Born at Dawn (2 page)

Cynthia collected her pillow and a light blanket from the trunk at the foot of their bed. She tiptoed down the hall and collapsed onto the couch, hoping her sorrow would get sucked up like a vacuum does loose change between the folds of the cushions. With her hands folded behind her head she stared up at the ceiling and asked herself over and over until she fell asleep,
is this marriage really all in vain?

The next morning she woke up with a stiff neck and an even greater question looming in her mind:
what will I do if it is?

Cynthia took long strides across Amsterdam Avenue, dragging the boys across the street. Barbara's words had made a dent in her heart. Maybe all Cynthia needed was a dose of Jesus to relieve all the tension between her and Marvin. She peered up at the overcast sky and hoped the rain didn't begin falling before she reached the doors of Mount Carmel Community Church. They stopped abruptly at the entrance of Mount Carmel.

Her eyes fixed on the porthole window in the center of the polished dark mahogany doors of Mount Carmel. It was either Mount Carmel or Convent Avenue Baptist Church where her mother fellowshipped. Cynthia knew she didn't have the Baptist look down pat. Nor was she in the mood for her mother to parade her around the church. She simply needed to get in touch with heaven. That urgency led her Mount Carmel. Her nonexistent relationship with God and her husband's history with Pastor David weighed her down.

She took a deep breath.
You're too close not to go in.

She bent over and straightened James's tie and wiped the corners of Keith's mouth with her thumb, dampened by the spit of her tongue.

“Listen, boys, when we go in here, I want you to sit down, sit still, and be quiet. It's different; just give it a chance, okay?”

The boys looked up at her and stared into her eyes, which were glowing and begging them to cooperate.

“Yes, Mom,” they said in unison.

“But why are we here?” Keith asked.

“Because Mama needs to spend some time with Jesus, and so do you,” Cynthia replied, pinching the tip of Keith's nose.

The floorboards creaked as Cynthia and the boys attempted to ease into the last pew. The boys fidgeted in their seats, tugging at the mustard suits they'd worn last year to their cousin Darlene's wedding. That was the only time they'd been in a church since they were christened. Cynthia's mother always begged her to come to her church.

“It's not right what you doin' to dem boys,” Mildred had once said to her daughter as steam wafted up from her cup of tea. “It's not right. If you and Marvin want to live like heathens you can; you're grown and you got every right to. But dem boys shouldn't be denied the chance to get to know their savior. Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of glory belongs to such as these.' What do you think He's going to do to you if you keep raising dem like there's no God in heaven?”

“You're right, Mama. I'm going to take them soon,” Cynthia would reassure Mildred every time she paused long enough for Cynthia to speak.

“You better be careful what you say, girl. He's listening too.” Mildred had pointed her spindly finger at the ceiling. “You're making a vow to the Lord, and you can't go back on it.”

Recalling that conversation, a tingling sensation ran up Cynthia's arm. She looked down at the pew bench on which she was seated. The twinge of pain Cynthia felt run up her arm snatched her out of her musings on the past and into the present. James was pulling at the cuffs of his shirt, trying to stretch them to his wrists. Keith tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Knock it off. Hold still,” Cynthia leaned over and whispered to them as the choir began singing “Amazing Grace.”

The sound of the organ behind the choir reminded Cynthia of the days when she sat beside her mother during Sunday service, sucking peppermint balls. It was easy for her to slip right back into place. By the second verse she was mouthing the song's words along with the soloist. Tears streamed down Cynthia's face, and she tilted her head back. She tapped her small feet as the tempo of the music picked up attempting to put the pain of the previous night behind her.

“Give God some praise,” the devotional leader shouted into the microphone. “No matter what the devil has done to you, he couldn't kill you. My God said yes and here you are today. Stand up on your feet and give God some praise.”

Hallelujahs rang out all around Cynthia. She looked around and tried to join in on the cries of joy, but the pain that filled her aching bones held her hostage. She mumbled a weak “Thank you, Jesus” in an attempt to be polite.

“God wants to heal you. The devil couldn't kill you, and God is waiting to heal you. But it starts with you,” the preacher said, pointing at Cynthia. “He sent his son, Jesus, to reconcile men with God. And He is ready, willing, and able to reconcile all of your relationships. Some of you haven't spoken to your mother in years; some of you haven't spoken to your baby's daddy in months.”

