A Sad Soul Can Kill You (6 page)

Shari looked at Cookie as she closed the door behind Serenity. “Do you have any homework?”

“Yep.”

“Is it done?”

Cookie shrugged.

Shari shook her head. “What does that mean?”

“I'm gonna do it.”

“Uh, excuse me. Don't you have school tomorrow?”

“I'm gonna do it right after dinner, Ma,” Cookie said as she headed for the kitchen.

“All right,” Shari said in a tone that implied harsh consequences if Cookie didn't get it done.

Shari turned her attention to her husband who was scrolling through job postings on a career Web site. She knew his focus was not on the conversation she and Cookie had been having. At that moment, she knew his focus was on finding a full-time job in his field as an alcohol and other drug abuse counselor.

Funding for the Christian-based treatment center where Tony worked had been decreased. As a result, the center had to let some employees go. Many of the counselors were kept, but their hours had been decreased and Tony was one of them. He stayed on because a part-time job was better than no job at all. But their bills were piling up, and he needed to start looking for full-time employment.

Tony's hope was to find a counseling position with another Christian-based treatment center. As a born-again Christian and a member of the First Temple Church, he wanted to continue sharing the Word of God with those dealing with addiction. And a counseling position at a Christian-based treatment center would allow him to freely do so.

Tony knew that an addict could not fight the demons of addiction alone, and he didn't want his clients to stop at the recovery mark. He wanted them to be permanently delivered—just as he had been. He could testify that God was the ultimate deliverer because He had delivered him from an addiction to crack cocaine twenty-two years ago. And he had been clean ever since.

As is the case with any addict, it had not been Tony's intention to become one. He didn't have a sad story to tell. There were no horrific episodes of child abuse, no neglect, or extreme poverty. There was nothing he could blame for the poor choices he'd made other than just that—the choices he'd made.

He had grown up in a two-parent household. His mother and father had raised him to know Jesus, and had loved and nurtured him along with his two older sisters. But Tony had been a follower not of Jesus but of the wrong crowd. When he was eighteen years old, he allowed the negative behavior of his friends to rub off on him, and he became a rebel without a cause.

Whatever his cohorts did, he did. He became a thief, a liar, and when he foolishly experimented with crack cocaine, he became an addict. And the unpretentious life he'd once lived was disrupted for five years.

Unfortunately, Tony's life had not been the only life he'd disrupted. His parents and sisters suffered right along with him; their days and nights filled with untold anxiety each time he went on a binge and disappeared for days at a time.

“Can't you see what you're doing to your mother?” his father had asked pointing to her shrinking body. Tony's mother had always been a full-figured woman, but the worrying she did about the safety of her son had caused her to slowly lose weight.

He still remembered the day his father had lost patience with him and had forbidden him to come back to their house.

“We didn't raise you this way,” he'd said full of anger. “If you want some help, act like it and we'll help you. If you don't, stop coming around here worrying your mother like you do.”

Tony's two sisters understood the ways of a crack addict as well, and although they loved him dearly, they were wise enough not to let him take advantage of their emotions which even he admitted he would have done had he been given the opportunity.

When he'd asked if he could stay with either one of them, they'd both said, “No.”

“Clean up your act!” they'd yelled between tears. “Get it together!”

He remembered standing in front of them wondering why they were crying.
He
should have been the one crying because what they hadn't understood was that he didn't have the power to get it together. He
couldn't
clean up his act. He'd tried. Many times.

He'd uttered prayers to God for deliverance. But they had been heartless prayers because his thoughts had been consumed with how and when he could get his next high before the high he was on wore off. Back then, the longest Tony had gone without using had been two days.

While he was in bondage to his addiction Tony had done some things he wasn't proud of—like the time he'd snatched an elderly woman's purse from her shoulder. He'd been following behind her as she'd walked slowly down the sidewalk. When she stopped at the crosswalk, he ran past her, snatching her purse as he passed.

He had pulled the purse from her shoulder with so much force that he'd caused her to fall forward, hitting her head on the pavement. But he hadn't looked back as he'd heard her scream, and he'd been gone before anyone had a chance to catch him or identify him.

Later that night, he remembered watching the news and hearing the story about an elderly woman who'd had her purse snatched, and how she'd suffered a concussion and a broken arm in the process.

There had only been fourteen dollars in her purse, and for a long time afterward, Tony would hear the woman's screams even after he had consumed enough drugs to eradicate any sensitivities he may have had left. Sometimes, he would have drug-induced auditory hallucinations, and he couldn't tell if the screams he heard were that of the woman or of himself.

It wasn't until he found himself homeless and rummaging through garbage cans for food that he began to have a true change of heart. It was then that he earnestly called on the name of the Lord for deliverance. And it was then, prodigal son that he was, that God heard his cries and had mercy on him.

