No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown) (9 page)

“This little boy—”

“Don’t deny it!” she fussed.
“I saw you. And I’ll bet if his mother knew you were—”

“I
am
his mother,” I
set the record straight.

Seth tugged my arm. “Mommy,
can we go inside?”

Shock splashed across their
faces as my son confirmed our relationship. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I
was the only dot in the picture.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Security
gave a sheepish grin and pointed at the woman. “She just said there was a black
lady beating somebody’s kid and…we have to protect the public.”

I wanted to send Seth in to
sit by his father so I could confront both the guard and the woman and ask if
they would have been as concerned if the child were black. Or even if we’d both
been white. But I didn’t want to go there in front of my son.

“Your concern is misplaced,”
I seethed.

“Well, you two don’t look
like…” her voice trailed off as I shot her the duck lips, daring her to say
another word in front of my baby.

She threw her hands up and
walked away. Didn’t even apologize.

For the second time, however,
the guard reiterated his regrets, probably hoping I wouldn’t report him to his
manager so he’d be relieved of that fake Underoos-lookin’ plastic badge.

I was beyond hot with both of
them. “I’ll accept your apology, but I hope you learned a lesson.”

“Mo-meee!” Seth jerked my
sleeve. “We’re missing it.”

Without another word, I
followed my son into the darkness of the theater. We sidestepped down our row
again and joined the rest of our otherwise normal family.

Sometimes, I could
almost
forget we were a cross-cultural family. That Stelson was white and I was black,
and that our kids were halfway in between.

Almost.

I told Stelson about the
incident later that day, after we’d finished with all our family fun. I guess I
didn’t want to spoil our good time, though I had been suddenly thrust into the
world of black-and-white and noticed all the people of various races who took
special notice of us. Observing us like we were a spectacle. Visually examining
my children’s hair texture. Matching up Seth’s eyes with Stelson’s, Zoe’s
darker skin color with mine.

They made me want to put my fingers
in my ears and stick out my tongue. Then at least they’d have something worth
gawking at.

Stelson, of course, picked up
on my change in mood and that’s when I let him in on the spanking followed by
the interrogation.

He wanted to know why I
didn’t text him so he could come out and handle it.

“Honey, you can’t
handle
prejudice,” I said. “It’s in people’s hearts.”

“Some people are ignorant,”
he said. He rubbed my neck as I secured my wrapped hair with a scarf.

Really, his hands were in the
way, but I didn’t want to shoo him away at the moment. “Out of the overflow of
the heart, the mouth speaks,” I quoted the Word.

“Mmm,” he grunted. “Can’t
argue.”

My husband tried. He really
did. But in light of what happened at the movies and what my father and I had
discussed, I wasn’t sure if Stelson knew exactly what he was up against, what
we’d both signed up for as an interracial couple raising biracial children.

Lord, help us.

For some reason, every single
Sunday morning was a struggle, no matter how early or how late I set the alarm
clock. Even before I got married, this was a problem, but without someone
waiting on me to leave, I didn’t notice it.

Having kids didn’t help.
Sometimes we each took one child to get dressed. And yet, I could never hold up
my end of the bargain.

If there was one thing my
husband hated, it was being late. Drove him nuts.

I, on the other hand, wasn’t
nearly as perturbed by lateness to church, work, or anywhere else. What I
really
didn’t like was being rushed by someone who only took ten minutes to get
dressed.

Stelson honked the horn
again. He and Seth were already in the car, and he had managed to give Seth the
extra time it took for him to tie his own shoes.

I was still stuffing Zoe’s feet
into her white patent leather shoes, hoping they would make it through a few
more weeks on her growing feet.

“Zoe, Zoe, your Daddy is
ready to go-eey!”

I must have swung her from
the crib too quickly because a stream of puke came flowing out of her mouth and
onto her green cotton dress.

“No, Zoe. Nooooo.” I
flubbered my lips in exasperation, which caused Zoe to smile. And, of course,
my baby’s smile was contagious.

“Shondra. What’s taking so
long?” Stelson barged into the baby’s room. “What are you doing?”

“I’m—”

“Looks like you’re in here
making goo-goo eyes with Zoe.”

“If you’d let me finish a
sentence, you’d know that she just spit up on her clothes. Now I have to change
her.”

He threw a hand in the air.
“What happened to her bib?”

“I hadn’t put it on her yet,”
I defended myself against what I perceived to be unspoken allegations of
inadequate motherhood.
Look, man, I done already quit my job. What else do
you want from me?

Stelson shook his head and
stormed out again.

How we managed to get so off
track right before Sunday service always confused me. The corporate worship
experience was supposed to be the most sacred event of the week. The time when
I felt most holy, an opportunity to be inspired and refocus. And all I could
think about on the way to church was how I wished the Lord would slap my
husband upside the head.

