No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown)
Read No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown) Online
Authors: Michelle Stimpson
(Book II in the “Boaz Brown” Series)
a novel by
Michelle Stimpson
Description:
In this sequel to Michelle Stimpson’s
beloved debut novel,
Boaz Brown
, LaShondra and her Boaz, Stelson, are
living the ideal American lifestyle, except for the subtle and not-so-subtle
ways society keeps reminding them that they aren’t the norm. She’s
African-American, he’s Caucasian, and their oldest child is already tackling
the question of identity. It’s bad enough when outsiders show their ignorance
or disdain. But when the issues come from family, LaShondra finds herself
wondering if Stelson can truly comprehend the challenges looming on the
horizon.
When a church picnic leads to a head-on clash between
LaShondra’s fears and Stelson’s optimism, the truth prevails. But that’s just
the beginning.
LaShondra learns that the drama during the family outing was
only a set-up for an even more rigorous spiritual battle to save her family.
After turning her back to the pressures at work and yielding to Stelson’s
leadership, LaShondra finds herself interceding for a husband she hardly even
recognizes anymore.
Is this the beginning of the end for the couple that truly
endeavored to honor God’s ways, or will this season fortify their marriage for
His glory?
Copyright
2014 by Michelle Stimpson
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for
brief quotations in reviews, without written permission from the author.
The
characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to actual people or
events is coincidental.
Published
by Michelle Stimpson
Thank You, God, for a
wonderful ten years as an author. Writing for Your glory is the best
life—the life of Christ in me. Thank You for the gift and for guiding me
as You promised through Your Holy Spirit.
Thank you to the dozens of
people who have written to let me know how the first
Boaz Brown
touched
lives. I’m amazed. People have actually gotten married to folks and accepted
in-laws they would have otherwise overlooked and changed the floor plans for
their homes based on LaShondra’s prayer closet experience! One woman, in her
80s, said she didn’t know you could pray anywhere until she read
Boaz Brown
.
It changed her view of our God. I am humbled!
God uses that book in
particular to break down barriers. The struggle continues, and the body of
Christ continues to be victorious in Him. Thanks to those who did everything
possible to put
Boaz Brown
, a debut novel, front and center: Denise
Stinson (we miss Walk Worthy Press, by the way), Carol Mackey (made it a Main
Selection for Black Expressions), Maxine Thompson, Miss Till at JoKae’s Books,
and so many more that loved and embraced me from that book forward. Thank you!
Thank you to my family and
friends who are so supportive. Whether it’s a prayer or a Facebook share, I
appreciate you! And to my FB friends, my goodness – besides being
wonderful people in the first place, you all ARE the grapevine when it comes to
information about books. Thank you!
Thanks to all the individual
readers whom I don’t hear from but I know are on the lookout for books. I know
there are plenty of folks supporting silently. I see you!
Thanks to the book clubs who
continue to support the work and spread the word over nachos and potlucks!
Help for this sequel came in
many forms through many people. Toyce – thanks for the
Bible for Hope
– it came in handy. Thanks to fellow authors April Barker, Lynne Gentry,
and Rhonda McKnight for being sounding boards. Arquila Todd gave me info about
aviation guidelines. Dormel Thompson and Dana Grieb filled me in on
Nanny-world. Jayne Knight, Tia McCollors, Rochelle Moss, and Chrystal Hurst are
or were awesome stay-at-home-moms with little ones. Thank you so much for your
insight!
To the ladies at my Life On
Life Table, thanks for your sisterhood and wisdom.
Johnetta J. Hochstetler
advised me on current issues facing interracial marriages, and I’m go grateful!
Thanks to my editors, Karen
McCollum Rodgers and Vicki Prather. You make my work shine!
Finally, to Serena Wells,
thank you, thank you, thank you for sharing your experience and insight about chronic
disease. I stand with you in claiming your complete, symptom-free healing in
Jesus name!
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.
But
pity anyone who falls
and has no one to help them up.
Also,
if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
But
how can one keep warm alone?
Though
one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.
A
cord of three strands is not quickly broken.
Ecclesiastes
4:9-12, NIV
Hwuuuuu. Sheeeee. Hwuuuuu.