Now, twenty-two years later, his family had long forgiven him, but every now and then he caught himself momentarily wishing he could undo the hurt and pain he'd caused them.

After he'd been delivered and set free from his addiction, Tony discovered there were still consequences he would have to pay for the crimes of petty theft he'd committed and been convicted of.

“Along with restitution,” the judge had said, “I'm ordering you to forty hours of community service. You may not have the money to pay back everyone right now, but you certainly have plenty of time to volunteer.” He had slammed the gavel down on the pad, then stood up to leave. “Now get out of my courtroom and go make yourself useful,” he'd said as he stepped down from the bench. “Make something out of yourself other than a thief or a hoodlum.”

The comment had stuck with Tony. It could have been his own father talking to him, and it had been like a slap in the face.

The forty hours of community service had involved picking up debris and litter that had been scattered around the city. It was during this time that Tony's upbringing returned to him. He knew God had spared him from a far worse fate, and Tony realized he had not been spared just to complete his forty hours of service, and then mosey on about his business.

He had a story to tell and—if he stayed clean—a testimony. He realized his life could be an inspiration to other people going through the same thing he'd gone through, and after he had fulfilled all of the judge's requirements, he had enrolled in college. He obtained a degree in human services and had been working as a certified substance abuse counselor ever since.

He continued browsing through the list of jobs on the Web site.

“Find anything good yet?” Shari asked.

“Not yet.” He pressed his wavy, cropped hair down onto the nape of his neck. “Still looking.”

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“A little. I didn't eat anything out of the ordinary. I don't know why my stomach started hurting like that.”

“I do,” she said.

“Come on now,” he glanced at her, “don't start that again.”

Shari looked at her husband of twenty years. They were the same age, but the stress of losing half of his income was beginning to have an effect on him. Multiple strands of gray hair had begun to reveal themselves around the temple of his hairline and in his goatee. The darkness under his eyes was the same shade of brown as the freckles that decorated his fair skin, and it made him look older than his forty-five years.

She looked at her husband lovingly. The intense look of concentration on his face made her decide to postpone telling him about the utility disconnection notice they had received in the mail.

Tia's heart was beating fiercely as she turned the corner with a screech. She slowed the car down as she steered it into the church parking lot and remained seated in the car, giving herself time to settle down.

A few minutes later, she entered the huge foyer of the First Temple Church and walked through the multicolored arched doorway that led to the sanctuary.

Bibles, coats, and hats took up much of the space on the wooden pews, and Tia continued down the carpeted aisle until she found a seat just a few rows from the pulpit.

“Today,” Pastor Worthy said as the melodic tenor of his voice resonated throughout the small church, “I want to preach about the temptations of the flesh. Turn your Bibles to 2 Timothy, chapter 2, verse 26,” he commanded.

Of all things to preach about, why this topic at this time?
Tia thought as she sat down on a wooden pew in the middle row. She listened to the rustling sound of Bible pages turning simultaneously as the pastor spoke.

“I want to talk about captivity,” the pastor said. And then he read verse 26.

“Satan,” the pastor shouted out, “has so many different snares that he uses to hold a soul captive. Bullets,” he hollered. “Let's call them bullets. Now, the first bullet only grazes you by finding your weakness, and if you're not saved, let me tell you there are many.” He paused to wipe the moisture from his forehead with the white cloth he always had with him.

“The second bullet,” he continued, “is just a flesh wound, but it draws you in nonetheless by enticing you with whatever your weakness—or weaknesses—may be. Now, in the beginning it's pleasurable.”

Tia tugged at the collar on her shirt. It was hot in the sanctuary—or was it just her?

“Uh-huh,” the pastor continued. “Oh yeah. The enemy's going to see to that. But after awhile,” he slammed his fist down onto the podium, “after awhile, you're going to find that it holds less and less pleasure!” He let out a little moan, and then he wiped his forehead again.

Tia caught the attention of one of the ushers and asked for a fan. Moments later, he returned with a small hand held fan. She gripped the thin wooden handle and began waving the round piece of paper connected to it back and forth in front of her face.

“You're gonna want to walk away from it,” the pastor said, “but now your flesh—” he was interrupted by the congregation's stomping of feet and clapping of hands, “—your flesh, having been wounded, is too weak to do so!”

“This,” he pointed his finger out into the congregation. Tia glanced around at the other members. Had he only been pointing at her? “This,” he continued, “is the point when the third and final bullet gets embedded deep into your flesh.” He swayed backward as he emphasized the word
deep
.

“And you are now being held captive by the enemy.” He stopped to catch his breath. “He ends up enslaving you with the lustful desires of your own heart! And the Bible says, ‘. . . sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.'”

The man sitting next to Tia jumped up from his seat and began clapping his hands as he yelled, “Preach!”

Various members of the congregation shouted out, “Yes, Lord!” “Amen!” and “Have mercy!”

