new computer for me with money from her own pocket.

What most folks in my neighborhood and school didn’t know was that I could take a computer apart and put it back together again. And there wasn’t software out there I couldn’t master. My mother was right: at the library I found all the answers at my fingertips. Books upon books contained answers to any questions I even thought about having.

True: books can be a blessing. However, I also discovered, some things in print can be dangerous. My uncle on my mother’s side came to live in our home shortly after I turned eleven. If my mother hadn’t taken him in, I believe he’d still be homeless today. For certain, none of the other family members wanted to put up with his drinking and womanizing ways. But my mother didn’t have the heart to turn anyone away, especially someone with nowhere else to go. And particularly not her own blood. He didn’t like the fact that I had my head inside of a book 24/7 or that I was forever on the computer.

Uncle Tank had been a promising musician. From what the family says, there wasn’t an instrument Uncle Tank couldn’t play. The way they talk, the artist originally known then formerly known now known again as Prince, had nothing on him. I’m told Uncle Tank learned to play instruments by ear, and he started playing the piano for the church. They say he could practically raise any roof off any building with a saxophone. But they claim he had a little too much sass laced in his playing for a church or gospel career.

“There wasn’t much money to be made in gospel music back when I came along, Bentley,” he said during one of our little talks. “For some reason, church folks don’t seem to believe in paying folks like the world will. ’Course now, things done changed a whole lot since folks like that Kirk Franklin fella and the rest of ’em done come on the scene. I guess I was just born ahead of my time. You know that song he sang called ‘Stomp’?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, do you know he took the music track of a classic from back in the day by the Parliament-Funkadelics and put Christian words to it? Made it into a Christian song. See, that’s something I would have done if the church folk had’a left me alone.”

I looked at Uncle Tank with a deliberate smirk to let him know I knew he wasn’t telling the truth. Saying something like that had to be the result of those spirits everybody said he carried around in his pocket and sipped regularly.

“Don’t believe me? All right then. Give me a day or two to get my hands on my album collection. I see right now I’ma just have to prove it to you, young blood.”

And that’s what he did. When I heard the original song, I couldn’t believe my ears. That was so tight! Soon afterward, Uncle Tank and I became good buddies.

That’s when he told me he thought I was a bit out of balance, reading all those “smart books” all the time and “living on the computer.” He believed every young boy needed other “book-learning,” especially in my case, not having my father around to teach me men stuff. I needed to expand my “reading repertoire” was the way he put it.

That’s when he pulled out a magazine, flipped the pages so I could see it was chock full of pictures, and gently laid it down before me like it was a mint condition Michael Jordan rookie card or something.

My first reaction was that I was too old for a picture book and that he really didn’t understand boys my age at all.

“Uncle Tank, I don’t know if you realize this, but I am thirteen now. For sure, I’m too old to be reading picture books.”

“See what I mean, boy? Most boys your age would have picked up on just seeing the cover that this is no children’s book. That there is a pure, double-D, Grade-A, certified woman right there on that cover. I guarantee you won’t find these here pictures in no children’s book.” He turned several pages and began to grin. “Here.” He handed it to me. “Take this and try studying somethin’ other than all that boring stuff you done got brainwashed to. And if you find you like what you see, I’ve got plenty more where this one come from stashed away. Plen-ty. You just let your good ole Uncle Tank know, and Uncle Tank will take care of you. You can believe that.”

“I don’t know about this,” I said.

“Boy, do you want to grow up and be a real man, or do you want to grow up and be with a man? This book is like a test. If you’re straight, we’ll find out by how you react. Consider this my gift to you. Just don’t let your mama know or see it. Women don’t seem to understand or share our appreciation for God’s human art in full, living color.”

And that was how it all began, where the seed was planted and my addiction to pornography took root. And like most addictions, it has only progressed over the years.

Now here I am married to Marcella, a wonderful, smart, beautiful woman, with a baby girl on the way, and I still find myself sneaking—late at night after my real, live, can-actually-be-touched wife is asleep—to look at porn. That’s crazy. I have my own stash of magazines, videos, and DVDs galore, conveniently squirreled away. And the very thing Uncle Tank claimed a huge waste of my time—the computer—as it turns out, actually gives me the greatest access (via the Internet) to unlimited sites. There is categorically no shortage of porn lurking in cyberspace.

