CHAPTER 1

Out of the Fog

It had been almost two years since George, my husband of ten years,died of cancer. Every memory of him still brought tears to my eyes. Thefun-loving, silly George turned cartwheels, literally and figuratively, tomake his family happy. He loved us unconditionally and did everythinghe could to prove it. We were both soldiers, but George was a prankster,and his boyish behavior and youthful attitude were what stood out themost. Then, just like that, cancer came and robbed him of his youth,and left us all in total disbelief. My faith was strong, and I asked Godwhat this was all about. He was only thirty-one, and I was his wife. Whatam I suppose to do? I asked God. Immediately, I heard what sounded likea knife tapping crystal during a toast. Then he spoke this to my spirit:"I knew when I joined you two together that this day would come." I wasstartled by the revelation, but at that moment I knew that God hadbrought us together and I had a spiritual mission. So I put all my painand fears aside and did what I had to do for my husband.

George was a strong man, and he always expressed his love for me."Fifty-plus years"—that was always the way he signed his cards andletters to me; Fifty-plus years of marriage. To hear him say, "I don't wantto die—I don't want to leave my wife and my child" still breaks myheart. But it gave me a crucial point to focus on as I ministered to himthrough his illness. Nothing comes before God, nothing or no one. Wedid everything we could medically, and we prayed. The doctors initiallygave him six months to live and were amazed when he survived a yearand a half. My husband fought a courageous battle with the disease, buthe was tired. He told me he was tired and wanted to go home to God. Iasked him to talk to God; "tell God you want to come home" I said withmy heart aching. The next day, he went to heaven.

Despite the heartbreak and devastation we all felt, that conversationgave me spiritual peace with my husband's death. I witnessed manythings during those times and I learned that the devil was alwaysbusy. The acts of Satan often left me bewildered. People can be sounpredictable during times of illness and death, but God had revealedsome things to me. There was no doubt in my mind: this was a spiritualbattle. So I prayed and ministered to George. His relationship with Godwas the only thing that could give him the peace he needed to deal withhis situation. I believe with all my heart that God makes no mistakes,but George had to learn to trust in him. I had never ministered toanyone this way before, but the words and prayers came naturally. I hadno fear and I had no shame. From his bedside I prayed and read himbible verses. I stayed focused on what God wanted me to do; and in theend, George found peace. He said, "I want to go home to God," andhe did.

Losing my husband was devastating and many thoughts filledmy head, but I trusted and believed that God was in control. I oftensought peace in the first stanza of the Serenity Prayer: "God grant methe serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change thethings I can; and wisdom to know the difference."

Over time, I was sure my prayers would be answered, but I missedmy husband. I no longer had my husband or the military, and over thepast decade they both helped to keep my world organized and made mefeel complete. I was desperately trying to find my way without themwhen in the midst of that struggle, about a year later, on Valentine's Day;my youngest daughter, Kimberly, and her daughter, TyKeria, were in acar accident. They were both in critical condition. I accompanied mygrandbaby to Children's Hospital in Birmingham while Tynisha stayedwith Kimberly at the local hospital. After only a few hours, all medicalefforts failed, and TyKeria, my eighteen-month-old granddaughter,did not survive. When I walked out of the doors of that hospital, I wastraumatized. My granddaughter was gone ... gone. Then I thought ofKimberly; she was fighting for her life, but her only child did not makeit. I was about to walk through two large white pillars on the porch ofthe hospital when my legs got weak. I couldn't take another step. Why,God, why! I cried out, inside my mind. Instantly, I heard God speak tomy spirit: "Satan is trying to shake your faith. You are the cornerstone of thisfamily." I just closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

