No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown)

by Stimpson, Michelle

  I snatched him up out of that racecar, swatted his behind three good times, and growled, “I told you not to leave the restroom!”

  Those licks probably didn’t hurt, but the sheer astonishment at having his whole world change in an instant brought a wail from Seth’s throat.

  “You stop crying. Stop it now, Seth.”

  As my own fear-fueled adrenaline subsided, I gave Seth a moment to collect himself.

  My voice in control now, I ordered, “Dry your tears. Now.”

  He huffed a few more times, using the back of his hands to complete the job.

  “I told you to wait for me, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “Then why did you leave?”

  “Because I wanted to play the game,” he murmured between sniffles.

  “You cannot disobey me. We’ll talk about this after the movie.” I grasped his hand firmly and led him back to our show. I slid my hand into the oversized door handles, and just before I yanked them open, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Ma’am?”

  I turned to find the cinema security guard staring me down.

  “Yes?”

  The young man, dressed in blue with a yellow brooch too large to actually be taken seriously, said, “Someone noticed you striking this child.”

  “And?”

  “Yeah, that’s her,” a woman, slightly older than me, with thin lips stepped from behind him. “She’s the one who was hitting this little boy.”

  “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.

  Chapter 9

  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.”

  I clawed my forehead. Why, Jesus? Why couldn’t she just stick to the schedule and follow the plan?

  “Look.” She snapped her dish rag at me. “I done took care of plenty kids, including you and your brother. Y’all weren’t obese. Now, if you go and get fat now, that’s on you. But so long as you pay attention to your baby, figure out what he needs, listen to your mother’s intuition, and listen to your mother”—she tilted her chin down—“this baby will be just fine.”

  Oh, how I wished Momma could see Seth now. She’d been right. Seth was a perfectly well-adapted four year old. My biggest battle with him wasn’t overeating, it was picky eating.