The thing that disturbs me is the amount of deceptive e-mail sent to people who really aren’t interested in viewing pornographic sites, a good many of them being sent to innocent children. Children who, like me, could later become hooked. After all, it wasn’t that long ago when I myself had only been a naive boy, minding my own business.

Now look at me. As a grown man, I can’t seem to stop myself from practically gawking at naked women whose certain sexual acts I have no place or business looking upon. Marcella deserves better from me. Our new baby, due in about five months, deserves better. Although honestly, some of the books Marcella and her friends have been reading lately (called erotic fiction) seem to simply be just a more acceptable version of my own stronghold. Much of it is, from what I’ve seen and heard, clearly porn in words—sexual pictures created through the power of language.

And as Pastor Landris just said in a recent sermon, “Imagination is imagination. All images—real or imagined—are equally real when it comes to your brain.”

True, Pastor. They’re all images. And some of them just need to be pulled down.

Dr. Xavier Holden

I can’t believe I actually stood and walked up to the front like this. I’m the one who is usually helping others to get their lives together. I’m the one people look to for answers, although in truth, I merely pose the questions that help draw out the answers.

“Dr. Holden, I desperately need your help.” “Dr. Holden, it’s urgent that I talk to you today. Please, can’t you just work me in?” Who would think a psychologist would be on call the way I appear to be? I’ve even had to go to various emergency rooms to see about a few of my patients in the middle of the night.

When I began my practice, Avis and I had just gotten engaged. Avis is my sweetheart. I remember the day I first knew I liked her. We were in the school yard.

“Ouch!” Avis yelled as she turned around and glared at me. “Boy, why did you pull my hair?”

“Who you calling a boy?”

“If you pull my hair again, I’m going to do more than call you a boy,” she said.

“Oh, so I’m supposed to be scared of you?” I asked.

“You’d better be.”

“And who are you supposed to be?”

She put one hand on her hip, which truthfully already had some nice curves going on, cocked her head to one side, and turned up her nose at me. “Avis Denise Miller!”

I smiled. “Avis? What kind of a name is Avis?”

“You pull my hair again, and you’re gonna find out what kind of a name is Avis. ’Cause I’m gonna run you down and roll right over you.” She turned and walked away.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I fell in love at the age of ten, right then and there next to the seesaw. It took Avis another five years (she was thirteen by then, two years younger than me) to come to her senses and realize she hopelessly loved me, too. Some folks claim I merely “wore the poor girl down.” The truth is, she felt the electricity the day I yanked that luscious, long, black, springy plait of hers.

I know what it’s like to grow up doing without. So does Avis. We both knew education was the golden key to our escaping the great state of poverty. I always knew I wanted to be some type of doctor, but the thought of being on call 24/7 didn’t appeal to me. I realized I had a knack for talking to people, but an even greater gift when it came to listening, analyzing, and giving direction to folks regardless of their age, race, religious background, or gender.

People think they’re helping by trying to tell others what they should do. But I learned early in life, if you give people time to talk and to listen to what’s inside of them already, they will, for the most part, discover the answers they seek. The problem I find with us black folk is: we consider it a sign of weakness to go talk to a professional when it comes to psychological things, like being depressed. Church folks in particular considered it weak faith if a person had to seek help from a “head doctor” or a “shrink” as they were called back in my day. It’s changing some, but we still have a long way to go.

I look at what I do as being an extension of ministry. Some people can talk to their pastors about everything. Some people are fortunate enough to have a really good friend they feel comfortable enough sharing intimate details about their lives with in order for them to heal. Lately, however, it seems my practice has exploded because of the mega churches that are springing up. Folks are finding it increasingly more difficult to get an appointment to talk with their pastors without a three- to six-month wait.

“Look, Dr. Holden,” one of my patients—a tall, heavyset woman with short, cropped hair—said. “First off, I don’t really believe in head doctors or shrinks.”

