So Help Me God

by Larry D. Thompson

  On Sunday mornings, a Baptist preacher led a small service in the day room on the eleventh floor of the jail. T. J. was up and sitting in the day room with sketch pad in hand as the preacher spoke to a half a dozen inmates. After the service, T. J. gave the preacher a portrait of himself, hands raised to the heavens. The preacher was so impressed that he pulled a Bible out of his briefcase and handed it to T. J., who accepted the gift, thanked the preacher and carried it back to his cell. On the cover was the basic Sunday school fantasy of Jesus, true blue eyes, silk honey hair, and the same sort of mustache and scraggly beard that T. J. had on admission to the jail.

  After a nap, T. J. took a shot at duplicating the picture of Jesus on the wall of his cell. It was against the rules but he figured that he'd wash it off if one of the guards complained. Using a lead pencil, he sketched a giant face, taller than a man. He worked until well past dark, adding layers of charcoal and crayon. Before lights out, he sat on his bunk and stared at the gloomy countenance that stared back, comparing it with the picture on the front of the Bible. It was definitely not a gentle savior with a halo and choir robe. Instead, he had drawn a foreboding figure of authority with no compassion. Its hollow eyes were darkened pits of gloom.

  The next morning, T. J. got a bucket of soapy water and another mixed with ammonia and lye, telling the guard he had to wash out his toilet. As he returned to his cell, a second guard followed him with a young black man, struggling as the deputy dragged him down the corridor. Shoving him at T. J., the guard said, "I want you to baby sit this peckerwood. I'm shorthanded and this one is threatening to commit suicide. For me that might be a cause for rejoicing, but it might also get me fired, so you watch him while I do his paper work."

  The door clanged shut. As the guard disappeared, the black man suddenly attacked T. J., throwing him to the floor. As T. J. struggled to his feet, the other man picked up a bucket and threw a half-gallon of ammonia and lye into T. J.'s eyes. T. J. sagged to the floor and said, quite softly, "I'm blind. Oh God, I'm really blind."

  Above him, Jesus, similarly soaked, wept ammonia tears.

  Thus was born "The Miracle of the Tarrant County Jail." The face that T. J. had painted the day before had been replaced. Now, an eerily beautiful face of Jesus Christ filled the cell. Later, art experts would say the portrait resembled that of a Renaissance master. Most of all they exclaimed about the half-open eyes of Christ, mirrors of sorrow, pain, compassion and hope. Later, T. J. also pronounced it a miracle because he had not painted Christ's eyes the night before. Jesus had finished his own portrait.

  Another miracle occurred that day. As suddenly as T. J. lost his sight, it returned. Within three hours he could see again. A local ophthalmologist said he suffered severe scarring of corneal tissue and retina burns that should have left him permanently blind. T. J. later told others that while he was blind he heard a voice speaking to him, saying, "I will heal thee for thou hath done Me honor."

  When they released T. J. from jail, Jerry Abraham, a tent revivalist, was quick to track him down, offering him a hundred-dollar bill to appear at his revival on the outskirts of Dallas. Abraham sensed a box office draw if there ever was one, and T. J. was paid to tell his story, loosening the purse strings of Abraham's flock.

  One night, the damnedest thing happened. As T. J. stood at the front of the stage talking about being blind and regaining his vision, a voice came from the back of the room, "I can see! Praise God, I can see!" The woman pushed her way through the audience and fell at T. J.'s feet, embracing his legs. Somewhat embarrassed, T. J. broke away and whispered to Jerry, "I didn't do anything."

  Jerry knew different. What he saw was a charismatic man in his mid-thirties exuding sexual magnetism. He had a star attraction. Even the dark glasses that T. J. constantly wore to hide the damage to his eyes added to his mystique. That night he dubbed T. J. "The Chosen" and signed him to a contract as an assistant healer at three hundred dollars a week plus ten percent of the collection buckets. Within one short year the banners changed from Jerry Abraham-Special Appearance by the Chosen to Jerry Abraham Revivals Presents The Chosen to Jerry Abraham and The Chosen.

