Journey To Redemption

Chapter 1

Chapter One

I learned how to manipulate people from a young age going to church. Pastor Rudders Prangles always put on a show. I watched him watch people. He told his congregation of eager listeners what they needed to hear. “You’ll be healed,” “You’ll be blessed,” “Your change is coming.” He would spout clichés that ignited a swell of enthusiasm and excitement as music would blare and bodies would dance in the isles.

My mother came to Trueway Church the summer of 1990. She was in an abusive relationship that had caused her many sleepless nights. She walked in with her five boys and filed into the back pew. I’m the second oldest of my brothers. Ron was fourteen, I was twelve, LJ was six, Marc was four and Mell, the youngest, was only three. We stood there in that gutted, double wide mobile home, dressed in our khaki pants, white starched shirts, and buster brown shoes in Bamberg, South Carolina. Momma had been fighting the night before, her dark skin puffy around her eyes. Momma was a strong woman, but she carried her pain in her face. She always looked like she wanted to cry but refused to ever let her children see her tears. Her eyes had the slightest hint of a gray ring around the pupils. Her face carried her fatigue. She had lost many fights. But she was a proud Christian woman. She was a product of old school salvation. The kind that stayed there till “death do you part.” The kind that prayed until change came. The kind that loved hard and hurt harder. Many nights we could hear her through the thin walls of our three-bedroom apartment, praying after she had fasted all day. She had a beautiful voice and always started out prayer with,

“I know somehow, I know some way, we’re going to make it. No matter what the test or whatever comes our way, we’re going to make it. With Jesus on our side, things will work out fine. We’re going to make it.”

And there she stayed, on her knees praying and praying, calling out to Jesus until the tongues came. There she stayed until the spirit took hold of her, moving her body in praise and dance, slaying her in the spirit, breaking her, exhausting her until her body slumped over, reducing her to tears. Then she would get up, ready to face another day, renewed in faith but still tired. She wanted something better for her children. She wanted something better for herself. She was tired of fighting at night then getting up to see her children off to school in the morning; tired of her body aching and stiff every morning; weary of fixing meals in the dark because the lights were off again; shattered from pleading for this man to stop hitting her while muffling her cries so that her children wouldn’t hear her torment and pain; disgusted from the smell of Schlitz malt liquor beer and Newport cigarettes lying next to her; fed up with the broken promises and countless extra women; frightened from the thought of what type of men these five boys were going to be with the example that lived at home. She prayed every day that God would intervene and save her boys from following the path of their live-in example. She prayed for a better illustration of a man.

That was how we found ourselves in the back of that church listening to God’s word from Rudders Prangles.

It seemed like he could smell her concerns. He was very observant. All predators are. He walked over to us and smiled in a way that made us feel comfortable. I was amazed. Never had I seen a man that didn’t drink or smoke, and he still took care of his own family. He was the first man that I had ever known who didn’t have children outside his marriage. He had a job, a real job that he kept year-round, unlike my stepdad who quit every few months. We sat there and watched as he looked at my mom in her face and told her, “God hears your prayers.”

She burst into tears. It was as if she had finally gotten confirmation that all of her suffering and pain would soon end. I remember how she cried and cried. I remember thinking about how different things were going to be now that God had heard her prayers. We all cried. My mom laid her head down in the palms of her hands. The other mothers and missionaries rushed to her with towels. They stood her up as the Pastor reached for the olive oil bottle. He unscrewed the top, poured it into his hands, rubbed them together and anointed her forehead. The oiled trickled down the side of her face as he prayed over her.

“Father God in the name of Jesus, once more again we come before you with bowed heads and humbled hearts.”

She looked renewed. Someone started clapping loudly. The drummer grabbed his sticks and began a hand clapping rhythm. The organist and the bass guitar player followed suit. And Momma danced. She danced and danced and danced. The Pastor walked over to all five of us and grabbed us all, anointing us all with oil. We jumped up and down, not really on rhythm, not sure what we were jumping for. But we jumped. Momma, on the other hand, glided across the floor. She had an angelic spirit that made us sit back and watch as she moved. She seemed to be with the angels. We left the church that day and went home with great expectations. Momma was happy. I hadn’t seen her smile in a long time, but nothing had changed.