No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown)

by Stimpson, Michelle

  Our church family celebrated God’s answer to prayer during service the next day. Pastor Toole asked Stelson and me to share the testimony for the sake of those who weren’t at the picnic, though I couldn’t imagine most of the congregation didn’t already know. No matter what color or doctrine, church folk have cornered the market on how to spread a word quickly.

  My head was pounding after service. Just tired and emotionally spent. Nothing a good serving of comfort food wouldn’t fix. Stelson, the kids, and I had lunch at Chili’s. “Might be our last time doing this for a while,” he said when the bill came.

  “I know, right?” I agreed. “We’re gonna have to find some places where kids eat free.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by two women who’d seen Seth on television the night before. “He is so cute! Thank God you two found him before I did. I would have taken him home with me!”

  “Praise God.” I smiled up at them.

  After obtaining a full belly and some good rest, I was ready to tackle the week ahead. Starting each day with a quiet hour kept my mind “stayed on Jesus”, as the older saints used to sing. Reading the scriptures, journaling the conversations between God and me, physically kneeling down in His presence…priceless. I wondered how I had ever managed to think I was fine without His peaceful good morning. I wouldn’t have been able to have a quiet hour when Zoe was first born, of course. God knows our schedules. But now that I was back in the groove, I was determined to do everything possible to stay stayed, even after I returned to work.

  I was hoping to connect with the women’s Tuesday morning fellowship meeting at church, but my schedule got rearranged when the nurse called from Seth’s school to say that he was running a fever. The worst-case scenario presented itself in my head on my way to pick him up from school: He has malaria!

  Oh. Wait. We don’t have malaria in Texas. Do we?

  We went straight to the doctor’s office after I retrieved Seth. I gave Dr. Bullock the run-down on Seth’s adventurous weekend. After checking his lymph nodes and hearing the slight congestion in his chest, malaria was ruled out. “Looks like he’s got a common cold. Now that school’s started, kids are swapping germs every minute of the day.”

  “Yes, he started pre-k in public school a few weeks ago,” I concurred.

  “A bigger school brings more kids, more surfaces to touch, more opportunities to catch a virus. Just keep an eye on him. Keep his fever down. Look out for any rashes, given what happened this weekend.” She pointed at Zoe, “And keep him away from this one if you can.”

  Keeping Seth out of Zoe’s face was nearly impossible. With both of them at home with me throughout the day, it was only a matter of time before she started coughing and sneezing, too. We had to pass on one of the church kids’ birthday parties that weekend. Sunday, the fevers were gone, but we stayed home as a precaution.

  Stelson led “home church”, which absolutely fascinated Seth. “We can have church at home?”

  “Yes. Jesus said we are the church. And if two or three of His people get together for Him, He will be here with us.”

  “Wow! Jesus is everywhere!” Seth exclaimed.

  Stelson charged our son with the duty of leading worship, which was a joy to watch. Seth insisted that we all participate in his extended remix version of “Father Abraham”—including wiggling our right and left knees and elbows.

  I gave the announcements. “Zoe has a check-up appointment this week. We’re praying for another awesome report. Seth knows all of his letters and their sounds. And Daddy has a birthday coming up soon.”

  We all clapped for Stelson. He laughed, “I like these announcements.”

  Stelson opened His Bible. “I’m going to share something the Lord has been teaching me lately. It’s in Ecclesiastes, chapter four.”

  I helped Seth find the book of Ecclesiastes in his children’s illustrated Bible. Though he couldn’t read yet, I talked him through the navigation. “Ecclesiastes…chapter four…oh, wait. Go back…yes…chapter four.”

  I pointed at the words as Stelson read from His Bible “Ecclesiastes chapter four, verses nine through ten. Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.”

  Seth had to demonstrate. He flattened his back against the floor. “You mean like this, Daddy?” he asked while reaching for Zoe’s hand. Baby girl struggled with all her might to leave my lap as she responded to his gesture, trying to grasp his hand. Seth raised up to meet her hand, then hopped to his feet. “Thank you, Zoe! You helped me get up!”