  The next year, the Lord took Jerry Abraham. T. J. assumed the deceased preacher's ministry, including possession of his tent, organ, kettledrum, and most important, his mailing list. T. J. considered it to be the will of God.

  If a historian followed the trail of evangelists from the beginning of the twentieth century, from Billy Sunday through Brother Jack Coe and A. A. Allen to Oral Roberts and finally to The Chosen, no one rose as fast or climbed as high as T. J. Oral Roberts first recognized the value of the electronic pulpit, stringing together his own network of independent stations. T. J. decided that he could duplicate the efforts of Oral Roberts, Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson. Better yet, he would outdo them. Whether it was his charisma and sexual magnetism, luck, timing, God's will, or all of the above, his ministry took off like a meteor across the southern sky. Within a few years, his ministry expanded from tents to basketball arenas to football stadiums. His Sunday morning service broadcast to all fifty states and one hundred and eighty-seven countries. While it was perhaps a late evening star, the star of his celebrity rose rapidly when it came over the horizon.

  The money rolled in. All T. J., now known as The Chosen, had to do was ask, and ask he did. At first there were mailbags delivered daily. Eventually, the post office had to send an entire truck. His name was so well known that if a letter was addressed to "The Chosen, U.S.A.," it was delivered to him in Fort Worth, Texas. As the bank account began to overflow, T. J. conceived The City of Miracles, his opulent announcement to the world that he was the foremost messenger of the Lord. It started with the donation of eighty-five acres in the hills west of Fort Worth. Within five years several buildings were complete. The first was The Miracle Sanctuary. It resembled a Las Vegas Showroom, only three times the size. Next came the Miracle Tower. Beside it stood The Miracle College. Like Disney World, various other areas were plotted.

  T. J. decided to emulate his contemporaries in every way. It was not enough to just have power over the religious thinking of his followers. He wanted to put his believers in positions of leadership throughout the United States and the world. When he thought about it, power was the word that most often came to mind, more power than the world had ever known in a religious leader. He wanted presidents, kings and dictators to find their way to Fort Worth to seek his advice and blessing. In his mind the Pope would eventually take second place behind Reverend Thomas Jeremiah Luther. The people working for The Miracle Foundation planned such a political overtaking, dubbing T. J.'s political action arm "The Right Side." They did so quietly at first, merely issuing press releases that a certain politician in Georgia was on the right side, or a governor in Michigan was on the right side. When the press release came from The City of Miracles, it drew the attention of the faithful who began to carry T. J.'s message to the ballot box.

  What led to T. J.'s comatose condition could not have been predicted, not even by the best of soothsayers or fortune tellers. He had just said the final prayer on the fifth night of a Christmas revival at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas. The average attendance for the five nights was sixty thousand people. The revenue generated each night was over one million dollars. As T. J. concluded the prayer, the lights dimmed and he was escorted from the stage, surrounded by guards. When he exited the stadium, a short, middle-aged woman, dressed in an old gray coat and wearing a floppy red hat stepped from the shadows. The guards assumed that she merely wanted to touch the hand of The Chosen and did not block her way. As she approached, she pulled a knife from her blouse and shouted, "You charlatan! You liar! You thief! You convinced my husband and me that if we gave all of our money to The City, you would heal his cancer. We did what you demanded and my husband died anyway."

  Before T. J. could reply and before the guards could react, she plunged the dagger into the heart of The Chosen. As the guards rushed to his side, she disappeared as suddenly as she
had come. She was never seen again.

  The Chosen should have died. He lost a massive amount of blood. He threw an embolism to his lungs and his heart stopped beating. Even though the EMTs revived T. J., he remained comatose. After months in the hospital, he was moved to The City of Miracles.

  CHAPTER 7

  The day dawned brighter than Lucy. Listening to two country disc jockeys bantering about the Houston Rockets, she stripped off her pajamas and stood in front of the mirror, front view first and then side. While there was no doubt that her jeans were getting tighter, she convinced herself that her abdomen wasn't bulging. Lucy showered quickly and put on a brown tee shirt and clean jeans. After pulling on her hiking boots, she applied a small amount of lipstick. She put the money bag in her purse, hoping that it would be enough if she decided to go through with an abortion. She made her bed, rinsed the breakfast dishes, loaded the washing machine, turned it on and headed out the front door for Population Planning. At the bus stop, she prayed no one would see her.