“We’re not head doctors or shrinks.”

“You know what I mean. You people do like to mill around in folks’ heads trying to fix problems, real or imagined.”

“Okay. So you don’t believe in head doctors or shrinks.”

“Anyhow, I didn’t really want to come, but I called my pastor’s office so I could talk with him about an urgent matter, and he’s booked up for the next five months. They have others on staff you can talk to, but I don’t want one of his clones; I want my pastor. Especially with the kind of money I put in church every year. There was a time, before the church grew so large, when I could pick up the phone, call the church, and he would be the only one there to even answer the phone. Now, I almost have to schedule an appointment just to shake his hand after service to tell him I enjoyed his sermon.”

“So, is this what you came in to talk to me about?” I asked. “It bothers you that you can’t talk with your pastor whenever you want?”

“No, that’s not what I want to talk about! And I guess as much as it’s costing me an hour to talk to you, I should get to my problem and my point.” She started laughing. “Maybe that’s why black folks don’t believe in shrinks. It costs too much, especially when it used to be something we could do for free. But a friend of mine did highly recommend you. So here I am. Hurry up and fix me; I’m on a fixed income.”

People have discovered through word of mouth that I’m really good at what I do. My practice grew after the first five years to more than I could handle in the time I had originally allotted to work. For this reason, I had to extend my Monday through Friday hours to 7 P.M. and a half day on Saturdays. The problem is: I rarely leave the office before 8 P.M., and the half day Saturday somehow doesn’t end until after 3 P.M.

That’s partly why in late 2003 a therapist named Sapphire Drummond and I decided to hook up. She had moved to Birmingham from Atlanta back in 2002. I’d heard talk on the circuit about how good she was, and I was hoping the two of us partnering would relieve some of my workload. What appears to have actually happened is our reputation as a team grew, and we both were working longer days and nights.

Avis is completely fed up with all of this. I’ve been working these crazy hours for over ten years now. We have four children, two girls and two boys. When I first began my practice, some fifteen years ago, I couldn’t make enough money to even pay half our bills. Avis and I both worked, but we had student loans. It was hard as a young married couple starting out. Add to that, Avis got pregnant two months after our wedding. Birth control failure—definitely not part of our well laid-out plan.

That first pregnancy was hard on her. She was often sick and missed a lot of work she didn’t get paid for because she didn’t have enough time built up for sick pay. Add to that, we didn’t have company-paid insurance at the time because my practice was my own business and she hadn’t worked long enough to qualify for health insurance yet where she worked. We could have paid the premiums after she started working until she qualified, but the payment was around $450 a month for family coverage. Today I pay $780, but of course, I can afford that now with no problem. Back then, we were struggling just to pay our rent and utilities—forget finding enough money to pay for health insurance. Creditors started harassing us about late bills. It was extremely stressful.

I secured a full-time job working in a plant from 11 P.M. to 7 A.M. Then I would go into my office to see the handful of patients I’d managed to acquire already from 8 A.M. to 5 P.M. Some days it wasn’t but three people, but their appointments were spread out, so I had to be there all day regardless. If there was enough time in between appointments, I would take a nap. Most of the time that would provide me with only about an hour of sleep, although every little bit certainly did help.

After Avis had the baby, we had a huge hospital bill to contend with. She had to have a C-section, which is considered surgery. It was necessary for me to keep up that intense work schedule just to maintain our new bills. Gradually, I got used to working all the time. Even after things got better for us and we had a nice cushion of money in the bank, I continued to work long and hard. I just didn’t want my family to want for anything.

Eventually I said, “Avis, why don’t you stop working completely and stay home with the children?” Three years after our first child, we had a second. Four months after the second, while she was still on a leave of absence from work, we learned we were expecting our third. Yes, we did know about birth control, but the pill was not a viable option for Avis for medical reasons. Some other methods we didn’t care to use because of side effects like migraines, weight gain, excessive bleeding, and allergic reactions; future health concerns; or being controlled by a calendar, which wasn’t always convenient and tended to conflict with our schedules while alienating spontaneity.

