He Restores My Soul (The Langston Family Saga Book 1)

by LaShonda Bowman

  "I can't speak for Kristina or Tamia. I imagine they did. But me? Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

  Just after it happened, it was all she could think about. She was haunted with questions like: Did she bury him? Where? Did she dump him somewhere? Did she just throw him in the trash?

  It was what made it so hard for her to love Mahalia. Even when she was sick and incapacitated by the stroke. People would have assumed, had they known their history, it was the beatings and the abuse. But for some reason, for Pam, those would have been easy to forgive. Or, maybe not easy, but possible. But the way their mother had handled the birth? That was something altogether different.

  Pam always assumed that her mother had thrown him away. Like garbage. And though she never knew him, though he hadn't lived long enough to take a breath, it was the one thing Pam never forgave.

  "It never occurred to me,” Pam finally said. "It never even crossed my mind that maybe he wasn't dead. I mean, he was so limp and still."

  As much as she would’ve liked to believe Kristina's son survived and had been alive and well all this time, it just didn't seem likely. And not only because of the way he looked when he was born.

  “The thing is, I don't see how my mother could’ve kept this a secret. I mean, she was furious when she realized Kristina was pregnant. Like we said, she nearly beat her to death. And if you had seen the way she came in there and stuffed him in that shoebox," she shook her head again. "No. Even if he had lived, I can’t imagine she would’ve left all she had to him. I can’t imagine she would've acknowledged him, at all.”

  "Not then. Not the Mahalia you girls knew that night. But what about later? What about after you left? What about after the stroke? You yourself said that she was different."

  It was true. After the stroke, her mother was different. But a complete personality change? That was almost as hard to believe as the baby surviving. But then again, nothing else was making sense, either.

  "Okay, for arguments sake, let's say that he did survive. I still don't know if I could buy my mother having any sort of connection to him, much less leaving him an inheritance.”

  Robin shrugged. "Maybe she felt guilty."

  Guilt. Now that was something Pam could imagine. And after everything her mother had done, the only thing that made sense. She might not have become a whole new person, but she could've changed enough to at least feel sorry over how she’d raised them.

  Pam took a deep breath and exhaled. "So what do we do now? Is there any way that I can see him? Talk to his family? His parents, maybe?"

  Robin put up her finger. "Just one minute." She pulled out her phone and dialed. "Hey, Deandra! Listen, what time do you all have choir practice today?"

  Pam watched and Robin looked at her and nodded. "Okay. And one more thing. Do you know if the Morris boys are going to be there?"

  Again, Robin looked at Pam, only this time, she gave her a thumbs up. "Thanks, love. I'll talk to you later, okay? Bye.”

  "Okay." Robin said, returning her phone to her handbag. "You know that musical in honor of your mother?"

  Pam nodded.

  "Well, the mass choir is having a complete run through today at New Life. And not only are the boys going to be there, at least two of them are featured soloists. During the day, the sanctuary is always open. You could go in and sit near the back if you wanted to. You're bound to see him."

  Again, Pam felt it.

  The beat, the pause, and the beat again.

  Of course, she wanted to see him. But at the same time, she wanted to drive to Dallas International, get on the first plane out and never look back again.

  There were only two outcomes.

  One. He was Kristina's son. While it was extraordinarily happy news, Pam could only imagine the emotional landmine it would be for Kristina's recovery.

  Outcome two? He wasn’t Kristina’s son. And Pam would have to mourn her nephew all over again. And though she told her heart not to hope, it had already gone that route without her.

  But good outcome or bad, Pam had to know…

  "Could I bother you to stay one more day? Just in case it’s him? If it is, I'm going to need your help. Because I don't have any idea what I'm going to do.”

  “Of course, whatever you need.”

  Despite how much Pam had tried smother it, hope fluttered around in her chest, fragile as a butterfly.

  Chapter 12

  When Pam arrived at the parking lot of New Life Tabernacle Church, it was already full of cars, with more still arriving. Some choir members and musicians stood out front, laughing, talking and greeting one another.

  She turned off her ignition and waited. No doubt, she was far less recognizable than Kristina was, but after being at their mother's funeral, she didn't want to take any chances and end up having to give a reason for being there.

  After the last of the stragglers made their way into the church building, Pam did the same.

  Only the lights over the pulpit area were on, casting the huge cavern of a sanctuary into darkness. One look at the platform stopped her in her tracks. She’d never seen a choir so large. They covered the platform and overflowed onto the steps leading down to the altar. She quickly located the tenors and was disheartened to see how many people were in that section alone.

  She’d planned on staying in the back of the church, but decided to move in for a better look. She found a seat close enough to watch, but still far enough to be hidden in the shadows from any singers and musicians that could easily look out into the sanctuary.

  Her eyes rapidly moved from face to face, looking for any familial resemblance amongst the tenors. Finding none, she encouraged herself to calm down and start again. Slowly, she studied the face of each young man.

  Some were laughing and talking to friends. A few were flirting with a nearby soprano or alto. A few others waited quietly for rehearsal to begin. One was reading.

  None of them looked like Kristina.