  Upon arriving in downtown Houston, she transferred to a local bus. Lucy had no preconceived expectations about the center. When the bus approached the forty-four hundred block of Space Shuttle Drive, the scene frightened her. She knew that she was at the right stop as she saw the name "Population Planning" on the building. What she had not expected was a throng of thirty or forty people, walking up and down the sidewalk. Fate had dealt her another unkind hand. The Houston pro-life forces had picked that day to picket the center.

  The protestors were an eclectic group, young and old, male and female, Anglo, Hispanic and one or two African-Americans. Some walked up and down with signs. Others stood at locations where the Population Planning clients were most likely to approach. Two carried rosaries and quietly prayed. One kneeled on the driveway. Mixed among them were clinic volunteers, wearing orange bibs with the center's logo and name on the front. Other than the bibs, they looked about the same as the protesters, but so strong were their convictions that neither side spoke to the other. The job of the volunteers was to spot prospective clients as they arrived. Whether they parked in the fenced Population Planning lot or arrived by bus, the volunteers intercepted their clients and escorted them through the protesters to the building's entrance.

  Lucy's bus rolled to a stop at the corner across the street. Seeing the demonstrators, she considered staying on the bus until she saw a young girl and an older woman, probably the girl's mother, get off. Her courage renewed, she walked down the aisle, thanked the bus driver and stepped onto the curb. As the bus pulled away, she surveyed the scene before her. Standing at the corner, she was not sure what to do or how to break through the picket line to get to the building. Suddenly, a woman in an ordinary blue dress and orange bib appeared at Lucy's side. She was large, three inches taller than Lucy, and weighed well over two hundred pounds. Her hair was gray and her face was kind. Her voice was strong.

  "Young lady, I'm a volunteer and I'm here to help you. My name is Margaret. These people are out here six or eight days a month. They are peaceful demonstrators and will not harm you. The law will not permit it. See that big officer over on the corner. He's here to make sure that you are safe. Now, I'm going to take your arm and we're going to cross the street. They will try to get you to stop and talk. You see that young woman pushing a baby carriage. She's likely to plead with you, something like, 'Don't let them kill your baby.' They'll also try to force you to take their literature. The best thing to do is ignore all of them. Pretend that they aren't there. Just walk beside me. They will back off as soon as they see that you're not going to stop. Ready?"

  With a trembling voice and a lump in her throat, Lucy replied, "Yes, ma'am."

  They stepped from the curb. Margaret walked briskly and with determination. Her instructions proved correct. Several of the protesters converged on Lucy, including the young woman with the baby carriage. They waved their signs and attempted to frighten her away.

  "What's going on in that building is murder," shouted a man wearing a clerical collar.

  "Look at my beautiful baby. Yours will be just as wonderful," said the young woman with the carriage.

  "You'll be branded a murderer if you go through with it," a man in a laborer's clothes yelled.

  "Here, take this pamphlet. Don't do anything until you visit the pregnancy planning center down the street," an elderly woman said.

  They did not touch her and parted to let her through as the two quickened their pace. To say that Lucy was intimidated by it all would have been an understatement. If she could have walked away without having to pass through them again, she probably would have done so. Besides, Margaret already had her at the front door of the center. Lucy hesitated when she saw a metal detector looming in front of her. In her mind, metal detectors were only for one purpose: To keep bad people with weapons away. The people in the center had to be more concerned than Margaret let on.

  Seeing the startled look on her face, Margaret explained, "I'm sorry, dear, I should have told you about this. It's just a precaution. We haven't had a violent incident in this center in five years. Those people out in front are peaceful. However, there are some who will resort to violence. We take every precaution. You don't have a thing to worry about."

  Lucy was not convinced, but after a moment's hesitation, she handed her purse to the guard and walked through the detector.

