No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown)

by Stimpson, Michelle

  Online whistle-blowers alleged that Lyme disease, in particular, was engineered to progress slowly, in intervals, and mimic so many other diseases and affect people in so many different ways that enemies wouldn’t know what hit them until it was too late. Depending on how the disease manifested, people could be diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, Multiple Sclerosis, Parkinson’s disease, chronic fatigue, ADHD, fibromyalgia…

  Undiagnosed, Lyme disease is a horrific condition. I couldn’t finish watching some of the documentary videos.

  “God, if this is true, it’s terrible,” I whispered to Him.

  Peaches and I, of course, gabbed about it as I traveled to Seth’s school.

  “I cannot believe the government would let something like this happen,” I said, “and then deny it.”

  “Girl, please,” Peaches smacked.

  “This is crazy. I don’t think Stelson will believe it, though. He doesn’t believe in speculation about conspiracies and big cover-ups. He’s an engineer. Unless it’s something spiritual, he defaults to facts. I’m not trying to make you feel bad, but the only reason he listened to you was because everyone else has been wrong.”

  “Well, maybe he can pray about the information. No matter what, he needs to know. The biowarfare researchers knew that doctors would prescribe antibiotics to fight the disease, so they infused components that could make the disease worse after antibiotics. From what I’ve read, this thing was engineered to confuse doctors, torture victims, and destroy lives. Stelson needs a major, systemwide detox to ward off co-infections.”

  “Got it. Bring on the owl powder and skunk extract.”

  Peaches laughed, “Quit.”

  “I’m serious. Whatever helps, we’ll do it.”

  Stelson, as predicted, wasn’t as receptive to the biowarfare theory, nor the alternative supplements despite the fact that God used a natural-medicine website to shine the light on his issue. “You sound like your father,” he called from the bathroom as I lay in bed.

  “You’re right,” I agreed because I didn’t want to lose him to the politics.

  Instead of focusing on the questionable origins of Lyme disease, I weighed in on Peaches’ recommendation for detox. “Suppose the Plum Island theory isn’t true. You must admit that after three weeks of antibiotics, your symptoms haven’t completely disappeared. A detox would be good for your overall health. Can’t hurt.”

  “Depends. I don’t want to be tied to a toilet,” he complained. “Got too much work to catch up on.”

  Stelson walked out of the bathroom wearing only a towel around his waist. Though he’d lost some muscle mass while ill, he was still a decent chunk of eye-candy. Took my mind completely off the subject. “You got any special surprises for me tonight?”

  Our intimate time had resumed. Kinda. Nothing but the basics and only on weekends because he was pretty much pooped after work.

  His complete healing couldn’t get there fast enough for me. “If I pack your lunch every day, put your pills in little baggies and label them, would you do the detox then?”

  He shrugged. “That’s the only way it’ll happen. I don’t have time to read labels when I’m rushing between clients.”

  “Fine. Personal lunches it is.”

  Chapter 29

  Ebby, from the church’s children’s ministry, reached out to me by phone after we’d missed several Sundays. “Hey, lady. Just wanted to make sure my sweet Zoe and Seth are well. I see that you’ve checked the kids into the system here and there. I keep missing them, though. Is everything okay?”

  “The kids are great,” I eased her concerns. “I should have called to let you all know why our attendance has been spotty lately. My husband was diagnosed with Lyme disease.”

  She gasped, “Oh my. I’ve heard it’s awful. Is he getting better?”

  “Slowly. He’s trying to stay away from things that trigger migraines. He has a hard time with loud noises and those flashing lights the praise dancers sometimes use.”

  “I see. Service can get pretty rowdy,” she said.

  “When we miss church, we have worship service at home whenever Stelson’s up to being our pastor,” I half-joked with her.

  Ebby said in a lowered voice, “Quiet as it’s kept, that’s where church starts, really. At home. I wish more parents took time to teach their kids the Word on the couch and around the dinner table. Would make my job so much easier.”

