Strongholds

by Vanessa Davis Griggs

  “You already are exciting to me, Marcella. My porn problems don’t stem from what I’m not getting from you. Pornography allowed me to live in a fantasy world where I felt I wasn’t being criticized. I felt a closeness I don’t always feel. And oddly enough, I felt an unquestioning sense of acceptance. None of that is real, but you are. I understand this even more so now.”

  “Okay,” Johnnie Mae said. “It’s obvious you two love each other. So I think there’s hope for this relationship to not only be restored, but go to a whole new level.”

  “As do I,” Pastor Landris said. “First off, there are some truths we need to acknowledge. Pornography is a lie. The illusions it attempts to portray as reality about women and relationships between a man and a woman are just that: illusions. It promises things it can never deliver. And worst of all, it dehumanizes another person, it dehumanizes real relationships, and it distorts the genuine definition of true intimacy. What do you have to say about these statements, Bentley?”

  Bentley paused a second. “I’d say you’re right. And that’s why I’m here now.”

  Pastor Landris redirected his gaze. “Marcella?”

  “Even though I now consider what I’ve been reading and participating in as possibly being pornographic lite—”

  “Pornographic lite?” Johnnie Mae said with a short chuckle. “Well, that’s cute and quite original. I may have to use that one the next time I need to get that point across.”

  Marcella smiled and gave Johnnie Mae a slight nod. “Yes, pornographic lite. I can see where I was filling my mind with thoughts that could lead to trouble later down the road. It truly can lead to dissatisfaction with what I do have in my real life.”

  “Precisely,” Johnnie Mae said. “When you don’t feel you’re getting from your husband what you read about, that can become a real problem. But those people in novels aren’t really real. When you’re watching a television show about some made-up character and you get disgusted with your marriage because it’s not playing out like you see on TV, remember: it’s a script. It’s not real. Even the sex and love scenes are choreographed.”

  “You have to be careful that you don’t end up on a road leading to trouble,” Pastor Landris said. “The people writing these books have their own problems. The people portraying those wonderful, romantic characters you see on television, most of them can’t even keep their own real marriages or relationships together. You have to ask why that is. And with pornography, it’s not about what’s real. It’s a ploy of the devil to make you lose sight of the blessings God has for your life. The God-kind of love He desires for you to experience. ‘O taste and see how good the Lord is.’ I can testify to how good God is when you do things the God way…according to His divine plan.”

  “It’s the same for you, Bentley, looking at pictures of people who are often airbrushed to look that good,” Johnnie Mae added. “Women required to pose in positions that almost break them to do it. It’s a lot of work to look that sexy. It’s all just an illusion merely to poison the mind, a sleight of hand. It’s not true reality.”

  “Reality is working at a fantastic life with the one who promised to love, honor, and cherish you through thick and thin, ups and downs, the best and the worst life might throw your way,” Pastor Landris said, glancing a quick look at Johnnie Mae. “My wife did a wonderful seminar last year on marriage.”

  “Yes, we’ve heard so much about it,” Marcella said. “We were just saying we wished you would consider doing it again so we can attend.”

  “I think we’re going to make it something we have every year or at least on some regular basis. It really blessed those who attended and strengthened so many marriages. From some reports I’ve heard from the men, their wives were all they needed and had time to fantasize about after the information they both took from the seminar,” Pastor Landris said.

  “And the women were calling their men Fab-i-o-So-Fab-ulous. They weren’t wishing for fairy tale romances any longer; their husbands were giving them as close to the real love thing on a daily basis as possible,” Johnnie Mae said. “When we know better, we do better. One woman said what she was reading and seeing on the soaps were nothing compared to what she and her husband were writing daily. In her words: ‘The Young and the Restless may have One Life to Live, but the Bold and the Beautiful are now on The Edge of Night, As the World Turns their Passions toward the Guiding Light as she is no longer one of those Desperate Housewives waiting In the Heat of the Night.’”

  Marcella sighed. “I can’t say I’ve ever read anything that made me feel that way.”

  “And I know I’ve not seen anything in those magazines, videos, the Internet, or television that made me feel like that either,” Bentley said.

  “Now do you see what all you have ahead of you if both of you would merely apply yourselves to your own relationship instead of spending so much time giving it away to others who aren’t even really real in your life?” Pastor Landris said.

  “Well, I’m ready,” Bentley said, laughing. “Fix me! Help me break my stronghold so I can live this goodly God-life.”

  Marcella reached over and grabbed Bentley’s hand. “I’m ready, too.”

  Pastor Landris started writing some things in the notebook on his desk. When he finished, he tore it out and handed it to Bentley. “Here’s a prescription for you. I’ve written down specific instructions and some scripture references I want you to get down in your spirit and into your heart.”

  Bentley began to read the first one out loud. “Accountability: Make your computer accountable to someone other than yourself,” Bentley said.

  “You say you’ve gotten all the porn out of your house with the exception of what comes unsolicited to you over the Internet. Marcella needs to check the computer’s history log every day to see where you’ve been,” Pastor Landris said to Bentley. “And I don’t want you to become defensive about this. I want you to welcome it. Because if you slip up, someone needs to call you on it. You need someone to pray with you to stay strong. Especially if you’re serious about breaking away from this.”