“Xavier, you’re already overworking yourself,” was Avis’s response to me asking her to stop working and letting me take on all the bills.

“It’s all good now. My practice is growing well. In fact, I’m planning to put in my two-week’s notice down at the plant,” I said.

And I fully intended to quit that job in two weeks, except it occurred to me that I was one year away from being vested with their pension plan. And besides, it made sense to work until the new baby came. That would just be more money for the household.

With three young children, Avis did decide to leave her company and stay home. I quit my job at the plant four months after our little girl, Jasmine Monet, was born. It looked like I was slowing down, but I soon discovered I didn’t know how to have that much downtime. So when I found myself with all this “free” time, I revved up my efforts to acquire more clients. When some of my colleagues wanted someone to cover for them while they were out of town or vacationing, I was the go-to guy. Then Dr. Preston had a stroke, and I was asked to maintain his client base until he recovered and returned. He never recovered, and I ended up inheriting ninety percent of his lucrative clientele.

“Xavier, when are you going to slow down and spend time with us?” Avis asked again three years ago, right after our fourth child, Brandon Skylar, made his entrance into the world. “We don’t go on vacation. You’re hardly ever home. When you do make it home, it’s close to most of the children’s bedtime. You fell asleep while eating supper the other day. For goodness sake, you fell asleep while you were putting Brandon to sleep.”

“It’s not going to be like this always, Avis. I do this for us. You know this. We have this huge home with luxury vehicles parked in all four of our garages because of my hard work. Our children don’t want for anything. Everybody has the latest gizmo—”

“But we don’t have you,” Avis said. “You and I don’t even go out anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

She looked at me like I had grown another head. “When was the last time you took me out?”

I thought for a few minutes. She gave me time.

“Okay,” she said. “If you don’t remember when, where did we go? And church doesn’t count.”

I admit she had me with that one, too. It had been so long, I couldn’t recall the last place she and I had gone anywhere together other than church. Not even on one of our past anniversaries, although I did give her beautiful diamonds each year and a car for one.

“I promise, Avis. I’m going to cut back. You can’t just do something like that all at once.”

“That’s what you keep saying, but you never do it. What’s the point of having a family if you’re not ever around to enjoy us?”

“I’m just trying to ensure our security, Avis. I want you and the children to have the best. I know it may be out-of-date thinking, but I’m supposed to provide for you.”

She walked up to me and grabbed my hand. “Money-wise, you provide plenty, Dr. Holden. Where we seem to be deficient is me having a husband around, and the children are desperately in need of a father. I don’t know, Xavier. There’s always a trade-off in whatever decisions we make. I just pray you don’t find yourself losing your family while in the pursuit of the almighty dollar that no one is forcing you to chase except you.”

When I came home yesterday from the office, my family was gone. There was a note from Avis.

Xavier,

When you decide you really want to be part of a family, let me know.

I love you,

Avis

I called Avis on her cell phone and promised her I would cut back starting first thing next week. She wasn’t hearing it anymore. If I was serious, I would have to prove it.

So today I went to church, albeit alone, seeking God’s guidance. And as Pastor Landris was preaching, he pointed out, once again, that strongholds aren’t always the obvious things we think of as strongholds.

“Strongholds aren’t always sins. Some people are people-pleasers,” Pastor Landris said. “That’s not a sin, but it can be a stronghold. Food. Various drugs. Some people might be habitual liars. It’s not one of the Ten Commandments, though it is addressed in the Bible. It’s a major character flaw, and can be a stronghold. Believe it or not, even things we think of as being good things can be strongholds. How many of you work so much you neglect to spend time with your family? As great and noble a virtue as honest, hard work is, if you’re not careful, work can be a stronghold. Being married to a person who beats on you—abusing you physically and mentally—and staying in that marriage because you vowed ‘until death do us part,’ which may very well happen sooner than you think, can be a stronghold. Anything with a hold on you, anything that controls you instead of you controlling it, is a stronghold.”

So today, I’ve made the decision I will take back my life. Satan has deceived me in the most clever of ways for long enough. I’m a workaholic. Today, I’m breaking my stronghold. I’m going into the enemy’s camp, and I’m getting my family back!