  I couldn’t rightfully say we’d been as diligent about teaching the Word as Ebby was giving me credit for. Her insight, however, gave me something else to add to our after-school schedule: scripture memorization. Now that Seth could read, it was on.

  Another call came in later that afternoon, this one from the Tuesday women’s hospitality team.

  “Yes, Miss Willie Rose, everything’s fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “Well, the last time you were here, you sat at table four. The table leader, Hattie, asked me for your phone number, but we’re not at liberty to give out personal information between church members without permission.”

  Thank God!

  “We’re wondering if you might join us again this coming Tuesday. Sister Windham will be concluding her message on spiritual warfare and intercession.”

  She’d sold me already, except I didn’t want to sit at table four again. “Umm…Miss Willie Rose, would it be possible for me to sit at a different table?”

  “I-I suppose so. Do you mind me asking why you’d like to move?”

  Answering her question directly would mean border-line gossip. “I’d rather not say.”

  “Hmph.”

  The way she hmphed me, I just knew my special request was going to get back to Hattie. “But on second thought, stop. Rewind. I don’t want to cause any problems with the way things are arranged. I’ll stick with my table for now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” After all I’d been through with my husband, what could a table of women do to me?

  “We’ll see you Tuesday. And I don’t know if you know this or not, but we extended Mom’s Day Out to five o’clock.”

  “You don’t say?” My soul cried out Hallelujah! I could have danced like David. “Be there with bells on. Bye.”

  Immediately, I began to dream up plans for my life between noon and five o’clock. Five whole glorious child-free, husband-free hours. What will I do with myself? A massage? Shopping? Take a nap?

  The last option was the only one I wouldn’t have to consult with Stelson about. Sleep was free. But I could do that any night. I dialed him at work. “Babe, you know how much you love me, right?”

  “Yeeeeesssss,” he slurred.

  “And you know how hard these past few months have been for me, right?”

  “Yeeeeesssss.”

  “I’d like to make a budget adjustment proposal. A massage and facial next week while Zoe is in the church nursery and Seth is at his piano lesson.”

  Without hesitation, he answered, “Go for it. You deserve it.”

  I hung up the phone before he could ask any questions. And then I went to my prayer closet and praised God. Not for the upcoming massage but because Stelson’s reaction was…from my old Stelson.

  My sweet, doting, even-tempered husband was back again.

  Earlier, I’d thought about getting my David on. This revelation put the thought into action. I selected Amber Bullock’s Lord You’ve Been So Good from my playlist and performed an impromptu praise dance for an audience of One.

  From the two phone calls in one day, I gathered there must have been a church-wide thrust to contact members who had fallen off. We used to call such missions “roundups” at my old church.

  Once, Momma tried to “roundup” Daddy. He only attended on special occasions, for Jonathan’s or my sake. Easter and Christmas speeches or skits and choir solos.

  “You ain’t got to round me up to nothing,” I remember Daddy fussing. “Jesus won’t be rounding up half the folks doin’ the roundup. Some of ‘em w
ill be looking for a rope to come their way and they’ll be falling down a hot chute instead.”

  My father believed in God in a general sense. Like, he’d say “I swear before God…” and “I’ll leave that to the Man upstairs.” But he’d always harbored a severe dislike for church folk and preachers.

  “Jonathan Smith, Sr.” Momma reserved his whole name for her biggest points. She’d tapped her stirring spoon on the edge of her pot of greens and set the spoon on its holder. “It ain’t your place or mine to judge who’s goin’ to heaven or hell. All you can do is try to walk upright before God. He’ll do the judgin’. I wonder how you’re going to answer Him when He asks you why, after all He blessed you with, you hardly ever turned around and gave Him any time.”

  Daddy had popped open a can of soda. Sat down at the table next to me while I peeled potatoes.

  “Tell me something,”—I knew he was setting Momma up then—“when did they start the roundup?”

  Momma thought for a second. “I believe First Lady announced it last week.”