  “Yaaay!” we all clapped. Zoe was ecstatic.

  “That’s exactly right,” Stelson agreed.

  I made chicken noodle soup, thanks to a recipe I found on the internet. With Seth’s stomach still a bit queasy, the soup was a perfect, light meal.

  After we put the kids down for a nap, Stelson helped me clear the dishes. His “help” was really a cause for flirting, I quickly ascertained from his swats to my behind. I pretended to be annoyed, but we both knew I liked it. Who wouldn’t want to flirt with a man who led “home church” when his family wasn’t able to attend services at the sanctuary? And one who practiced what he’d just preached—lifting me up when I had lost track of the promises of God while Seth was missing.

  Aside from his toned body, my husband’s character was so juicy-sexy, it didn’t take much to get me in the mood.

  Stelson joked that I must have worked him too hard the night before because he woke up with a headache. I sent him off to work with a kiss, a few Tylenol, and the rest of the soup. Stelson didn’t like taking drugs, but when I called him at lunch to check on him, he said he had swallowed the pills before a meeting because he couldn’t concentrate otherwise.

  “You think you need to see a doctor?” I asked.

  “No. It’s probably the virus the kids had last week.”

  “Probably so. I’ll assess you when you get home,” I promised with a hint of teasing.

  “Man, I’m going to take a shower and get right in the bed.”

  I heard him sniff and surmised that he had indeed caught the bug Seth brought home from school. “Okay, baby. I’ll have everything ready. What time do you think you’ll be here?”

  “Leaving here by five thirty. So, six at the latest.”

  “I gotcha. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I set an alarm on my phone for 5:40: Run bath water for Stelson.

  I chocked up the fact that I didn’t get sick to what my mother used to refer to as “Mommy Immunity.” She said that, while we weren’t invincible, God gave mothers an extra level of resistance to sickness because He knows families act like they can’t hardly function without a Momma.

  And, speaking of “functioning”, I was quite proud of myself for getting the hang of running a household. My biggest help had been creating a family menu, rotating ten meals I could cook that everyone, except Zoe of course, would actually eat. When I emailed my spreadsheet to Peaches, she replied:

  That’s good, girl, but what about the snacks? Drinks? Desserts? Consider EVERYTHING before you go to the grocery store. And sign up for coupons online.

  “Coupons?” I questioned my laptop screen. My time was worth more than the 25 cents a coupon would save me. If my best friend was combing through newspapers and email messages hunting down coupons, she was out there. Past Suzie Homemaker. Past B. Smith and Martha Stewart. It was time for Peaches to have her own reality show ‘cause I had to see it live and in action to believe it.

  Nonetheless, I went back to the drawing board. Snacks and drinks. In the past, I would just walk into the grocery store and pick up some things that looked fun—the brightest-looking fruit chews, cutest cheese puffs. But now I had the time to sit there and think through what would be best for us all to eat at snack time. I added apples on Monday and Thursday, granola bars on Tuesday and Friday. Popcorn on Wednesday and Saturday. Ice cream had to go somewhere. Sunday.

  The m
ore I thought about it, I realized my father could use some meal-planning, too. Not that he would follow through.

  You follow through bubbled out of my spirit.

  My fingers were perched, still, on the keyboard. Waiting for more direction. And then the idea to include my father in our meal plans became clearer. I would make enough for him, too, and take it over to the house.

  Yes. No. “How am I going to do this?” I asked. Since I couldn’t exactly recall any scriptures on how to preserve food for the week, I went online and discovered a novel idea: freezing!

  I was sold. I could cook on one day and freeze everything we would need for a whole week! They shouldn’t have told me that. I was about to make myself the freezing queen.

  Matter of fact, I figured if I got the cooking and freezing thing down, I might be able to go back to work sooner.

  Zoe and I tackled the grocery store like two old pros. With the menu in hand, we were out of there in no time. I even got to come home and put the food away before we went to pick up Seth.