Arletha

This was my first visit to this church, Followers of Jesus Faith Worship Center. When I saw that preacher stand up with that long hair, I started to get up right then and there and walk out. There are just certain things I believe and don’t believe in, seeing as I was practically raised in the church. If anybody should know…I should. One thing I know: women ain’t supposed to be wearing pants in church. I don’t care what folks say. And for sure, men ain’t got no business with hair that’s longer than mine, looking like some woman.

I’ve been running for Jesus a long time, and all these newfangled philosophies people are trying to introduce into the Lord’s house just ain’t gonna fly with me. I don’t believe you can be saved just by confessing your sins and believing on Jesus. Now don’t go get all confused about what I just said. I do believe on Jesus, Lord knows I believe in Jesus. But the notion that all you have to do to get into heaven is to just confess you’re a sinner, then accept Jesus as your savior and that’s it—you’re now guaranteed a place in heaven without proving you’re worthy—is a bunch of hogwash! Excuse my French. But frankly, I’m tired of people telling and buying into that lie.

The Bible clearly tells us we must work while it’s day because when night comes, no man can work. I joined the church sixty years ago, after I’d just turned six. It didn’t take me long to make the decision, like it seemed to have taken many of the others. I knew back then that God had a call on my life, and I’ve been working in His vineyard ever since. Why do I work, you ask? ’Cause I want to get into heaven. I only pray I will have done enough to make it in. I want to hear my Lord say to me on that great day, “Well done, thy good and faithful servant. Come on up a little higher.” For sure I don’t want to hear, “Depart from me; I know you not.”

That’s why I’m in church every time the door opens. Trying to be good enough to make it into heaven. Trying to ensure the Lord remembers me. I believe He’s keeping a record of our attendance, and everything we do and don’t do.

I attend Sunday school every Sunday. I’m secretary of the Missionary Society, a faithful doorkeeper, president of the senior usher board. In fact, I’m so diligent on my usher job, nary does a gum chewer get past Ms. Arletha Brown. I run the floors of the church with an iron fist.

“Ms. Arletha, do you ever smile?” one of those little fast teenagers, Sister Penny’s oldest daughter, asked me a few weeks back.

Who’s got time to be smiling? “I’ll have plenty of time to smile once I get to heaven,” I said. “Ain’t a thing to smile about down here. The devil is busy and he wants nothing more than for me to miss getting into heaven. I’m on my job, little girl, and I expect Jesus will smile when He sees me coming. Now, y’all go on somewhere and set down,” I said as I gave her and her little friends my best frown, “like I done told you to. And don’t be over there talking during service, ’cause I will escort you out if I have to.”

Them children started laughing like something was funny. Ain’t a thing funny about going to hell. A lot of folks are gonna miss heaven and bust hell wide open! Just watch and see. And them same folks who think I’m some kind of a religious fanatic gonna be the main ones begging me to dip my finger in water and cool their parching tongues. Well, they can forget about that. ’Cause I’m working too hard now, trying to make it into heaven myself while they’re laughing and carrying on like tomorrow is promised. If folks want to stroll past those pearly gates and walk on streets paved with gold, they best be trying to follow in my footsteps.

Six days a week, you’ll find me working the church door, manning the aisles, or sitting reverently on a pew with my Bible in tow every one of those days. On the seventh day, I rest, just like God did. I only hope I’ll have done enough to make it in.

Folks around here be treating their salvation like it’s a game or something. Well, my eternal life ain’t no plaything.

I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I ain’t never done or even tried to do drugs. In fact I’m so committed, I won’t even take aspirins for my headaches. I don’t cuss. I ain’t never gambled a day in my life. I don’t lie; I tell folks the truth and I don’t care whether it hurts their feelings or not. I don’t overeat. In fact, I do some type of fasting at least once a month. Most times I do a three-day, no food fast. But I have done the Daniel Fast (ten days in a row) where you eat fruits, vegetables, and nuts; no meat, sugar, or caffeine.