  “Marcella can do that. Can’t you, baby?” He smiled at his wife, caressing her hand.

  “Of course.”

  Bentley read another one out loud. “For both of you: Act out.”

  “Act out?” Marcella asked. “What do you mean by that?” She looked at Pastor Landris.

  “I mean, write your own love story daily. See how creative you both can be. Then act it out. Bentley, I want you to begin to act like you’ve found this woman you have to have and you’re going to do everything in your powers to ensure one day, she’s completely yours,” Pastor Landris said with a smile that seemed to dance. “I don’t care that you’re already married to her.”

  “I can do that.”

  Pastor Landris looked at Johnnie Mae and nodded for her to take over.

  “Marcella,” Johnnie Mae said. “You need to loosen up a bit and give your man a little show every now and then. Let him see what he has at home, and you won’t have to worry about him going to strange women to get anything. That’s in the Bible: Proverbs chapter seven. Read the whole chapter, in fact.”

  “You sound like a woman who knows what she’s talking about,” Marcella said.

  “Let’s just say our baby was not from an immaculate conception. And when you really love someone, it’s not hard to want to please them,” Johnnie Mae said as she looked over at Pastor Landris and smiled.

  “But it should work both ways,” Pastor Landris said. “You hear me, Bentley?”

  Bentley saw the look exchanged between Pastor and Mrs. Landris. “You two are for real,” Bentley said. “It’s funny: I can feel the love and respect you have for each other. That’s what I want for Marcella and me. We love each other, but there’s so much we’re missing out on.” He looked at his wife. “That ends today. Today, I’m a new man.”

  Marcella looked at Bentley. “Wow, that was so romantic.”

  Bentley licked his lips and s
macked them. “Just perfecting my love script here. Practice, they tell me, makes perfect. I’m going to start practicing what our pastor preaches.” He turned his attention back to Pastor Landris. “Well, Pastor Landris, I believe we get it. Why waste your life and time on fake, when you can enjoy the real deal? But you have to work at it. Anything worth having is worth working for. I get it. Oh, I get it.”

  “I’m not saying it will be easy, Bentley, but you can overcome your stronghold. It’s about the mind. Transform yourself by the renewing of your mind. Take on the mind of Christ.” Pastor Landris got to his feet. “Let’s join hands and have a word of prayer.”

  They all stood and Pastor Landris ushered them into the presence of the Lord with a powerful plea to the Father for restoration, deliverance, healing, and mending of those things that were once sick, twisted, and broken but are now being changed forevermore.

  Chapter 26

  For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good I find not.

  —Romans 7:18

  Fatima’s doorbell rang. She had been in an especially somber mood today. It was May 14th, her birthday, and she had grown conditioned to dread this day. It wasn’t because she didn’t appreciate being born or the fact that she had made it to yet another year. It was because few people ever really remembered or seemed to care that it was her special day. Sure, her parents and siblings usually called sometime before the clock struck midnight. All except her baby brother, who traditionally never did. He was too much into himself to notice other people existed on the planet if they didn’t act like the world revolved around him. And a few friends usually called, here and there.

  Today, she turned 32, and she was still alone. What was there to celebrate?

  She opened the door.

  “Delivery,” the flower man said. He handed her a huge bouquet of exotic, mixed flowers.

  “They’re beautiful,” Fatima said as she carefully took the lead crystal vase.

  “Top of the line.” He smiled. “Hope it brightens your Saturday.”

  “It’s my birthday,” Fatima said, although for the life of her, she didn’t know why.

  “Well, happy birthday,” he said with an even bigger smile as though he really meant it.

  Fatima smiled. He turned and strode quickly back to his van and drove away. Admiring the flowers, she walked into the house, anxious to see who could have sent her something so nice. Her parents didn’t do flowers. They always sent a card with money in it. Always.

  “What do we get for a person who has everything or can buy herself whatever she wants whenever she wants?” Fatima’s mother would say every year. “I hope you don’t mind, but we know money will always fit.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” Fatima always politely said. “And the card is lovely as always.”

  The mailman hadn’t delivered yet, so who knows, maybe her mother had decided to break with tradition and send something different this year. Fatima couldn’t think of anyone else it could be from. Her three sisters and one other brother who usually called on her birthday weren’t flower-sending types either. And her daddy, when it came to gift giving, usually went in with her mother.

  She put the vase on the table and removed the small card tucked snugly inside of its miniature, cream-colored envelope.

  “You are so beautiful to me. Happy Birthday!”

  It wasn’t signed. Without a signature, she couldn’t imagine who they could be from. Maybe it really was from her mother. That was one of the sayings her mother constantly hammered in her head: that she was indeed beautiful. Fatima started to call her mother to see if they were in fact from her, but there was another tradition her mother and father had: they always called her at the exact time she was born. If she called them now, it would ruin things for them. They would be calling right at 1:02 P.M. That was only some thirty minutes away. She could wait thirty more minutes to find out.

  The doorbell rang again. Fatima went to answer it, wondering who this could be.