  “And when do y’all start the fundraising for the pastor and his wife’s anniversary?”

  Momma narrowed her eyes at him. “You wrong, Jonathan. Pastor and his wife labor over us. They’re good shepherds and they deserve to be rewarded.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ a man don’t deserve honest pay for work well done. Mighty funny, though, how some shepherds don’t go lookin’ for the lost sheep ’til it’s time for the fleecin’.” He tilted his head back smoothly and gulped his soda.

  Momma turned to the dishes in the sink.

  I was too young to comprehend Daddy’s implications, but I knew he’d said something Momma couldn’t refute entirely.

  All she could do was admonish, “You need to keep your mouth off the mand of God.”

  “He ain’t a man-d. He’s a ma-nnn, just like me. When church folk stop worshipin’ the preacher and start doin’ something worth my time, I’ll be there.”

  As much as I despised my father’s attitude about church, I gathered he must have been hurt by someone in the past. Momma tried her best to protect Jonathan and me from Daddy’s cynicism without telling us outright that she thought he was foolish. “We gon’ pray for your Daddy to see the light ‘cause right now, the enemy’s got him blind as a one-eyed bat.”

  I wanted to ask Momma what difference it made how many eyes a bat had if it was already blind, but I didn’t want to be accused of talking smart, so I kept my mouth shut.

  Even as a child, I knew my father wasn’t right about a lot of things. I never doubted his love for me and, later, I grew to appreciate his glass-half-empty perspective because it helped me understand how to deal with people who had suffered rough childhoods and life-changing injustices. The fact that he’d been accused of a crime he didn’t commit, then beaten silly by white police officers to the point that he was unable to take advantage of his college scholarship—his chance at a wonderful life—was something for which I had to cut Daddy slack.

  Funny thing is, when I got into my secret place Tuesday morning before the women’s meeting so I could get my mind right for table four, the Father asked me if I thought I was any better or worse than my father for not wanting to be around my assigned group?

  My first thought was to try and reason with Him—tell Him exactly why I didn’t want to be around them. Tell Him how disappointed I was that a group of women older than me had not encouraged me and lifted me up as I’d hoped. I was even getting ready to flip to the Psalms and quote David where he said, “I have more understanding than my elders…”

  But I stopped. Didn’t even go there. Slapped my palms against my forehead and said, “I repent. I receive the mind of Christ on this matter.” I was too tired and getting too old to sit up and argue with God anymore. If His ways are good—and they are—why debate?

  By the end of my quiet time with Him, I realized two things: First, I was the daughter of Jonathan Smith, Sr. For as much as I deplored his pessimism, there was a streak of it in me, too. Maybe I could blame Daddy for modeling negativity while I was a child, but I was forty-two years old now and Christ lived in me. No excuse.

  Second, the Lord put me at table four for His purposes. If I thought I knew so much more than my sisters, it was my responsibility to share His truth, in love, with them no matter what age they were. I was discriminating based on age.

  Table four received me as though Miss Willie Rose hadn’t given a hint of my reluctance to rejoin the group. Thank You, Lord.

  The order of service had switched. We had group talk time first. Naturally, they all wanted to know where I had been, how my husband was.

  “He’s improving every day. It was so hard taking care of him, but God is faithful,” I gave a generic answer.

  “Well, you know what the Bible says,” Janice added, “God won’t put more on us than we can bear.”

  “Mmm hmmm,” they all murmured and nodded.

  I tell you, God didn’t bit more let me get five minutes into the discussion and already I had to speak up against this misquote of the Word. “Well, you know, my sister,” I tried to dash a little sweetness on the contradiction, “that scripture…” How do I say ‘ain’t even in the Bible’ without being disrespectful? Help me, Lord.

  “What about it? Been one of my favorite scriptures all my life,” Beverly chimed in.

  One of the fellowship facilitators casually interrupted our discussion. “How’s it going at this table?”

  Doris tipped up her hat. “Good. We were just discussing the verse about how God won’t put more on us than we can bear.”