  I was so excited, he was barely in the car before I informed him, “Your snack today is an apple.”

  He got a funny look on his face, I supposed wondering why I was so excited about apples.

  I had to laugh at myself. “In case you were wondering, I mean.”

  It was a beautiful day. Cool enough for us to hang outdoors for a half hour or so. Zoe jumped in her bounce-walker and Seth sparred with an imaginary opponent once I got tired of getting poked by his plastic sword. I snagged a spot under the patio umbrella and just sat there watching. Listening. Thanking God for such a wonderful family to occupy this picturesque, lush green back yard with its 6-foot privacy fence.

  Zoe’s late afternoon nap was soon in order, so we brought the party inside. Seth wouldn’t fall asleep this early. I gathered his coloring books, crayons and Legos and sat him at the table while I prepared our evening meal of chicken tetrazzini with light garlic bread. I’d save the cooking bonanza for a weekend day, when Stelson could busy himself with the kids.

  The smell of melted cheese and chicken permeated the house. When I was a little girl, Momma made our house smell like heaven almost every day. Casseroles, chopped onions, breads, cookies. Enough to make me want to hop off the school bus and come running inside to see what she had in store for us.

  But that was in the 1970s. Back when women—let alone black women—weren’t considered for high-powered jobs. Most didn’t have the education anyway, thanks to low expectations. My degrees hadn’t come easy. I was proud of my accomplishments. And yet, standing there in the kitchen with my house smelling like Momma’s, I had to admit to myself: This is an accomplishment, too. I wanted Seth and Zoe to have the best things in life, including feeling that someone who loved them had been thinking about them, preparing for their arrival while they were away.

  My phone’s alarm beeped, reminding me to run Stelson’s bath water. My poor husband was pretty manly, but he could get downright baby-ish when ill. Worse than the kids, which was why I thanked God Stelson rarely got sick.

  I knew I was in for some serious nurse duty when he walked through the door looking like death warmed over. He dropped his briefcase and let his jacket slide from his shoulders straight to the floor. “I’ll pick it up later.” His pale cheeks, red nose, watery eyes and disheveled hair told the story of a miserable day.

  I rushed to him and checked his forehead with the back of my hand. “You’re burning up. Sweating. Go get in the tub.” I scooped his jacket off the floor and hung it in the coat closet.

  “Hey, Daddy!” Seth lunged at Stelson’s legs.

  “Daddy’s not feeling good,” I pried him off. “He needs to get some rest.”

  “Yeah, buddy. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Seth slinked away, disappointed.

  Between my three babies, I had my hands full. Stelson missed work the next day. And the next. By the third day, the fever had gone and the congestion was clearing, but the headache didn’t go away.

  In fact, it got worse.

  Chapter 16

  “Daddy, what is the problem?” I pushed my chin forward, waiting for some ridiculous response.

  “I don’t like to fool with the microwave every day like you young people. Ya’ll gon’ wake up one day and figure out all that radiation is the reason for all this cancer y’all got,” he fussed. One by one, he took my expertly prepared, carefully packaged meals out of the spectacular brown paper sack I had lovingly arranged them in for his benefit. He slung them on the counter.

  “So what are you going to do with this food, then?” I asked.

  He snapped the top off the turkey with garlic and parmesan red potatoes. “Well, I’ll eat this one tonight since it’s still warm.” He sniffed my cooking. “I’ll put the rest in the refrigerator. Guess I can transfer ‘em to a tin pan and then put it in the oven, for the most part.”

  “If you can put stuff in an oven, you can make your own meals,” I argued.

  “I didn’t ask you to bring this food over here,” he bucked up.

  The front screen door slammed. Thank God. Jonathan’s here.

  “Hey,” he breezed into the kitchen, hugging my father and me. “I see you’ve got these nice home-cooked meals, huh, Dad? We ought to make a service out of it. Shondra’s mobile kitchen.”

  “He doesn’t want them,” I interrupted Jonathan’s sales pitch.

  My brother crossed his arms, looking down at my father. I was so glad Jonathan was taller than Daddy. Jonathan Sr. needed someone to put him in check. “What’s the problem now?”