Amens mixed with chuckles escaped from the mostly female congregation.

“Some of you haven't spoken to your spouse in days. Let me ask you a question: how long has it been since you talked to Jesus? He can restore, and the work begins with you,” Pastor David said, pointing at the congregation.

To Cynthia it appeared as though he had singled her out again and was pointing directly at her. Cynthia turned to the boys to check if she was just being paranoid. James's head hung, and drool was leaking on his jacket. Keith was thumbing through the hymnal. Since the boys could neither confirm nor deny what she was feeling, Cynthia tilted her head a bit to the right and tried to line her eyes up with the direction that Pastor David was pointing in, which led to her.

“We are always looking for God to work on the other person, and you know why the work isn't getting done? 'Cause Jesus is waiting for you to cry out ‘Have mercy on me, thou son of David. Fix me, Lord. Save me, Lord. Give me clean hands and a pure heart, Lord.' When you start loving God right, you can start loving your neighbor right, you can start loving yo' mama right, you can start loving yourself right and realize if your baby daddy doesn't want to make you his wife, it's time to move on. You can start loving your husband right, with the meekness and submission that God requires of you women,” Pastor David preached passionately.

Snickers and nods rippled through the crowd.

Cynthia wondered if the way in which she loved her husband was right or wrong. It must be wrong since she managed to wind up on the wrong side of his wrath so often, she concluded as fragments of last night flashed through her mind.

“I know it's a hard thing to do, ladies. I was raised by a black woman. The last thing y'all want to hear is submit to your husband, but we're doing it God's way, not our own way, and the man is the head of the woman. Check Ephesians 5:22–33 for that. If you have questions, bring them to Bible Study, ladies and gentlemen.”

Cynthia had a question.
How do I get the man I love to stop beating me?

“Now back to the Word,” Pastor David said. “We first need to recognize what's wrong with us and let Jesus in to restore and redeem us.”

Cynthia wasn't really sure whether she was to blame or Marvin was to blame for all that was wrong in their life. There was only one thing she was sure of: she didn't want to experience this agony and degradation anymore.

“Is there anyone here today who has not yet received Christ as their Savior? Is there anyone here today who is tired of the devil beating up on them and ready for a real victory? There's winning power in Christ! He has overcome death, hell, and the grave to be a living sacrifice for me and for you. Isn't it time to give Him a place in your life? Do you want joy? Do you want the peace that surpasses all understanding? Do you want the power to say, ‘Storm, be still, because He that the winds obey lives in me'?”

Cynthia reviewed the questions in her mind. Tears plopped onto the back of her hand. She put her hand on the back of the pew in front of her to pull herself up. Her legs felt weak, and she felt the eyes of the congregation on her as she moved slowly down the aisle.

“Come,” the pastor beckoned. “All of us are sinners. All of us have come short of the glory of God. Come. End it all here.”

Cynthia, two other ladies, and a teenage boy stood in front of the altar. The pastor stepped down from the pulpit and came over to anoint each one with oil, starting at the young man. When he reached Cynthia, she looked up into his face.

“Praise the Lord!” the pastor shouted excitedly, throwing his hands into the air. “Where's your husband, sister?”

“I don't know, David . . . I mean, Pastor David,” Cynthia murmured, looking at the floor.

“Pick your head up, sister.” Pastor David gently cupped her chin, lifting her face so that his dark eyes met with her almond-shaped brown ones. “Jesus is the great equalizer. He died for all men. Church, this is a wonderful thing you are witnessing. This is the wife of one of my former best friends. Look how wonderful God is. I'm preaching a message on restoring relationships, and here is the wife of an old best friend. Isn't He a way maker? Hallelujah!”

That afternoon Cynthia accepted Christ as her personal Lord and Savior. When the service was over, Pastor David took her around to meet all of the members of the church. They welcomed her and the boys with open arms.

Brother Johnson, the choir director, hugged her, shook her hand, and hugged the boys. “Can you young brothers sing?” he asked, stooping over to look into their eyes. “I've been playing with the idea of starting an all-boys choir at the church, and you're welcome to join.”