For the next few months, I cared for Kimberly and prayed that shecould recover from the accident and more so from the loss of her child.I could not begin to imagine her having to live without her only child.My other grandchildren talked constantly about TyKeria. They'd askquestions about heaven and point at her pictures on the wall every timethey came to my house. It broke my heart even more. Sadness hung soheavy over my family, no one knew what to say or do and I was so sadand depressed I couldn't guide or encourage anyone. For several months,I was barely aware of what was going on around me. I was just goingthrough the motions of living. My mind was consumed with so manythoughts that I could not focus on anything in particular. My heart wasso heavy I could barely move my body. I still had my son Muna to carefor, and I tried to be strong, but it was taking every ounce of my strengthjust to get out of bed each day. My little boy was suffering so much; Icould see it in his eyes. He was only ten, and already angry and confusedabout losing his father. I could only imagine what he was thinking orfeeling after losing TyKeria. So for him, I had to find strength. Over thenext few weeks, fueled with a new determination, I fought harder topull myself together. I prayed for God to help me get past my depressionand sadness so I could do the things I needed to do every day. I neededto move forward, but I wanted to lie down. I needed to be strong forMuna, but I just wanted to lie down—lie down for a long, long time.This depression had embedded itself so deep in me that no matter howhard I tried, I could not break free.

Day after day, I forced myself do the basic things that needed tobe done but, I could easily talk myself out of things. I didn't go to thegrocery store as long as there was anything in the kitchen I could fix.I'd just run in the kitchen and fry him some French fries or let him eatcereal. I canceled or rescheduled every appointment. I paid my billsonline or over the phone. When I had no choice but to go somewherephysically, I waited until the last minute. I just did not want to goanywhere or do anything. I wouldn't even get dressed unless I had to.Everything was a struggle for me. Some days I'd just lie in bed and cry.My heart ached, and I could not find relief. Whenever I was forced togo outside—and I had to be forced—I started to notice that I felt a littlebetter. Soon I started to push myself out of the house. Get outside, getout of the house, I'd urge myself. The more I got out, the better I felt. Thebetter I felt, the more I got out. I went outside and sat in the backyard oron the porch. I started going for long walks, and that made me feel evenbetter. Soon the fog started to lift, and I started to appreciate the worldaround me.

While in the military for fifteen years, I had travelled to manyplaces. I had forgotten the values that prompted me to move back toAlabama once I retired. It was just before the Fourth of July; everythingwas bright, colorful, and energetic. I had moved back to my oldneighborhood, and it was as if time had stood still. I was raised up in thehood, but a soft hood. Soft hoods are colorful but far less dangerous thanhardcore hoods. Most people could make it out of our hood. I alwaysfelt safe there, but to outsiders it was a "rough area." Sure, an argumentwould occasionally erupt into a fight, or someone might rip off thecorner store for a couple beers, but no one was killing over colors or turf.People here loved their hood, and they would regulate (make you pay) ifyou violate (broke the rules). I mean, no one came to our neighborhoodto steal things or make trouble. It wasn't because the opportunity wasn'tthere but getting caught could cost you a major beat down.

The neighborhood was a maze to many outsiders. The houses wereclose together, separated only by a driveway, wide enough for one carand maybe a row of hedges before the next lot would start. The lots werenarrow but deep. Our lot was deep enough for seven or eight cars to fitone behind the other. Backyards were the main area for family fun orentertaining guests. Some lots had two houses—one facing north, theother south—with a courtyard in between shared by both families. Mostyards had a large tree that provided shade but everyone had a grill andpatio furniture to enhance their leisure time.

The area also included everything a family needed to livecomfortably. The corner store sold household items and was consideredthe grocery store for those who did not have cars. My favorite was theCherry Icee, even though I usually got a super brain freeze from suckingit too fast. There was a restaurant just across the highway, and it soldsome of the best fried chicken in town. Throughout the day, you wouldconstantly see people walking with their bag of chicken, fish, or burgers.An open field across the street was the neighborhood playground. Mamawould often talk of the houses that were once there and could recallthe people my name. "Yes, Miss Laura would hang the whitest sheetsand towel on the line everyday. I can see her now, with that clothes-penbetween her lips as she gathered the ends of the clothes together so shecould clamp them on the line." Her voice lowered as she stared outacross the field. She went on to say, "When she died no one took care ofthe property and the house in real bad shape, the city came and tore itdown." "That's what happened to all the houses out there, now they allgone," She said with sorrow.