Sheeee.
“Stelson. Turn over on your
stomach.” I shoved my husband’s shoulder, attempting to wake him.
No response.
Hwuuuuu. Sheeeee. Hwuuuuu.
Sheeee.
“Stelson. Roll over.” A
little louder, a little stronger push this time.
The television illuminated his
glare at me, displaying the kind of anger that only a Church of God in Christ
usher gives a member chewing gum in the sanctuary. “What?”
I demanded, “Roll over. You’re
snoring.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not even sleep,” he
protested.
“You think I woke you up so I
could lie to you?”
He crumpled up his face,
flipped onto his stomach with a grumble and turned his head away.
I didn’t care about him
getting upset. He wasn’t the one who had to rise at 5:00 a.m. so he could work out,
get himself dressed, and then get a 6 month old and a 4 year old up, fed,
dressed and at the daycare before 7:15 a.m.—all the while hoping to make
it to work by 7:45 a.m.
To be fair, Stelson would
have helped with the kids if I’d asked him. But why should I have to ask?
Shouldn’t it be instinctive to think, “Wow, my wife is really busting her
behind with the kids. Since I have a morning off, I should use it to help her.”?
Apparently this is not common
sense.
Within seconds, my husband
was at it again. Only this time it wasn’t so much the sound as the annoying
vibration of the rattle in his throat and nose.
How have wives slept through
snoring husbands for centuries?
I sat up in bed, staring at
the back of his clean-shaven head. In that instant I wanted to grab my
goose-feather pillow, raise it high, and slam it down on his head like an
amateur wrestler.
My hand clenched the pillow
even as I reminded myself that it wouldn’t be godly to attack my husband in the
middle of the night.
Since the first time Stelson
worked a 10-hour day after we married, I had become fully acquainted with his
snoring ways.
I actually used to think his
snoring was “cute”. Endearing. Made me feel like a bona fide wife to complain
about the sound of sawing logs in my bedroom.
But that mess wasn’t cute at
two in the morning after nine years of marriage.
I had a choice to make. Stay
in the bed and get no rest, which would ruin my entire day and throw off my
week because I wouldn’t have a chance at making up the lost sleep-time until
Saturday, or go to the guest room and savor the next few hours of peace.
With every intent to disturb
my husband, I threw back the sheet and comforter, exposing my legs to the cold
air circulating in our bedroom, thanks to
his
hot-natured body.
Though I knew exactly where I
had placed my robe, I switched on the nightlight to create an extra
disturbance. If I was going to have to leave my cozy bedroom, the least I could
do was make sure Stelson knew how much I suffered so he could sleep well.
He stirred. “Shondra.”
“What?” I shot back. I
grabbed my pink satin robe from its place on top of the other clothes littered
across the ottoman near the foot of our king-sized bed.
“Whereareyougoing?” his words
slurred together.
“To the guest room. I can’t
get any sleep with you snoring like that.”
He murmured, “No. Wait.”
“Wait for what?”
He mumbled, “I’ll go.”
I cinched the belt around my
waist and stood, waiting for his body to comply with his mouth and his heart,
but before he could put action to his words, sleep overcame him again.
His gesture, albeit sweet, was
empty.
Not that I was any better.
Work, exhaustion and life often caused me to fall short of my word, too.
“God, help us.”
I turned out the light and
felt my way through to the door, pushing aside a pair of kitten-heeled shoes
I’d worn to Sunday service earlier that day. My mother would have shaken her
head at me if she’d seen the way I let my house go. I knew better. But when one
child is hollering for milk and another one’s footsteps can be heard in rapid
succession running through the house like a madman, taking the time to properly
store a pair of shoes—even those few seconds—takes low priority.
Once I’d cleared our bedroom,
the smooth travertine floors in the kitchen and main hallway paved the way to
the east wing. Since I did insist that those areas stay clear of debris, I
walked swiftly, aided by the light of the moon. Too bad it wasn’t a full moon,
because I failed to take note of the baby’s new high chair.
Wham!
My foot hit the side of that
thing and I went down like Mike Tyson had just given me an uppercut. In an
instant I was on the floor trying to catch my breath, holding my left foot.