Tia remained stoic and showed no outward signs of the turmoil going on within her.

Pastor Worthy concluded his sermon by asking, “Brothers and sisters, do you see how that old devil works? He's doing the same old thing, the same old way. This ain't nothing new!” His eyes roamed across the congregation. “Just look in your Bible,” he said. “There are countless stories in there about individuals who got caught up by the lust of their flesh: Samson, David and Bathsheba, and more.”

The pastor lowered his voice. “Remember what 1 Corinthians, Chapter 6, Verses 9 through 10 tells us about the consequences of unrepented sin.” He began to read.

Tia stopped fanning.

“Now, folks,” he said, “this is God's Word, not mine so don't get mad at me.” He extended his arms out to the congregation. “If anyone is here tonight and you've fallen into one of those categories . . . or maybe you fell into another category that I didn't mention, but you want to know Jesus—you want a new life—you want to be changed . . .” He stepped down from the pulpit. “You don't want to do the things you used to do, say the things you used to say, act the way you used to act . . . Come to Jesus. Come now.”

The choir started singing “Just As I Am.” Tia remained seated as several men, women, and teenagers got up from their seat and made their way down to the front of the pulpit. Her eyes became watery. One more blink and the clear liquid would start rolling down her cheeks. She hadn't planned to commit adultery, but what was she supposed to do if her husband ignored her desires?

She clenched her teeth. Surely God didn't want her to live with such depravity—but then again, what had God said about adultery? She picked up the fan and began fanning herself again as the tears began rolling unevenly down her face. The strong voices of the choir softened as the service came to an end.

Tia wiped her eyes and prepared to leave. What had Pastor Worthy said about sin? He'd said it felt good, and Tia convinced herself that she deserved to feel good for a change. Right now, she felt like a woman. She felt alive. But with a twinge of guilt she had to admit that it had been another man, not God, who had resuscitated her.

She grabbed her Bible and stood up. Yes, Pastor Worthy had said sin felt good, but what he'd also said—and what Tia had tried to ignore—was that the end result of sin was death.

 

 

Serenity entered the house through the kitchen door, which allowed her to bypass the living room—and her father—who she thought would be passed out on the couch like he almost always was. She headed for her bedroom upstairs when he called her name.

“Serenity!” he yelled.

He startled her, and she stood still, trying to decide if she should go into the living room or run upstairs like she wanted to.

She heard his footsteps coming toward the kitchen and decided to meet him halfway.

He loomed over the entryway of the kitchen. “Where you been?” His question sounded more like an accusation.

“At Cookie's house,” she said defensively.

“Your mama was looking for you. Ain't this church night?”

“I had to study.” She looked up at him. His eyes were filled with what she thought was disapproval, and she was immediately sorry she had looked into them. He brushed past her and headed for the refrigerator.

Serenity went upstairs to her bedroom and sat by the window facing the fenced in backyard. She tried to visualize the landscaping below that had been made invisible by a sheet of crystallized snow. Fallen acorns from the ominous-looking oak tree formed a haphazard pattern on top of the frozen snow and the trees' branches hung low from the weight of the thick ice that encased them.

Bushes struggled to maintain an upright position under the weight of the icy burden, and a mound of snow covered the bench that sat in the center of the yard. Serenity noticed a display of small animal prints decorating the surface of the snow-covered bench.

Suddenly, several squirrels began ducking in and out of the many nooks and crannies of the timeworn trunk. As cold as it was, they didn't seem to be affected by the single-digit temperatures at all as they continued their fast-paced game of hide-and-seek. After a few minutes, all but one of the squirrels had disappeared.

The last squirrel continued darting in and out of one of the trunk's crevices until Serenity tapped on the window; then it crawled down to the bottom of the tree and stopped.

She thought about how she'd almost knocked over the lamp at Cookie's house, and the comment Cookie had made. Her mind pictured the look of disgust her mother gave her every time she knocked something over and it broke. Another sting. And lately, she'd noticed that same look on her father's face, even when she hadn't stumbled over anything, even when nothing had shattered to pieces.

Serenity realized she was squeezing the fashion magazine she'd gotten from Cookie in her hand. She turned from the window, smoothed out the wrinkled pages, and opened the magazine to the page that had captured her attention earlier.

She discovered that a modeling agency was looking for girls between the ages of thirteen and eighteen years old to model the upcoming fashions for spring. Local auditions were going to be held at the Brookridge Mall on the first Sunday in March.

Her heart began to race. That was only three weeks away. This could be her chance to prove everyone wrong, to silence the jokes that Cookie made, and erase the looks of disapproval from her parents' faces. She would do it. She would go down to the mall and audition.

Her only prayer was that her mother would not stand in her way. She looked out the window once more, and the last squirrel was nowhere to be found.