The Devil in Pew Number Seven

by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo; Rebecca Nichols Alonzo

  I just didn’t want to leave her behind.

  It was the little things that seemed to rub salt in my wounded soul. Like the time I was shopping with Aunt Dot at the grocery store when I heard a little girl calling after her mother in the next aisle. My ears stung, and my heart ached at the sound of that precious word—Mom. In that moment, I was reminded that I would never again be able to call out for my mother and expect a response. Still, I refused to allow the memory of her to fade away.

  The days without her seemed unbearably long. She had been my anchor, my guiding light. She had brought me into this world. We were supposed to spend a lifetime together. Momma was going to teach me about purity, modesty, conversational etiquette, and how to be comfortable in my own skin. She had promised to teach me how to play the piano, too. We were supposed to fight over shoes, clothes, and jewelry like all mothers and daughters do.

  None of that would happen now.

  A number of months after Momma died, I panicked. I was in my room cleaning on a Saturday afternoon, our usual cleaning day. As I removed the pictures, hairbrushes, and decorative items from their assigned places on my dresser, I thought of Momma and how passionate she was about cleaning. One moment I was cleaning, and the next instant I was mourning the loss of my mother.

  What’s more, I was borderline hysterical because I couldn’t remember the soft, almost musical-like sound when she spoke; that tender, calming voice praying over me at bedtime; or the quality of her whisper as she tucked words of affection into my ear while settling me down for the night. Try as I might to get it back, the distinct timbre of her voice eluded me. I closed my eyes tight to block out any distraction, and yet I wasn’t able to recall the way she said “I love you” anymore.

  Lying in bed at night was especially difficult for me. The memories of us living in Sellerstown and the fear that prevented me from falling asleep back then would flood my mind. When the nightmarish thoughts became too much to bear, too loud to silence, I’d get out of my bed and wander to Aunt Dot’s room for comfort—just as I used to seek the shelter of my parents’ bed.

  There I’d put into words the sadness filling my heart over the loss of my mother. In her gentle way, Aunt Dot would wrap her arms around me and listen to my woes with the patience and love of a saint. As we sat side by side on the edge of her bed, I could smell the scent of the lotion she used in her nightly beauty regimen lingering in the air. The fragrance was familiar—Oil of Olay—the same cream Momma used. Somehow God had given Aunt Dot a mother’s love for us, even though she had no children of her own.

  Although she sacrificed her sleep on numerous occasions, Aunt Dot never complained or demonstrated resentment that I was unloading my burdens on her. Instead, she empathized with my sadness and assured me it was a normal part of the grieving process. She said this lifetime was as short as the blink of an eye. Before I knew it, I’d be together with my mother again, and this time we’d be together forever.

  Aunt Dot pointed me to Revelation 21, which says,

  I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. . . . He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” (vv. 3-5, NIV)

  That eternal perspective continues to melt away my sorrow; it gives me something to look forward to when the feelings of aloneness creep up on me, even today.

  * * *

  Just as Aunt Dot helped me grieve, my grandparents doctored my wounded heart as best they could. Through pictures and stories, they reminded my brother and me of Momma’s love for us. They encouraged us to trust God and to remember that our purpose in life didn’t stop because He had called Momma home. Momma lived in such a way as to bring the Lord glory, they said. That was her goal; ours should be the same. While their words brought hope and comfort, no one could replace her.

  After losing Momma, the main consolation in our move from Sellerstown was the fact that nobody was shooting at us anymore. The midnight phone calls had stopped. I could peek through my bedroom curtains anytime—day or night—and not see Mr. Watts stalking back and forth, shaking his fist in our direction. Even the cloud of fear that another bombing might happen eventually lifted.

  In that respect, during the two years following Harris’s trial, we lived peacefully. The main shadow hanging over us was the damage that had been done to Daddy’s nerves. He had lost the love of his life, his companion in ministry, the mother of his two children.

  His church was gone.

  His friends were gone.