  Pam steeled herself against the wave of heartache that crashed up against her.

  Not seeing him didn't mean he wasn't there. There were at least a dozen reasons no one looked familiar to her. Maybe he hadn't arrived yet. Maybe he was behind someone taller. Maybe he looked like his father.

  But studying the faces of the younger male choir members for the third time in a row made her have to admit another explanation. The only one she wanted to ignore.

  Maybe she didn’t recognize anyone as her nephew because he’d already died close to twenty years before.

  It was a long shot from the beginning.

  The idea that an obviously stillborn baby had somehow survived and become the only heir of the grandmother that kept his existence a secret sounded too much like a soap opera. Even to her.

  Not just a soap opera, but a fairy tale.

  But this was no fairy tale. It was real life and things like that just didn’t happen. Her brain told her to get up and walk out the door. But for some reason, her heart wouldn't let her move.

  At the direction of the organist, the choir members settled down and took their places. The choir director, after a few words with the organist, came to the front.

  "Okay, y'all. We’re gonna run through the whole thing, from top to bottom. If there's anything we need to work on, I'll give you some notes after we finish that selection. But for the most part, we want to move straight through so we can get an idea of what we’re looking at, time wise."

  The organist started playing and the strains of the Hammond B3 organ filled the sanctuary. Pam closed her eyes to take it in.

  Someone that hadn't grown up in the church wouldn’t understand, but there was something about the sound of a B3 that touched her like nothing else could.

  This was where they were from, she and her sisters. The church. Kristina may have teased her, called her the church girl, but the truth was, they were all church girls. Born and raised. Whether it was their home church of Mt Zion or the little white COGIC chapel their mother served as minister of mus
ic, the Langstons were the first to arrive when the doors opened and the last to leave.

  It was something that couldn't be explained to an outsider. The shut-ins, the all-night prayer sessions, the Easter programs, the first Sunday dinners, the congregational songs, the unmistakable sound of the B3. It filled her with a sense of home unlike anything else.

  The choir started singing their first selection. She recognized the music immediately. It was one of the many hymns her mother had rearranged for choirs to sing in parts.

  It started with the rich mid-range tone of the altos, joined by the warm and deep sound of the tenors. Rising, then falling, one behind the other. Finally, the crystal-clear voices of the sopranos blended in.

  Just as I am—without one plea,

  But that Thy blood was shed for me,

  And that Thou bidst me come to Thee,

  O Lamb of God, I come...

  She hadn't realized she was crying until she felt the wetness of her teardrops on her folded arms.

  Just as I am—poor, wretched, blind;

  Sight, riches, healing of the mind,

  Yea, all I need, in Thee to find,

  O Lamb of God, I come…

  No matter what hell they might have endured at the hands of their mother, somehow, the church itself was never tainted by it. Then, as now, she always felt a peace and comfort in the pews of a church that no amount of alcohol could ever provide.

  Just as I am—and waiting not

  To rid my soul of one dark blot,

  To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot,

  O Lamb of God, I come…

  But along with the comfort, there was something else. Something dark and ugly. Something she never spoke out loud.

  She hadn't said anything the day before, but she understood how Kristina felt. She knew what it was like to love God, but not be able to believe He could love her back.

  Just as I am—Thy love, I own,

  Has broken every barrier down;

  Now to be Thine, my joy and crown,

  O Lamb of God, I come...

  Pam hugged her arms tight around her middle. It made her ache, that uncertainty. She'd give anything to know, to really know deep down, that He loved her.

  Like back when she was a girl. Then, she knew. It was the only thing that kept her sane. He was the best friend that she told all her troubles to. The One to Whom she whispered her deepest fears and darkest secrets long into the night.

  Just as I am—of that free love

  The fullness and the depth to prove,

  Here for a season, then above—

  O Lamb of God, I come!

  Her sisters always considered her the strong one. What they didn't know was that she drew every ounce of strength from Him. It was choir rehearsals like this that helped her get through.

  While their mother used to make them rehearse for hours and hours, sometimes to the point of hoarseness, it never did anything for Pam. She hated those practice sessions. But choir rehearsal? That was different.

  Sometimes, the choir would sing and sing and get so caught up, rehearsal would break out into praise and worship. It would go on for hours and hours, just like her mother's practice sessions. But unlike her mother’s practice sessions, Pam never wanted it to end.

  After those Saturday afternoons, she felt strong. Like God Himself was with her. And she knew that she could go back home and face her mother for another week.

  Everything that happened—the beatings, the box, the verbal abuse and torture—she only survived it by leaning on the love of God.

  But something broke the night Kristina gave birth. Nothing, including her view of God, was ever the same again. And with each year that passed, it became harder and harder for her to believe. And the less she believed, the harder it was to sing. And before she knew it, she didn't sing at all.

  Chapter 13

  "Sister Pam?"

  Pam looked up to see Pastor Thomas smiling down at her.

  "I didn't expect to see you here today!"

  She motioned at the choir. "I thought I'd listen in."

  His grin widened. "Yes, I'm here for the same thing. I can't imagine a better way to honor the legacy of music your mother left to the church community."