  Subdued colors lined the reception area. There were pictures on the wall with captions proclaiming, "Every child a wanted child," a sign that said, "The decision to bear children is private and voluntary," and plaques reflecting that some of the biggest foundations in Houston had donated funds to the center.

  Margaret led Lucy to a desk where another woman asked how they could help her.

  "I'm here to see Sylvia. Is she available?"

  "Let me check," the woman replied as she dialed the phone. After a brief conversation, she said, "Sylvia is winding up a meeting and will see you in about ten minutes." Margaret excused herself and went back out to the street, ready to assist the center's clients and, in her own way, to do battle with the pro-life forces. Lucy found a seat and waited. Shortly, the elevator door opened and a woman walked over to her. "I'm Sylvia. Can I help you?"

  "I'm Lucy. I'm here for my appointment.

  "Of course, Lucy," Sylvia smiled. "Please follow me back to my office."

  They walked past the elevators to locked double doors that could only be opened by swiping a magnetic card through a reader. Then they walked down a hallway past a library and into Sylvia's office. The room was small, decorated to avoid the look of an office. Instead it contained a couch, a comfortable chair and a coffee table. The picture on the wall was a mountain valley in summer, flowers in bloom.

  "Have a seat. Can I get you anything?"

  "No, ma'am. I'm fine," Lucy said, as she perched uncomfortably on the edge of the couch with her hands folded in her lap.

  "Tell me a little about yourself, Lucy."

  After a moment of silence, Lucy replied, "My name is Lucy, Lucy Baines Brady. My mother liked President Lyndon Johnson when she was growing up and I'm named after one of his daughters."

  "Where do you live?"

  "I'm from Texas City and I'm a junior in high school."

  "What do you plan to do after graduating? College or get a job?"

  "I don't know yet. I'm thinking about community college."

  "Well, that's okay. I can tell you a lot of people are not sure what to do after high school. And you told me on the phone that you're pregnant."

  Lucy stared at the mountain scene and wished for a moment that she could be there, sitting among the flowers beside the stream that flowed through the valley. There or anywhere but here.

  "Lucy?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Sylvia could not have estimated the number of times that she had heard those words, at least twenty times a week. Each time she had to think of the right response. She had spent a total of about ten minutes in conversation with this girl, p
art of it on the phone. Sylvia considered her approach. Questions went through her mind. Was this girl mature enough to make this decision? Is abortion an option for her? Is it something she can recommend today? Should she suggest the involvement of her mother in making the decision?

  "Lucy, I know what's going through your mind. You're frightened. You don't know why this is happening to you. You're scared of an abortion, and you're not sure that you are ready to be a mother."

  "I'm really scared, ma'am," Lucy replied, relieved to hear someone express what she had been feeling.

  "Let me get some basic information. First, how long have you been sexually active?"

  "Just one time."

  "You mean you've had sex with just one partner?"

  "Yes, and only one time. I don't know how I could possibly be pregnant."

  "When did this one time occur?" Sylvia asked.

  "About three months ago. I've been getting a little bit confused lately."

  "That's okay, Lucy. I know that this has been a difficult time for you. How old was your partner?"

  "My age. He goes to my high school."

  "Is he your boyfriend?" If marriage were on the horizon, she would steer Lucy toward carrying the baby.

  "No, ma'am. He and I haven't talked since that night."

  "What about your parents? Do they know about it, or that you're possibly pregnant?"

  "No. My mother is a born-again Christian."

  Sylvia had no problem sizing up the situation. "There are basically three alternatives. First, you appear to be young and healthy and would probably have no major problems during pregnancy. You could have the baby and raise it as a single parent. We can arrange for prenatal care if necessary. You would have to be willing to take on the obligations of a single parent, which would include providing food, clothing, medical care and a home for your child. Or, you could have the baby and we can put you in contact with an adoption agency that could find a good home with people who would love to raise your child as their own. Both of those options involve carrying your pregnancy to term. Obviously, you would have to tell your parents, and your friends would probably know. The third option is abortion. An abortion will end your pregnancy, today if you choose.