Seth sat in his seat staring
at us through the rear view and visor mirrors as I put the finishing touches on
my makeup. My son was probably wondering why Stelson and I weren’t talking. Zoe
must have felt the tension, too, because she got fussy on the way. Seth tried
to entertain her as much as possible, though his seatbelt wouldn’t allow much
more than holding her hand.

Stelson dropped the kids and me
off at the side entrance, then drove off to find a parking spot. From the looks
of things, he’d have a long walk back to the sanctuary, which wouldn’t help his
attitude.

Parents, mostly moms, stood
in the check-in line. If they were anything like me, they were counting down
the seconds until they could be child-free.

Of course, the scripture
painted on the wall would have to convict me. “
Children are a heritage of
the Lord, offspring a reward from Him.” Psalm 127:3 NIV.
How could I
have so quickly forgotten all the infertility hoops Stelson and I had jumped
through to have children?
Forgive me, Lord.

After waiting in a short
line, I checked both kids into children’s church at one of the kiosks, grabbed
their printed stickers, and pressed them onto each child’s back.

“Hi, Sister Brown!” Ebby, one
of the faithful children’s church leaders, greeted me. “How are you?”

Despite the anger simmering
in my heart at the moment, I replied with churchy flavor, “Good! How are you?”

Ebby hugged me, which gave
Zoe ample opportunity to grab hold of a fistful of Ebby’s dreadlocks.

“Zoe, no,” I said, prying her
fingers from Ebby’s hair.

Ebby laughed heartily,
“Happens all the time. Kids are fascinated by my hair.”

I had to admit that the
mysterious twists on her head were interesting to me, too. In fact, I’d taken
the liberty to register the texture with my finger as I loosened Zoe’s grasp.
The light brown locks were softer than I’d imagined.

“This one certainly loves
your style,” I complimented Ebby.

Her soft, shiny cheeks rose
to a full crest. “I’ll see you later.” She rushed off to wherever she’d been
headed before she took a moment to speak to me.

Ebby’s patient, pleasant
demeanor with Seth as a baby set me at ease with leaving Zoe in the care of the
nursery volunteers at Living Word Church. And Seth was learning so much in his
Sunday school and children’s Bible study classes that I knew his teachers took
this special ministry seriously.

During the hair-pulling
distraction, Seth had managed to crawl behind the kiosks and was, apparently,
busy trying to discover where the sticker paper came from.

“Seth! Get out from around
there!”

He obeyed quickly, with a
mischievous smile. I pinched his arm with enough force to let him know I meant
business without leaving a mark.

I dropped the kids off in
their respective classes, then left that building trailing the covered walkway
to the main sanctuary. Waiting for Stelson, I sat on one of the benches in the
foyer. He finally arrived, and we proceeded—without discussion—to
our regular section of the church. Right side, second section of pews. The
ushers knew our preference. We were regulars, and Stelson was one of the
long-time members. Not that we had special privileges. I suppose it was like
how Mother Bohannan had her spot at Gethsemane COGIC. People expected her to
sit there as much as they respected her routine.

Living Word Church had grown
into an adult-heavy congregation. There was a good chunk of teenagers, but
there weren’t as many kids around as I remembered when Stelson and I first
married and I joined the church. The rainbow of colors present had always made
for a pleasant, gawk-free experience. When all our hands were raised toward
heaven, the spectrum of color was beautiful to behold. People from every nation
praising Him in our mid-sized sanctuary.

Almost half of each service
was spent in praise and worship, which instantly lowered the temperature of the
anger brewing in my chest. “Here I am to worship…”
I know it upsets my
husband when we’re late, Lord. I need to do better.
“Altogether wonderful
to me.”

As I blessed the Lord with the
fruit of my lips, gratefulness coursed through my soul.

Without notice, the pain of
losing my mother sprang up fresh. Threatened to overtake me. But in truth,
recollections of Momma added to my praise. I could only thank God for the years
she
was
alive, pouring into my life. Not everyone had a
mother when they were growing up. Some people’s mothers didn’t get to see them
finish high school, college, earn a master’s degree, become a professional
success, and walk down the aisle to say “I do”. Some never got to see any of
their grandchildren.

Other people didn’t have good
mothers, and instead of suffering the pain of loss, they suffered the
inexplicable pain of neglect, abuse, or indifference.

My mother was good. And she
was in the presence of a good God. “I’ll never know how much it cost…”

Counting my blessings brought
thoughts of the wonderful man He had brought into my life ten years earlier,
who was standing at my side. Stelson was an amazing husband. He loved the Lord,
he loved me, and he was proving himself a great father to our children, despite
the fact that Stelson lost his own father to cancer when he was only nine. It
was hard to believe now that I’d almost missed out on the blessing of being
married to a man of God because Stelson was white. The way God changed my heart
through Stelson’s love and companionship was nothing short of an earth-moving
miracle testimony. I didn’t know many women—black
or
white—with a husband like mine.