When I pray, I get down on both my knees, and I pray for at least an hour. My head does not hit the pillow until I have read my Bible a minimum of one hour, every single night. I give money to the poor. I pay my tithes. I give offerings. Well, at least I did pay tithes and offerings up until a few weeks ago when I decided to leave where my church membership has been for the past forty-six years in search of a new church home.

I confess: I don’t agree with my soon to be ex-pastor and his decision to start allowing them young people to be doing that dancing and junk in the Lord’s house like all these other churches have begun to do here lately. I tried talking to Pastor Rainey and the deacons, but they seem bent on following the popular, worldly ways of late—trying to get more people to come to church and fill up some of those empty pews. Just selling out.

I figure if folks don’t want to come…too bad. We shouldn’t change the type of songs we sing just because the attendance has fallen off and folks are flocking to all these other churches. Contemporary gospel, hip-hop gospel, gospel rap, praise dancing: whoever heard of such nonsense! When will folks get it? Church is supposed to be dull and boring. I figure that’s how the Lord can tell who’s sincere and who’s not. People want to start changing everything, liven things up. Cutting out testimony service. Talking about folks holding too long just because they want to get out of church earlier. Wake up, people! These are the last days.

I contend if it was good enough for my mother, good enough for my father, then it’s good enough for me. The only person I can do anything about is me. And I’m just trying to make sure if nobody else does, I’m gonna make it to heaven. I ain’t got time for folks who don’t care about their own soul. Folks reading all kinds of filthy magazines and books, sleeping with any and everybody, smoking, doping, lying, cheating—sinning like there’s no tomorrow. You can’t hardly walk into a store these days without half-naked men and women jumping out at you off the covers of stuff. And the TV, Lord, you talk about an idle mind being the devil’s workshop. I have to protect my eye and ear gates.

Then I heard it. This Pastor Landris fellow said it, while the devil (I know it was him) tried—for a minute there anyway—to tell me this long-haired, ungodly man was talking to me.

“And some of you sitting here today are plagued by a stronghold of religion. You think you’re going to make it into heaven based on what you do here. You think you can live right enough and good enough to get in,” Pastor Landris said. “Well, let me tell you something. You cannot live good enough to make it into heaven. You don’t get into heaven based upon your works. Church, none of us are good enough. That’s why Jesus had to come. We are saved by grace. When you brag about what you’re doing that’s going to get you into heaven, it’s equivalent to saying: ‘What Jesus did on the cross, and God raising Him from the dead, was of no effect. I’m good enough to make it in on what I do and not what Jesus has already done.’ That just doesn’t line up with scripture.”

I watched Pastor Landris as he seemed, for one minute, almost to peer into my very soul. Then he said, “Break the stronghold of religion, legalism, and tradition. Just because you’ve always done something one way or believed in something all your life, doesn’t make you right. There’s a big difference in religious dogma and a relationship with Jesus the Christ. If religion has a stronghold on you, it’s highly likely you don’t truly know Jesus. And if you know about Jesus and don’t know Him—if you haven’t truthfully accepted Him as Lord and Savior—then you’re no better off than a sinner who has never accepted Jesus. Don’t deceive yourself. Ultimately, every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess that Jesus is Lord.” He nodded his head several times.

“When you get to heaven, you won’t be asked: What’s your religion?” Pastor Landris continued. “Don’t be deceived. You don’t want to be standing there trying to say what you did in God’s name, and have Him tell you He never knew you merely because you failed to confess your sins, accept Jesus and all He did on the cross, and believe that God raised Him from the dead.” Pastor Landris’s voice began to wind down. He scanned the sanctuary. “Joining a ‘church’ is not equivalent to being saved. And that’s what some of you unknowingly did at the time—you joined a group, but not the body of Christ.”

Blasphemy! That’s what I thought of Pastor Landris and his sermon. Blasphemy! Oh yes, I rebuked that. And I fully intended, after I got out of this place, to never darken this church’s doors again. But then Pastor Landris said words I’ve heard myself say to so many people over the past years of my life.