  “Oh,” the facilitator laughed, putting a hand on her chest. “I know. People think that’s a real scripture! We’re gonna have to do some Bible drills one of these days.”

  The facilitator moseyed on to the next table.

  “What she said,” I shied away, thankful that the correction had come from someone nearer their age group.

  Doris bucked her eyes. “Chile, I been quotin’ that scripture all my life. You mean to tell me it ain’t even in the Bible?”

  “No, ma’am,” I answered as innocently as possible. “God said he wouldn’t put more temptation on us than we can bear. Not more troubles or problems. I mean, if we could bear everything that happens to us, we wouldn’t need Him.”

  Hattie threw her coffee napkin on the table and gasped, “Shut your mouth!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, what other scriptures you know of that we need to revisit?” Hattie asked, pulling her Bible closer.

  I snatched my phone from my purse and tapped a browser open. “There’s a website. I’ll go to it now.”

  My tablemates waited in anticipation, still awestruck about the revelation. Of course, once the site loaded, I gave them more. “Here’s one. The race is not given to the swift or the strong, but to the one who endureth until the end.”

  “You got to be kiddin’ me! We used to sing that song in the church choir!” Linda slapped the table.

  “The verse is actually a mixture of Ecclesiastes 9:11 and Matthew 24:13. When you really think about it, the verse can’t be true. The race is given to those who believe on Christ as Savior—not those who put forth the most effort the longest, right?”

  Hattie’s posture stiffened. “I’mma tell Willie Rose about you. You need to teach us a class or two next semester.”

  My mind said “oh, no” but a bell rang loudly in my Spirit. Me teach a Bible class? I couldn’t see it. I begged the Lord to just give me one new task at a time. Please.

  We all donated to the pot for the farewell offering to Sister Windham. Once again, she delivered more words of wisdom than I could capture with a pen and paper. I wished I hadn’t been so condescending with my seasoned sisters. By judging them, I’d missed out on the blessing of hearing Sister Windham teach.

  After dismissal, I rushed to approach her. “I wanted to let you know how much the message blessed me. And to thank you for praying for my husband. He’s better no
w.”

  “Fully recovered?”

  Odd question. The Holy Spirit directed me to tell her the whole truth, not the cheery version I’d given to everyone who’d asked. “Seventy-five percent, if I had to put a number on it.”

  Her intense focus on me in a buzzing crowd of sixty or so women was unnerving. Made me feel extremely vulnerable. Had the Spirit not arrested me moments earlier, I might have sidestepped her probe with humor or a churchy cliché.

  Not today.

  “You know, the last time we talked in the parking lot, you asked me to pray and ask God to heal your husband.”

  I nodded as my eyes began to sting. My heart was jumping at the chance to receive whatever she had to say. The fact that I was there, the way the Lord used me at my table, it wasn’t a coincidence. This day was important, and I knew it even before Sister Windham laid it on me.

  “I wanted to say something to you then, but the Holy Spirit said you weren’t ready, so I didn’t. I prayed what you requested. And if you remember, I prayed for you more than your husband.”

  A tiny smile escaped. “Yes, ma’am, I did notice.”

  “Well, God has answered my prayer for you. You’re ready. And what I see is that you and your husband have been fighting this attack on his health like y’all are at the bottom of a hill, his health is at the top, and the enemy’s standing between where you are and where you need to be.” She lowered one hand toward her knee, the other she raised high. “But y’all got it backwards. In Christ, you already have health. Your fight is to protect your health, not get it. You understand what I’m saying?

  “You’re at the top of the hill swinging the sword down, not up. The enemy is beneath you, never above. You tell him what to do, not the other way around. We been singin’ Jesus, He will fix it after while, when all the time, He left the power with us. You hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. How, exactly, do I fight him?”

  “I see you missed a lot of sessions,” she semi-fussed. “Your sword is the Word. Every time you speak it from your lips, you strike a blow to the enemy.”