The final stanza of the song
was a reflection of how much it cost Jesus to pay for our sin, which sent tears
trickling down my face as my hands flew toward heaven. I didn’t deserve God’s
goodness, but He loved me.
He loves me.

Skylar Woodland, the worship
leader, led us in a moment of prayer, thanking God for His Son, Jesus. And then
she asked us to pray with someone near us.

Of course, this brought
Stelson and me face-to-face. Immediately, I folded my arms around his neck and
whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry.”

He locked onto my waist and
prayed as we swayed to the slow beat of worship, “Father, I thank You for this
beautiful woman. Thank You for our family. Thank You for teaching us both to be
obedient to You and submissive to one another, as Your Word directs. We stand
against division in our home. Help us to put aside hard feelings this morning
so we can hear Your voice. And please God,
please
help us to get to
church on time in the future. Amen.”

Now, that last request wasn’t
quite the prayer I think Skylar had in mind when she’d instructed us to go
before the throne. But I let it slide because Stelson sealed the prayer with a
peck on my cheek.

“Amen,” I agreed.

The announcements, which
followed worship, found Stelson and I scrunched close together.
Thank you,
Lord, for giving us both hearts to forgive easily.

Assistant Pastor Gales
reiterated the upcoming church Labor Day picnic to be held at Ronnie Reed Lake.
The fellowship team was planning a day of kayaking, a trail hike, and barbecue.

Stelson nudged me. “You wanna
go?”

“Uh, that would be a no.”

“Why not?”

“You know I don’t do
outside.”

“Oh, come on. Didn't you ever
go camping when you were a kid?”

I snarled my face. “No.”

“Camping’s great. Lakes are
fun. You’ll see.”

I exhaled, knowing once my
husband got it in his mind he was going to expose our kids to an adventure, he
would make it happen.

I’m not trying to be funny,
but this was definitely not something from the COGIC list of things to do.
Barbecue, yes. But hiking trails and kayaking? Absolutely not. Anything that
might mess up a black woman’s hair couldn’t be placed on an official church
agenda.

 The multi-cultural mix
of people at Living Word had introduced me to a world of cuisines, traditions,
and customs through various celebrations and missions’ updates. So far, except
for a few bites of food discreetly spat into a napkin, there had been no
serious setbacks.

After Pastor Toole’s timely
message on asking the Holy Spirit for help when we’ve reached the end of our
ropes—or better yet,
before
we come to the end of
ourselves—new members received the right hand of fellowship and church
was dismissed.

Stelson, the kids, and I
trekked to my parents’ house after service. According to Stelson, he and my
father had conversed by phone and had respectfully agreed to disagree about
Seth’s future as a black man. For now, Daddy would hold off on the hard-core
facts.

“I didn’t know you two
talked,” I mumbled as I read through the Sunday program again. “Why didn’t you
tell me?”

“Some things are man-to-man.”

Hmph
.

We stopped and picked up a
meal of rotisserie chicken with French fries and green beans. “Baby, get an
extra chicken. I want Daddy to have some extra for the next couple of days,” I
said to Stelson at the drive-thru order screen.

The smell from the plastic
bags sent Zoe into a tizzy until we reached Daddy’s house and I gave her a
pinch from a French fry to swish around her gums. This child was not supposed
to be eating table food, according to all the doctor charts.

I remembered when I’d gotten
angry with my mother for putting cereal in Seth’s milk when he was only five
months old. “Momma! He’s not supposed to have cereal until next month!”

“Says who?” she’d fussed.

“Says all the books! It leads
to food allergies and teaches them to overeat!” I informed her.

Momma rinsed Seth’s empty
bottles and packed them into his diaper bag. I cringed, thinking of all the
germs still inside since she hadn’t used the special anti-bacterial
bottle-cleansing soap I packed. Those bottles would have to be washed again
when I got home.

“Shondra, you gon’ get enough
of readin’ books to try and figure out how to raise your baby. What color is
the person who wrote that book, anyway?” she asked.

“What difference does it
make?” I asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the counter.

“Makes a world of difference.
Black babies are different. We got a different makeup. Different genes.
Everything that works for white babies don’t work for black. Now, I’m not sure
what’s going on with my grandbaby since he’s half-and-half, but I know one
thing—he was hungry, so I fed him. And he wouldn’t sleep, so I had
Jonathan pick up a little thing of cereal. I put a few pinches in that bottle,
widened the nipple a little with a fork. Next thing I knew, Seth was out for
the night. He woke up this morning with the biggest grin on his face, like he
was glad
somebody
finally filled his little tummy.”