The pain in my pinky toe was
so swift and severe, words wouldn’t do it justice. I slammed my hand against
the cold floor, hoping to distract my nerve cells and possibly distribute the
pain throughout my body. No help there.
“Jesus,” I finally was able
to whisper. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Help me.”
I dragged my body over to the
couch, pulling myself onto the puffy leather couch with my elbows. On a scale
of one to ten, the throbbing had to be an eleven. If I could have bent over and
gnawed off my foot, I would have. Alas, the baby fat lingering around my waist
had reduced me to a sideways method of putting on shoes, so I knew the gnaw-off
wasn’t gonna happen.
With one hand nursing my
foot, I used the other to shed some light from the living room lamp. If I’d
seen a trail of blood from the kitchen to the couch, it wouldn’t have surprised
me.
The light-click revealed
something far more ridiculous. My baby toe was off on a path of its own,
sticking out as though it didn’t even belong to the rest of the foot. No doubt,
it was broken. Or dislocated, if there was such a thing.
No! No! No!
I didn’t have time for a broken toe or a
broken
anything
for that matter. The whole scenario flashed through my
mind: I’d have to call the doctor, set up an appointment. I couldn’t take the
kids with me, so I’d still need to get them to daycare. Go to the appointment,
wait around for the X-rays and diagnosis of what I already knew to be true. Sit
there and have him tell me, “There’s really nothing we can do except let it
heal on its own.” (This I knew because my younger brother, Jonathan, broke his
toe once.) After that non-helpful diagnosis, I’d pay a $30 co-pay, get a lame
prescription which was probably equivalent to taking four Aleve, then go to the
pharmacy to have it filled. By the time all that was finished, it would be time
to go pick up the kids again.
Forget that. Clearly, the toe
was broken. It needed ice. I had Aleve already, and plenty of it. No need to
involve Dr. Wheeler and mess up my routine with a whole bunch of extra running
all over town.
With my left foot balanced on
the heel, I hobbled over to the pantry and fished through the shelves for a
plastic Ziploc bag. Careful not to swing the door near my foot, I slowly backed
out of the area. The marble countertops sustained me as I maneuvered to the
refrigerator, where I pushed the dispenser button with my hand instead of a
glass and caught the falling ice with the baggie. I swiped a bottled water
while I was standing there, then cautiously continued my trek to the guest bed,
leaving the light on in the living room. I could not risk tapping that toe
against anything on my way to bed.
The remaining few steps were
taken with every precaution because my four-year-old, Seth, was notorious for
leaving his kids’ meal toys all over the house. “They’re playing hide and
seek,” he would claim whenever I found one cleverly placed between the sofa
cushions or standing next to a toilet seat.
His imagination amazed me
sometimes.
After sliding into bed, I
quickly realized that my foot would not tolerate even the weight of a sheet on
top, let alone an ice pack. All I could do was rig up the ice beside my toe with
a pillow and hope for the best while I tried to catch the remaining Z’s
available.
And then my ears caught the
sound. The sound of discontent, angst and perhaps fear. Zoe was crying. She
must have heard me rambling around in the kitchen. If she cried long enough,
she’d wake Seth. And if
he
got up, that would squash all hopes of any
rest because he only had two speeds:
On
and
Off
. Nothing in
between.
I used the walls to help me
get to Zoe in record time, for a person with a broken toe. I turned the light
on just long enough to pull her from the crib and secure her in my arms. She
stopped crying.
Despite what all the
professionals recommend, this child was sleeping in the bed with me tonight.
She laid her head in the
crook of my neck and threw one of her plump arms over my shoulder and began
patting my back, a gesture of comfort she’d already learned from me.
I kissed her chunky cheek.
“Momma sure needs that right now.”
She wiped her eyes and
yawned.
We made it to the guest room
without incident. She squiggled up next to me and quickly fell asleep.
In the seconds before I
followed Zoe to dreamland, it occurred to me that I hadn’t grabbed my cell
phone before I left the master bedroom, thus I had no alarm clock.
But at that point, I didn’t
even care anymore.
If somebody reported me for
being late tomorrow, that would be too bad. They’d just have to write me up.
Shoot,
my middle name is not Superwoman
.