  She tried to give him a smile that didn’t look completely fake. Whether he bought it, she didn’t know. He sat in the pew in front of her, but turned so he could face her.

  "I've been calling Sister Robin daily. Checking in on you ladies. Sounds like Kristina's had a breakthrough."

  Pam nodded. "Still, keep her in your prayers. She has a long way to go."

  "Of course." He studied her as she watched the activity on the platform. The choir director was giving notes to the altos.

  "And how have you been doing?"

  She swallowed hard. Why did it seem the only time she was tempted to lie was when she was in church?

  “Oh, you know, there's a lot to deal with. But it's all going to work out." She flashed him her most confident smile. The one she always used when she was trying to convince people there was nothing more to the story.

  They watched as the choir prepared for a new selection and the featured soloist took her place at the mic stand.

  "You know, we’re a lot alike. Me and you." He swung one arm over the back of the pew and interlaced his fingers.

  She said nothing, but waited for him to elaborate.

  "As a pastor, I tend to get wrapped up in the task of taking care of my members. I sometimes forget I need to let Jesus take care of me."

  He let the words sink in before he went on. "You spend so much time carrying your sister's burdens. I can't help but wonder… Don't you ever get tired?"

  Pam quickly turned away from him and started digging around in her purse to hide the tears that sprung to her eyes. She didn't know why his question caused such an emotional reaction. She sure didn't know how she'd explain it.

  "Others look at people like us and think we've got it all together, but…"

  He remained silent for a long while. After Pam felt satisfied that she’d gotten a hold of herself, she looked back at him. He was staring into the distance, his eyes moist, as well. He cleared his throat.

  "I've made mistakes." His voice was low and rough. "Mistakes that, to this day, I can't let go of. I know I should give it to God and I know I should lay the burden of it on Him, but sometimes we, even as pastors, find that hard to do."

  Pam was surprised that he felt comfortable enough with her, nearly a stranger, to share something that was so obviously personal. Maybe her being a stranger was what allowed him to do it. She let him continue.

  "We think, since it was our mistake, we should be the ones to fix it." He sighed. "The truth is, we’ll never be able to fix it. Not really. We can patch it up. Add a new coat of paint. But when it's all said and done, it's still a mess. A very well-decorated mess, but a mess, nonetheless."

  It wasn't that Pam didn't know where he was coming from or what he was trying to say. If she'd heard it once, she'd heard it a thousand times. Let go and let God. It was one of those Christian catchphrases that they loved to use. But what did it really mean? And who did it apply to?

  While she considered herself a Christian, having recommitted to her relationship with God when she was in rehab, she definitely wouldn't call herself a good one. If God was going to pick anyone to fix problems for, she was pretty sure she'd be at the end of the line. There had to be a million other people, at least, that lived better and did more.

  “How can you be sure He's even willing to fix it, though? I mean, I can understand Him doing that for you. You're a pastor. But for regular people…"

  Pastor Thomas’ eyebrows shot up. "Regular people?" He let out a hearty laugh. "So…what? You think preachers are superhuman?”

  She tilted her head and smiled. "You know what I mean. Good Christians."

  Pastor Thomas shook his head. "Good Christians, bad Christians. Sunday Saints or twenty-four hour ones. Each and every one belongs to Hi
m. Mistakes and all. And to answer your question, I know He's willing because that's what He said. 1 Peter 5:7 reads, ‘Cast all your cares upon Him, for He cares for you.’ In Matthew 11:28, Jesus said,’ Come to Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’"

  She remembered those verses from Sunday school. But she hadn't heard them in so long, it felt like a lifetime ago.

  “Many other Bibles translate that phrase as ‘weary and burdened’. And I hope I don't offend you by saying this but, if I’ve ever met a soul that was weary and burdened, it's yours."

  It's not like she could deny it. It was true. Nothing was heavier than a secret and she'd been carrying more than just her own for too many years to count.

  She looked at the choir as they swayed and clapped their hands to the beat.

  “But how do you do it? How do you give it to Him?”

  “Well, first, you confess it. God gave us great power when He granted us the privilege to speak over our lives. Every time your heart is troubled, however big or small that trouble is, you say, ‘I let not my heart be troubled. I let not my heart fear. I cast all my cares on You, Jesus, because I know You care for me’. It won’t be easy. At first, you’ll find you have to say it nonstop. But just keep speaking it. And meditate on His love for you. In the face of fear, stress, a bad report—meditate on it until you know it like you know your own name. Because when you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that He cares for you, faith is easy.”

  After saying a word of prayer with her. Pastor Thomas went back to his office. And although she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her when she came in, she was glad she hadn’t gotten her wish. There was a lightness and sense of freedom in her heart she hadn't felt in years.

  Maybe ever.

  Somehow, and in some way she couldn't explain, she knew that everything would be okay. No matter what.

  If Kristina's son had survived, she trusted that God would eventually lead him to them. But if that didn't happen, it only meant that her nephew was safe in the arms of Jesus. And on this side or the other, she knew there was no better place to be.