  His dreams were gone.

  And now, by all appearances, he was slowly losing his mind. At times I watched helplessly as he would talk to people who were not in the room. I remember sitting at the dinner table when Daddy experienced one of his flashbacks. As if being transported in time to the day of the shootings, he completely lost touch with reality. Without warning he jumped out of his seat, knocking several dishes off the table in the process. With a fire in his eyes he shouted at the unseen gunman until my grandfather took hold of him and settled him down.

  There were countless days when my grandparents sent Daniel and me outside to play while they tried to calm Daddy after a flashback. Even though I was a child, I knew it would take much more to soothe Daddy’s troubled spirit. He needed to be healed, and I had faith that God would make Daddy better. I took markers and paper and drew signs, which I placed over his bed, that read, “Jesus, please heal my daddy.” I rode my bike around our yard, praying for Daddy, believing one day soon we’d have a normal life, a life free of Daddy’s “episodes.”

  Granted, Daddy appeared normal some of the time. He had seasons where he’d seem like his old, wonderful self. I drew a lot of comfort from those harmonious intervals. He loved to grill outdoors for company and interact with them like in the old days. He’d jump off the diving board into the pool with a “bomb” dive that splashed almost all the water out of the pool. He was even a guest preacher in various churches every now and then. The good times gave us hope that one day, if we didn’t give up, Daddy would be completely healed.

  For my part, I did what I could to help Daddy parent Daniel—not that Daddy needed me to do so. I figured if I anticipated Daniel’s needs as Momma used to do, though, I might take some of the pressure off him. When Daniel struggled with his emotions over Momma’s death, I’d put my arm around him or hold him and remind him that we always had each other and we still had Daddy. And I made sure I kept track of where Daniel was going and what he was doing. If he needed help getting dressed or was hungry for a sandwich, rather than bother Daddy, I stepped in and lent a hand.

  Even so, Daddy’s moments of normality seemed to pass by far too quickly. Inevitably, another setback would occur. Sometimes he would wake us up during the middle of the night in order to go on a trip. With his suitcase packed, he informed us that he had a revival to preach, and we had to get going right away. Having awakened everyone, determined to hit the road, he started rummaging through the entire house searching for the Bibles and car keys we had stashed to prevent him from wandering off.

  Daniel and I unpacked his bags, and after reassuring him there was no scheduled meeting, we’d finally return to our beds. We would get only a few hours of sleep some nights before the alarm sounded for school. Tired and worn out, we’d get dressed, go to our classes, and try to concentrate. Although we pretended that our lives were normal, a question always lingered in the back of our minds: Will Daddy be there when we get home from school? Or will he be in the hospital again? This was especially unsettling for me as a twelve-year-old preteen, a concern that shadowed me for the next two years.

  Daddy’s fragile condition was severe enough to require heavy medication—even an extended hospitalization of six months. Because of the death of Momma and the years of har
assment at the hands of Mr. Watts, Daddy’s mental state had been thoroughly scrambled. The endless hours spent answering the phone, only to hear the breathing of a maniac, or peeking out the window every time a car passed the parsonage, created an anxiety that wreaked havoc on his nervous system.

  I’m sure his condition was complicated by second-guessing. He had to have wondered about the wisdom of staying in Sellerstown when friends and family had pleaded, begged, and prayed we’d leave before harm was done. Should he have listened? Had he been stubborn? Had this been some sort of contest of wills: Daddy vs. Mr. Watts? Or had the voice of God really confirmed in his spirit that he should not abandon this congregation?

  What if he had taken their advice and left?

  Momma would still be alive, that much is certain.

  But would leaving to save our own skins have been what the Lord wanted? Didn’t Jesus say to take up our cross and follow Him? Did we get a say in where Jesus took us? By definition, a cross, as Daddy knew, was suffering even unto death. The Scriptures don’t paint a rosy picture for those who follow the Lord. Daddy knew full well that Jesus promised, “In the world ye shall have tribulation.” That’s part of the deal, part of what happens when living in a fallen world. And yet Daddy also knew full well that Jesus promised His followers hope, saying, “Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).