James and Keith just nodded and smiled as the next saint on the welcoming committee enjoined the circle that had grown around them. A bronze-colored hefty woman in a crooked and stiff two-toned wig stepped forward grinning from ear to ear.

“This is our lovely Sister Jeanette. She is our Sunday School teacher and the director of our women's ministry program,” Pastor David said to Cynthia. “Jeanette, please give Cynthia a schedule. Cynthia, if you need anything, please, see me or Sister Jeanette, and we will help you as best we can.”

Cynthia nodded as Sister Jeanette squeezed her hand before reaching into her purse and gave the boys some peppermint balls. “Cynthia, you know we have a yard out back; most of the other kids are playing out there. Is it all right if the boys go play?”

Cynthia nodded in agreement with Sister Jeanette. “Boys, go and meet the other children in the congregation. They're playing out back.”

Sister Jeanette turned back to Cynthia and her brown button eyes radiated the warmth of a mother. “You've done a good thing today. You've done the right thing. The Lord will bless you and save your family if you allow Him to. Sister, you have to be open to Jesus, not just in your time of desperation and desolation. You have to commit your whole self to Him and His ways.” She handed Cynthia a copy of the church program. “We offer babysitting on the nights we have classes, and we have counseling for domestic violence, too,” Sister Jeanette pointed out while centering her wig and peering over her glasses at the poorly camouflaged welts on Cynthia's neck.

Cynthia didn't have a lie or defensive statement prepared that would get Sister Jeanette out of her face fast enough. She didn't expect to be found out on the first visit. Cynthia cleared her throat and straightened her back and said, “Thank you, Sister Jeanette, but I don't have much time to talk. I'll look at the schedule and come when I can.”

The transition from sinner to saint wasn't easy for Cynthia. The moment she walked in the door from her first trip to Mount Carmel, the devil was waiting to tempt her.

“Where you been all day?” Marvin huffed at her while she helped the boys out of their jackets.

“We went to church today, Daddy.” At nine years old, James was the official family reporter. He was still struggling with learning the difference between what should be uttered and what should not be. “You should have come with us. A friend of yours was there.”

Twelve-year-old Keith slapped James in the back of his head, trying to demonstrate his superiority. “He wasn't
there.
He's the pastor.”

“The pastor?” Marvin asked with his eyebrows scrunched together. “Did you take the kids to that joke of a church, Mount . . . ?” Marvin snapped his fingers. “Mount . . .”

“Mount Carmel Community Church. It's not a joke. It's a lovely place, Marv,” Cynthia said resolutely. “Are you hungry?” She quickly tried to stave off the inevitable—Marvin's monologue on the legitimacy of Pastor David's ministry.

According to Marvin, Pastor David could not be trusted since he'd abandoned his street life and friendship with Marvin to pursue the ministry. Every time they walked past Mount Carmel or anyone mentioned it, Marvin had to trudge through the past.

“Of course, I'm hungry. You left me here alone to fend for myself, and you know I can't go on without two things.” Marvin wrapped his hands around her dime-sized waist, pulled her in close to his body, and stared in her eyes. “I can't go on without your loving.” He brushed back a few loose strands of Cynthia's burgundy hair and planted a wet kiss on her lips. “And I certainly can't make it without your cooking, girl.”

Cynthia could see through the act. She knew Marvin was trying to smooth whatever feathers his behavior had wrinkled the previous day, and it wasn't working. It took every atom of Cynthia's fragile being to cook Marvin's food without spitting in it. Cynthia called it a small victory every time she was able to inflict some pain on Marvin unbeknownst to him, like the time she put Ex-Lax in his cupcakes.

Small victories were no longer satisfying. She wanted more. Peace or blood. Cynthia envisioned Marvin's chiseled face bubbling upon contact with the olive oil that was now sizzling in the pan. “Peace, peace, think about peace. You just left church,” she chided under her breath.

That kept her from acting on her impulses and the voices of vengeance echoing in her head.

“Marv, the food is ready,” Cynthia announced.

“That was fast, babe.”

In less than half an hour she'd whipped up grilled chicken breast sautéed in a mango paste with steamed broccoli. Rather than compliment her skills, he grabbed her wrist just as she placed his plate in front of him. “I don't want my kids around Dave,” Marvin snapped.

“He's not the same anymore. He's changed.”