“If you died today, do you know—with certainty—where you’ll spend eternity? Because you are going to die, if you’re not caught up during the rapture; and you will spend an eternity somewhere. If you died today, do you know—with assurance—where you’ll spend your eternity? Salvation is not based on works, lest any man or woman should boast. If you’ve been living under the strongholds of merely a religious disguise, don’t gamble with your eternal life. Come…sign up for Abundant Life Assurance and make sure you’re not just covered against fire, but that you receive all you’re entitled to: full life coverage that includes among its many benefits theft protection with complete and full restoration. People, this is too important.” He held out his arms. “Won’t you come now? If you’re not sure, you can change things today. Let’s pull down some strongholds today.”

Before I knew anything, I found myself standing with a crowd of people who I’m sure, have boo-coo problems. I then heard a voice deep inside of me whisper, “Get the plank out of your own eye, before you worry about removing the splinter from someone else’s.”

I can’t help but wonder: Who was that message for? God, who here do You want me to relay that message to? Who can it be? This has to be the reason I was drawn to come up here. It must be to help someone already up here.

Has to be.

Elaine

I didn’t want to come to church, but the woman I’ve been staying with is something of a church fanatic. In fact, one of the reasons I chose to move in with her as opposed to getting my own place was because I believed she’d be a great cover.

I’ve been sort of in hiding for the past four years, just laying low until people quit looking for me. The only reason I came with her today is because Arletha is upset with the church where she has been a member for about a half a century (boring!), and she didn’t want to visit this new church by herself.

“I hear it’s rather a large church,” she said with what I’m learning to be her signature whine as she stood in my rented room in her house. “They say white people go there, so you wouldn’t feel out of place.” I didn’t bother to tell her once again that although I look white, I’m not white. “I just don’t know,” she said. “You have to be careful with some of these so-called churches.”

If I could have put her off, I certainly wouldn’t be here. But I can’t afford to get on her wrong side and get kicked out of her home. Not yet anyway.

Just last month, someone came knocking on the door where I was staying in St. Louis. The person who answered the door managed to turn him away, but still. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why, at seventy years old, I’m still such a high priority for anyone to want to find so badly after all these years. Every time I think they’ve left me alone, there’s another knock on the door or ringing of the telephone. “Yes, I’m looking for Memory Elaine Patterson Robertson,” they always say, before using the name I may be using in that place at the time.

Of course, I don’t always use my real name when I move to a place. But somehow, this private detective or whatever he is, has a way of figuring out just where I am. I barely had time to get out of St. Louis a month ago. I decided to come down deeper south this go ’round. Who will think to look for me here in Alabama, especially with Ms. Super-religious Arletha Brown answering the door? For sure, if anybody’s going to get into heaven, it has to be this straight-and-narrow woman. She can be as mean and ornery as a rattlesnake, yet she forever brags about what all she’s doing for the Lord.

I figured out early, this woman doesn’t have a clue. And quite honestly, I think she needs to buy another vowel. Her “I this…” and “I that…” has gotten on my last nerve, and I’ve only been with her for this short time. Somebody please give her a u or an o; anything else! But like I said, she is a great cover and her home is the perfect place for me to hide until I decide on my next move. Few people seem to want to be around her; that’s a plus for me. I don’t even think Jesus has come to her house in years, if he’s ever been here at all. There’s no room for Him, especially since she seems to believe she’s saving herself, all by herself, with all of her goodie-good works.

I am getting tired of running though. This moving around…being in constant hiding in more ways than I can say, takes a toll on you. I know Lena and Theresa are still upset with me about that Alexandrite necklace. No matter what I try to tell them, they’re not going to believe me. That’s the problem when you lie and deceive people (although I wouldn’t totally say I did either): people won’t believe anything you say after that.

To begin with, that necklace was mine. I don’t care how anybody might try to spin, dice, or explain it away. In my heart that necklace has always belonged to me. I asked Lena if she knew where the contents of that wooden box were a long time ago, and she said she didn’t, which, as it turns out, she obviously did. What else was there left for me to do other than what I was forced to?