  In spite of what Daddy knew to be true in the Bible, his constant questioning about his decision to stay acted like a stage-four cancer. The speculations devoured his inner being, reducing him to a shell of his former self.

  * * *

  As a young girl, I vacillated between good and bad days. I still had my daddy, but he wasn’t the man I had known. Sure, some days the fog cleared, and I experienced the intimacy and love I had once known. Most days, however, were close to insufferable. I wished I could have unzipped the darkness and the depressive atmosphere at home and crawled out to where there was light. I longed for fresh, breathable air and a new cup of hope to quench the years of dry prayers. The other cups of hope had spilled each time Daddy was taken away to the hospital, which left me wondering if there would ever be any refills.

  Walking alone to the bus stop on cold school mornings, watching the air as I breathed in and out, I remember thinking that this could not be my life . . . not my real life. I had been born to wonderful parents, and now they were gone. Momma was dead, and Daddy was gone into sort of a living death, a zombie-like, disoriented state of being.

  For me, losing them was such a burden; at times as I walked to the bus, it felt as if I were carrying another person on my back. I didn’t appear to be bent over, but my heart was weighed down with a heaviness that made even the short trek to the bus stop seem to take forever.

  Worse, the thoughts echoing in my head felt as if they were so loud everyone at the bus stop could hear them. Even so, I’d smile and say hello to maintain the illusion that everything was just fine with me. No one knew the effort that charade took just so I could carry on with a “normal” school day.

  Making matters worse was watching my daddy go in and out of hospitals. That was especially hard on me. I wanted to be with him, but it hurt to witness his condition. His clothes had a disinfected hospital smell, not the familiar scent that I had loved about him. At times when we visited him in the hospital, I’d find him unshaven and his eyes reddened and glossed over from the medications.

  His face, tired and drawn from one too many sleepless nights, seemed to lack color. We’d take him outside and sit at a picnic table so he would get some sun. Our conversation was somewhat stilted due to the sedatives. He’d answer questions in clipped phrases, like a vending machine dispensing one treat at a time.

  None of these changes in Daddy’s countenance prevented me from sitting right beside him for the entire visit. I sat so close you couldn’t squeeze a dime between us. My brother and I would take turns sitting in Daddy’s lap, as if he were Santa—only better. I’d hug him, kiss him, and love him as if there were nothing wrong. I just hoped, prayed, and waited for him to be healed. I knew God could glue back the pieces of his shattered life.

  When it was time for us to leave, I’d offer him my brightest smile. I’d wrap my arms around his neck one final time and say, “Good-bye, Daddy.” That, however, didn’t sit well with him. He’d shake his head and say, “Honey, please say, ‘See you later,’ not ‘good-bye.’” I think the thought that he might never see his children again weighed on his heart.

  More than once after leaving the room, I overheard Daddy telling my grandma Nichols, “Mom, I’d rather have a dozen cancers in my body than have to suffer with these severe nerve problems. If I’m not going to get any better, I’d rather for the Lord to take me on home. I can’t take it any longer. It’s like hell on earth. Please, Mom, pray for me this way.”

  At the same time, I knew that Daddy had a rock-solid faith that he could be healed by the power of Jesus. He knew there was no sickness or brokenness beyond God’s repair. Jesus was the Great Physician. Daddy had preached about the healing power of the Lord, had prayed for others who had been sick, and had watched the Lord heal them. If it was God’s will, he, too, could be made whole again.

  In spite of the ongoing physical and mental anguish, Daddy never gave up on his faith in God. I overheard Daddy talking to his mother, Grandma Nichols, in the kitchen, saying, “These tormenting spirits can touch my body, my mind, and my emotions. But they can’t touch my born-again spirit.” Indeed, he loved God more than life itself.