  “Delivery,” the same man who had brought the flowers earlier said again. He held out a long, white box secured together by a yellow ribbon tied into a lovely bow.

  “Weren’t you just here?” Fatima said. “Are you sure those are for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You’re Fatima Adams, right?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Then these are for you.”

  She took the box and cradled it under her arm. “Thank you. I feel like I should tip you or something, especially since you had to come twice.”

  “No need, ma’am. It’s all been taken care of. You just have a nice birthday.”

  “Thanks,” she said again. She went back inside and hurried to open the box.

  “Yellow roses,” she said. She found the card inside and read it.

  “You light up my world. You’re the sunshine of my life. Happy Birthday, Fatima.”

  Now she was really confused. This card wasn’t signed either. The doorbell rang once again. She couldn’t help but to beam. Now who?

  When she opened the door, another man stood with a large rectangular box. “Special delivery for Fatima Adams,” he said in a high-pitched, slow drawl.

  “That would be me.”

  “Sign here please, ma’am.” He held up a gadget with an electronic-like pen attached to it for her to sign. She scribbled her name; he handed her the box.

  She looked for a return address, but there was only a dress shop address. After she walked back into the house, she had to find a pair of scissors to cut loose the tape that held the box together. Inside the box was an A-line, beaded, knee-length, form-fitting dress.

  “Purple,” she said as she took the dress in her hands and held it up to see the front and back of it in its full splendor. “My favorite color. This is beautiful.” She carefully laid it on the couch as she searched the box for a card or some clue as to who had sent it. There was nothing nestled in between the tissue paper that had blanketed the dress.

  The phone rang. She glanced at the clock: 1:02 P.M. on the dot.

  Right on cue! It was her parents singing happy birthday to her. This was such a highlight for them.

  “That was so nice,” Fatima said. “Thank you, both.”

  “You’re welcome,” her father said.

  “So how has your day been so far?” her mother asked.

  “So far it’s been great. And of course, this call just made it all that more special, as it always does every year.”

  “Has our package arrived yet?” her mother asked.

  Fatima smiled. “Yes, I suppose. I’m just not sure which one might be from the two of you.”

  “Which one? We only sent one,” her mother said.

  “Yeah. I figured that. I just received three deliveries almost back-to-back, and there was no card saying who anything was from. So I’m not sure which one is from the two of you.”

  “Well, we signed our card just like we always do,” her father said. “And Mother put the signed check inside the card, just the way she always does. Didn’t you, Mother? You shouldn’t have to guess, Fatima, which one is from us.”

  “You sent a card with money?” Fatima sounded surprised and a bit disappointed.

  “Well, yes,” her mother said. “I told you, Fatima. We don’t have a clue what to ever buy you. With money, we don’t have to worry about you needing to exchange it because you don’t like the color or you already have something like it. I know our gift will always fit, and it’s something you can always find a use for. I know it might seem insensitive, but it works great for us. We don’t ever have to worry about our feelings being hurt because you didn’t like your present.”

  “Well, the mailman hasn’t come yet, so I haven’t gotten your gift, Mother and Dad.” Fatima looked again at the purple dress that seemed to twinkle in the sunlight.

  “Maybe one of your sisters or your brothers sent the other package.”

  “I doubt tha
t very seriously,” Fatima said. While she talked, she walked over to the box holding the roses and took it to the kitchen to put the roses in a vase.

  “Now see, Fatima you always act that way about your siblings. They don’t ever buy you a gift because they’re barely making it with their own families. It’s hard on them, on all of them. You and your baby brother are the only two who don’t have any real responsibilities.”

  “Mother, I can’t speak for your baby boy, but I have responsibilities.” She turned on the faucet, filled the vase with water, and poured in the contents of the packet enclosed to keep the flowers alive longer.

  “You know what I mean. You don’t have a husband or children. And at the rate you’re going, being so choosey and all, who knows if or when you’ll ever have anyone in your life. I don’t know if you realize this, Fatima, but you’re not getting any younger.”

  Fatima smiled at the phone. “Okay, Mother. Dad, thanks to both of you for calling and singing happy birthday to me. Thanks for the card when it does arrive. I know I’m going to just love it. I love you both—”

  “Fatima?” her mother said.

  She let out a sigh. “Yes, Mother.”

  “Baby, I hope you do something fun today. Why don’t you go out and try not to be so…so…well, you know.”

  “What, Mother? So stuck up? So diva-ish? So what, Mother?” She took the knife and sliced the ends of each rose stem so water would be able to flow freely to the buds.

  “So antisocial. You know, you can be a bit uppity sometimes. Try to be a little more friendly. Maybe you’ll run into a nice young man, and who knows, maybe you’ll finally be able to settle down and have a family like your sisters and brother.”

  “Oh yeah. And I’ll be sure and make a wish when I blow out my candles today.”

  “You have a cake for your birthday?” her mother asked.

  “No, Mother. I really don’t need a cake. There’s nobody here but me. Remember? That means there would be nobody here to eat it but me. And you know where that could lead—weight gain, yet one more thing you’ll be able to point out that’s wrong with me and my life.”