Clearly, I couldn’t just walk up to Theresa’s door, ring the doorbell, and say, “Hi, my name is Memory Patterson. Theresa, I’m your grandmother, and Lena is my daughter. I’m not really here trying to get to know either one of you better. In fact, I really only came to get a necklace I am convinced Lena has in her possession. If one of you could go and get it and give it back to me, you could save all of us a lot of trouble and heartache, and I can be on my merry little way and out of your hair for good.”

Had Theresa protested, I could have told her what a horrible, self-centered person I was, and how much they all would be better off having me out of their lives sooner rather than later. Nope, that would never have worked.

But I did make one, ultimate miscalculation. I didn’t count on them treating me like family. Nor did I know being with my own flesh and blood like that would cause me to start changing. I admit: I got a little soft.

Whoever is looking for me, though, I hope it’s worth their while. I would have given up after all these years myself. So either Lena or Theresa called the police on me and filed a report that has caused the police to try and find me (which I seriously doubt the police would be looking this hard for somebody like me), or someone else I’ve wronged somewhere through the years has hired someone to stay hot on my trail.

Nobody, which includes Lena and Theresa, can prove I took anything. And even if they could prove anything, they have no evidence. I figure little Miss-High-and-Mighty Theresa is the likely culprit behind this man who has been following me from town to town. She’s probably more upset about me having left her back in 2001 the way I did when she was in labor than anything. And there was the 9/11 World Trade Center and all those other tragedies happening that day, alongside the joy of her baby being born….

The baby. I hear it was a little girl just like I told them it would be. The 9/11 thing had me a little worried for a while as I did wonder about what may have happened to Lena. But then I’d already done what I did, and it was too late to turn back. Gosh, who had a way of knowing? I did eventually learn Lena was okay. I also heard something about Beatrice dying; I’m sure that had to have sent Theresa completely over the edge.

Theresa seems to be vindictive enough; she would pay money for someone to hunt me down just for the principle of the thing. And I’ll give it to whomever it is searching; they are attempting to be quite clever about sniffing me out. Like when they had that detective tell folks I’m possibly heir to some huge fortune in, of all places, Asheville, North Carolina, and that it’s imperative my family locate me. Like I would really fall for that one. As soon as I took that bait, they would be reeling me into the nearest jailhouse and threatening to throw away the key or who knows what else.

Lately, I have considered making things right with my family. Just go on and allow that man to catch me and face the consequences. Frankly, I’m just tired of running. I’m too old to continue living this kind of lifestyle. Moving constantly, looking over my shoulders, hustling for my next “pay” day by any means necessary.

This minister was preaching about strongholds and being released from them.

“God can release you from the strongholds of your past,” Pastor Landris said. “Some of you may have done things you think you can never be forgiven of. There’s not a sin out there that you can’t bring before the Lord and ask Him to forgive you of that He won’t forgive. And God won’t bring up your past to you again. But now Satan will take your past and try to keep you in bondage. He’ll tell you how horrible you are. He’ll tell you that God could never forgive someone like you. But Satan is a liar, and the truth is not in him. Come, won’t you? Come, and let God release the shackles from around your ankles today. Let Him break the chains that have you bound.” He pulled his fist in different directions to show a chain being broken.

“If you’re tired of carrying around heavy weights that are holding you down,” Pastor Landris said, “then come. Let’s pray to have your stronghold released. If you want to be free, get up out of your seat and walk up here right now. Don’t wait for tomorrow. Today is your appointed time. Don’t worry about what the person sitting next to you will think. This is about you. Get up and come forward now. Right now. Today. Today is your day to be set free. For whom the Son sets free, is free indeed.”

I stood up, and the next thing I knew, I was standing at the altar with tears streaming down my face. I already knew the Lord; I’d given Him my heart when I was a young girl. True: I didn’t know what all that meant at the time. And I had turned away from Him and all that I knew to be right. But now it appears that in the midst of all my running away, I may be finding my way back to Him. It’s as though today, I am running into the arms of my Lord, who has been standing there waiting for me all this time.

“Take me back,” I found myself singing quietly as I walked to the front. “Take me back, dear Lord. To the place where I first received You.”