  I’d hear Daddy walking through the house, confessing the Scriptures “My peace I give unto you” and “He hath not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind.” He spoke emphatically, using his hands for emphasis, as if preaching. He’d quote, “The thief cometh but for to kill and steal and to destroy, but Jesus came that we might have abundant life” and “He came to bind up the brokenhearted.”

  At times Daddy appeared to be basking in the grace of God to continue the good fight of faith. On his good days, he’d stop taking his medicine and call a friend who struggled with problems of his own. Daddy would pray with him, offer words of Scripture and encouragement, and essentially serve as a lifeline to this fellow traveler. Nothing encouraged Daddy more than bringing hope to the hopeless.

  Sometimes I heard Daddy crying out to the Lord in prayer, repeating that he had forgiven Mr. Watts and that he wanted Mr. Watts to become a changed man through the power of Jesus. Interestingly, I never once heard Daddy complain that Mr. Watts had escaped justice. He didn’t badger God with endless “Why, God?” questions about the suffering Mr. Watts had caused our family. Neither did Daddy rejoice when he learned about a breakthrough regarding Mr. Watts’s role in the Sellerstown bombings.

  * * *

  On June 5, 1980, two years after the murder trial, Grandma Nichols, Daddy, Danny, and I took a trip from our home in Alabama to North Carolina. I think Grandma thought it would be a good idea for us as a family to reconnect with our old friends from Sellerstown.

  I couldn’t wait to see my friend Missy, whom I’d always admired as I would a big sister. I was now ten, and Missy was fourteen. Even though two years had passed since I last saw her, we picked up as if I had been gone just a few days.

  One afternoon, we stood in front of her bathroom mirror, laughing at the sight of our green facial masks plastered from chin to cheek. For a moment, the distant memory of a more peaceful, playful time in our shared history was reflected in the two sets of eyes staring back at us. Even though life was different for us now, our friendship felt as familiar and comfortable as a pair of favorite shoes.

  I had the same warmhearted reunion with Aunt Pat. After a hug that spoke volumes, she raked my hair with her fingers, cupped my face between her tender hands, and just shook her head. I sensed she was marveling at the young woman I was becoming. She said, “You look so much like your precious mother, Becky.” My heart swelled. In a way, it felt good to know I was able in some small way to bring joy t
o those who knew, loved, and missed Momma.

  After we had arrived and settled, Daddy bought a local paper to read with his coffee. Daddy read that ATF Special Agent Charles Mercer never stopped pursuing Mr. Watts’s involvement in the bombings.

  According to the newspaper account,73 Mr. Watts had been indicted by a federal grand jury, was arrested on June 9, and immediately made bail by posting a $200,000 bond. He had been charged on two counts: first, conspiracy to detonate a destructive device in the series of Sellerstown bombings; second, conspiracy to violate our freedom of religion as protected by the First Amendment and our civil rights of life, liberty, and property as guaranteed by the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution.

  Through his lawyers, Mr. Watts entered a plea of not guilty. Not surprisingly, he had retained four of the best lawyers money could buy. The attorney for Bud Sellers, R. C. Soles, was a state senator. For the better part of eight months, this team of skilled barristers bombarded Federal Judge Earl Britt with a virtual barrage of motions and objections. Among those motions was a request to omit any evidence not originally presented to the grand jury. This move prevented the prosecutor74 from pursuing evidence linking Mr. Watts to any events of wrongdoing after November of 1975—including the shooting of my parents. Finally, on February 2, 1981, the trial of Mr. Watts began.

  Daddy, the first to testify, flew back to North Carolina to face in court the devil who previously had occupied pew number seven in church. It would be the last time the two men saw each other. When asked by the press about his reaction to the news that Mr. Watts had been indicted, Daddy described the mental torture he still experienced years later. “I have to take tranquilizers,75 and I just got out from a six-month stay in the hospital. The wounds to my body have healed, but I can’t put that time out of my mind,” Daddy said.