With a raised eyebrow Marvin asked, “You sure about that?”

“I'm very sure, Marvin. He's a preacher for Christ's sake. How much more evidence do you need to believe that he's saved? Are you waiting for him to part the East River so you can walk through it on your way to work?”

“He ain't saved,” Marvin scoffed. “He's what you call a hypocrite. How's he gonna preach don't drink and he was the first one drunk at a party? How's he gonna preach don't have sex before you get married and he used to have orgies? Where was his faith when he was right beside me robbing and stealing, huh?” Marvin stared at Cynthia hard.

“Marvin, I don't know about what happened then. All I know is he's living for God now,” Cynthia replied smiling. She was completely convinced that Pastor David was a man of God. Based on the preaching Cynthia heard today there was nothing that Marvin could reveal about Pastor David's past that would hinder her. Everyone had a past.

“I was there. I know what he used to be, and he wasn't no man of God,” Marvin said.

“Well—”

“What are you, some kind of cheerleader for him now? Get me a beer and be quiet,” Marvin barked. “I don't want to hear any more about David and his funky ol' church.”

With those words Cynthia swallowed her spit, beckoned the boys to come and eat dinner, and wondered when she would be able to share the news of her conversion with Marvin.

 

 

Keith walked out of the doors of the church complaining about having homework to do. James was crying about being cold and sleepy—the after effects of Tuesday night Bible Study.

Cynthia took a deep breath and hoisted James over her shoulder, exhaling once he was positioned properly. The frosty December air turned her breath into a vapor before her eyes. Cynthia was thankful that at nine the boy was still light enough to be carried.

“Little brother, replace that complaint with a petition,” Pastor David commanded Keith. “Repeat after me: ‘Father, I am striving to serve you. Please, Lord, renew my strength and increase my ability. In Jesus' name. Amen.'” He patted Keith on the shoulder after the boy obediently repeated his prayer. “You may hear otherwise, but there's nothing wrong with serving my God.”

Cynthia craned her neck over James's limp body to say, “Thank you, Pastor David.”

“Sister, where's your joy?” Pastor David asked. “You're not supposed to leave church looking sad. You can't leave your joy inside the church, especially when I'm getting ready to lock the gate.” He laughed. “Didn't you learn anything tonight? Come on, be honest. Maybe it's time for me to change my approach.”

“Pastor, it's not you. Your teachings are fine. It's just . . . just . . .” Cynthia searched for the right words. She'd been in the ring for twelve rounds with Marvin and had lost every round. She searched her heart for the words that would convey the extreme frustration she felt without her having to repent after uttering them. She'd come to the church seeking refuge. A little over a two months later she still felt like she was getting whipped by the winds in the rainstorm.

“There are some things going on in my life right now that I'm having trouble dealing with.”

“Are you headed down the hill?” Pastor David asked, pointing toward the neighborhood below.

Cynthia nodded yes. Her demeanor must have indicated that this conversation might take a minute.

“I'll walk you down.” They began to tread down the hill. Pastor David continued counseling Cynthia. “You're having trouble in your life because you're trying to deal with it, and Jesus is the one who deals with it all. Actually, He's dealt with it already. On the cross, He said ‘it is finished.' Through the shedding of His blood, any- and everything that tries to come against us has already been defeated. The resolution to some problems will manifest itself sooner than others, but all to the glory and honor of Jesus. Sometimes you have to wait—”

“Cynthia! Cynthia! I thought I said I didn't want you around this joker!” Marvin flew up the hill toward them, stopping them in their tracks with his ranting.

“Praise the Lord, brother!” Pastor David exclaimed, extending his hand to Marvin who swatted it away as if an inconsequential fly stood before him buzzing.

“I'm not your brother,” he said to Pastor David and then turned his attention toward his wife. “Cynthia, what are you doing out here with him?” Marvin asked prying James out of her arms. Keith shrank behind his mother before Marvin could snatch him up too.

“Marvin, it's nothing for you get upset about. It's all my fault really. Bible Study went overtime, which is why I'm walking Sister Cynthia and the boys down the hill.”

Marvin looked Pastor David up and down quizzically, trying to understand why Pastor David insisted on speaking to him.

“I'm not interested in nothin' you got to say, Dave. Can a man converse with his own wife?”