  “I don’t want to eat a bunch of microwave re-heated food,” he stubbornly replied, mimicking Jonathan’s stance. “I already done told y’all that when you brought all those other freezer meals.”

  Jonathan sighed with enough contempt to get kicked out of a courtroom.

  “But the food I’ve prepared isn’t drenched in chemicals or preservatives. You know whose kitchen they came from. What’s the problem now?”

  Daddy raised up his nose. “If it ain’t fresh from the oven or the stove, it don’t taste the same.”

  Jonathan blinked. “Wait a minute. Are you the same Jonathan Smith who claims his family was so poor, Grandmomma Smith fried pancakes with Vaseline and you all ate it, happily?”

  Oooooh! The Vaseline story. Good one, Jonathan.

  I took a swing, “And didn’t you always tell us that if we were picky about what we ate, we weren’t really hungry?”

  Daddy waved both of us off. He pushed up his glasses. “That was before I had a good job at the post office. Before I met your Momma and…well…you know how she was about cookin’. She spoiled me.”

  My father’s lower lip began to tremble, which nearly threw me off the boat.

  Jonathan slapped my father on the back. “We feel you, man. We feel you. We all miss Momma.”

  They got no further than a side-hug before Daddy pulled away. “But if y’all insist on me eating frozen food—”

  “We do,” Jonathan cosigned.

  “I guess.” Daddy piled three of the containers in the freezer.

  “It’s better than eating sandwiches every day,” I assured him. “And you can recycle the containers if you absolutely don’t feel like washing them.”

  He grumbled and walked to the den, leaving Jonathan and me to make sense of his foolishness.

  “What’s my half?” Jonathan asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “No, I want to contribute. I mean, seeing as you ain’t got no job and all,” he teased.

  I punched my little brother in the stomach. “I got a full-time job with your niece and nephew.”

  Jonathan’s lean body hadn’t changed much since he was in high school. Always a trainer, he regularly participated in marathons and triathlons for the so-called “fun” of it. I, for one, would never put torturing my body in the “fun” category.

  “You can put, say, thirty-five on it every week, assuming that he actu
ally eats the food. If he doesn’t, I guess we’ll have to see if meals-on-wheels can deliver something. I don’t know.”

  Jonathan nodded in rapid succession as he pulled money from his pocket. “Oh, he’s gonna eat this food. If I have to come over here every night, he will eat it.”

  I thanked him as I stuffed the cash in my back pocket.

  “Oh, please.” Now it was my turn to harass him. “I saw your little status change on Facebook the other day. Mister in a relationship. How are you in a relationship with someone we’ve never met?”

  “I brought her over here.”

  “When?”

  “Not long ago,” he skirted around my question.

  “Daddy!” I called to the back room.

  “Aaay, aaay, aaay,” Jonathan shushed me. “I said I brought her over here. I didn’t say I brought her inside.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  He smacked his lips a little too hard. “Nothing.”

  “Why haven’t I met her, at least?”

  “Look, we don’t need McGruff the crime dog here, all right? She’s somebody I met running a marathon. Nice. Smart. Cool. Has a three-year-old son. What else do you want to know?”

  “Is she black?”

  He poked out his lips. “How you gon’ ask me that and my brother-in-law is white?”

  “I’m just asking. I mean, the last time I watched a marathon on television, I didn’t see a whole lot of us pounding the pavement.”

  “Y’all do need to be pounding it, trust me,” he remarked. “Sisters are tipping the scales these days. For some reason, y’all expect us to embrace the extra weight, like there’s something wrong with us for wanting a fit woman.”

  “Whatever! We have a lot of stress. Single moms, working moms. Shoot, I’m blessed to be able to take a break until I get a handle on this.”

  “All I know is, I’m not trying to marry somebody I can’t carry over the threshold,” he reiterated.

  “Whatever. Now, back to the original question. Is she black?”

  “Yes. She’s black,” he stated.

  “Okay.”