“Pastor,” was Pastor David's only response to Marvin's ire-laden question.

“You ain't a pastor, and you're certainly not my pastor.”

“Marvin, please show Pastor David some respect,” Cynthia begged, gently tugging Marvin's sleeve.

“Without Jesus, it's hard for a man to respect himself, let alone another human being. You can't expect him to not act like the devil when he's full of the devil,” Pastor David said to Cynthia without flinching under Marvin's solemn stare.

Marvin scraped his finger across his neck. He took one huge step, inserting himself in the space between Pastor David and Cynthia. Pastor David had the same light shining in his hazel eyes Marvin had seen in him when they first met in middle school and earned the moniker the Drop Boys because either one of them was willing to drop anyone where they stood.

“Don't have any cross conversations with my wife. When I see a man, I'll give him his props, but I don't see one. Only a snake turns his back on his friends to save his own useless skin,” Marvin spat.

“You're right. My skin is useless, but I never went anywhere that you couldn't, Marvin.”

“Is that right?” Marvin snickered. “Listen, David.” Marvin poked him in his chest. “I told her once and she didn't listen, so now I'm telling you. Stay away from my wife and my kids. They don't want any of your poison.”

In the fifteen years they'd been together, Marvin could not recall Cynthia setting foot in a church; at least, not of her own volition. They'd attended the customary Christmas services, had the kids christened, but nothing more than that. The last thing Marvin wanted was some woman thumping the Bible at him.

“Marvin, be careful not to hurt yourself,” Pastor David said, unmoved by Marvin's rant. “She is a child of God, and He isn't going to tolerate you keeping her from Him. She has dedicated her life to God, and you can't get in the way of that.”

Marvin switched his murderous gaze from Pastor David to his wife.
Slap her now or later, now or later, now or later.
Marvin weighed his options. Even though Pastor David was some type of do-gooder now, Marvin was sure he'd rise to the occasion if Marvin did anything too rash. Pastor David was no welterweight boxer, but he certainly knew how to throw and land a couple of effective punches. Even though it's been years since Pastor David had thrown a punch Marvin knew he would definitely try to defend the honor of one of his ‘sistas.'

It was best that he deal with Cynthia when they got into the building. The middle of 145th Street was too public. If Pastor David interfered and Marvin beat him down he'd always be seen as a menace for beating up on a member of the clergy, and if Pastor David got the drop on him, his rep was out the window.

“Let's go, Mrs. Barclay.” Marvin cupped Cynthia's elbow as he led her and Keith down the hill.

“Sister, ‘wait I say on the Lord and be of good cheer.' There's no need for you to live in fear. Everyone in the church will support you.”

“Yes, Pastor,” Cynthia said without looking back.

Upon entering the apartment, it seemed as though Marvin had returned from the dark place his mind often took him. A subdued silence occupied the space: the calm before the storm. Cynthia carted both boys off to bed and kissed them on their foreheads before exiting the room.

She walked to the master bedroom and right into Marvin's wrath. “Who's in charge here? Didn't I tell you not to go to that church anymore?”

Before Cynthia could utter a response, Marvin used his fist to jog her memory. “I do not want to hear anything else about David, that church, or the Bible.”

“What are you going to do, beat the Holy Spirit out of me?” Cynthia spat blood with each word. Marvin lunged at her. “Help me, Jesus! Help me, Jesus! You said you would deliver me.” Before Marvin could reach her, he stumbled on his own boots, fell to the ground, and busted his lip on his own teeth.

Inside Cynthia did cartwheels then reprimanded herself for wanting to see him hurt. Not every fight ended like this one, with Marvin on the floor. Cynthia tried to apply the biblical principles laid out at Wednesday afternoon women's ministry meetings. Most recently the group was focused on 1 Peter 2. Cynthia was struggling with verse twenty-three especially. That verse was a jagged pill to swallow. “He was reviled and reviled not again.” Holding her tongue was something she struggled with daily.

Physically, at five feet and three inches, she was no match for Marvin, but every now and then she could whip him with her words—another small victory. Sometimes her tongue lashings led to more bleeding and bruising.

Cynthia crept out of the room to dress her wounds. She applied as much pressure as she could to stop the bleeding and used ice to bring the swelling down as she conversed with her Father to heal her heart.