That had been years ago, because as long as I remember that fieldwas empty. As a young girl, everyone played football or baseball there.Mama wouldn't always let us go play, but we could still see even ifwe couldn't join the fun. So we both had our memories of that field;memories that would last forever.

There was also a school for all age groups in our area. Theelementary school and high school I attended were across the avenueon the east end of my street. They were next door to each other andcovered about five blocks and the entire area from one avenue to thenext. They each had grassy grounds surrounding them used primarilyfor recess. When we were outside I'd always look down the road to see ifany cars were parked at my house. One day there something bad goingon, there was and ambulance and police and I tried to run across thehuge play ground towards my house ... My teacher was running behindme yelling for me to stop ... but I kept running. She caught up to meand held me close. No, she said, I can't allow you to go home. Some onewill come to get you if you need to go home. I'm sorry sweetie; it will bealright I'm sure. But it never was, not until Victor, my vicious stepfathermove away. When I got home my mom was still at the hospital. She andVictor had been fighting and she had to be taken to the hospital. I hadlots of fun at that school as a child but that day created one of my worstmemories.

On the west end of our street, across a two-lane road, was also aprivate college nestled behind the church my family attended so schoolswere all around, but Junior high presented the biggest concern for mewhen I was in school. It wasn't the distance; it was only a few blocks upfrom the elementary school. But as I walked up that avenue, the closerI got to the school, the more tension came over me. I passed a housingproject right before the school, and crossing paths with some of the kidsfrom that area could easily present a problem. They were from a differenthood—different in all aspects. In other words, they were more hood thanwe were and considered to be rivals.

Many days nothing happened, but sometimes name-calling wouldlead to pushing and shoving, and a fight would break out. Accordingto them, we were the "haves" and they were the "have not's." That wasastonishing to me. We were all considered low-income, but because welived in houses and not the project, we "thought we were something."I didn't realize until much later that among the poor, there are somepoorer. During that time, however, we just had to deal with it.

If you had a problem with someone from that area while in school,it was usually settled on the sidewalks surrounding the projects. Wewere farther away from home and at a disadvantage. Big crowds wouldgather and urge the fight on, and some of the fights were vicious. Theschool included grades seven, eight, and nine—and usually the olderthe students, the worse the fights. Sometimes family members or friendsfrom their community would get involved, and all hell would breakloose. If school administrators could not control the situation, the policewould come and get things under control.

Each day presented the same problems. Our parents were soconcerned that they would opt to send their children to a school clearacross town. The long walk was nothing compared to the danger wefaced during my first year in junior high, and I was glad when thatdecision was made.

I always appreciated the skills in my neighborhood. There wasalways a shade-tree mechanic, carpenter, or plumber available for cutrates. Most moms could cook, so there was always the smell of collardgreens and fried chicken or some other aroma in the air. Most girls inthe hood could style hair. In my day, the press-and-curl was popular.Saturday mornings we'd gather in someone's kitchens and pull up achair next to the stove so we could heat the hot comb or curlers. We'dstyle each other's hair for hours. The back of our neck or top of our earusually got touched with the hot appliance, but after the initial pain, wewore our scars with no shame. Rarely did we have adequate supplies, sowe had to be creative. I remember when tight curly hair was the thing.We didn't have small rollers to set the hair on, so we used paper bags.We'd cut the bags into strips and twist them to the size roller we needed.Then we'd roll the hair on it and twist the ends together to hold it inplace. We usually styled each other's hair at no charge but made a fewdollars braiding the guys' hair. They all wanted a big Afro, and braidingmade their hair grow. So in the evenings or weekends, we'd sit on theporch and braid a few heads.

As of today, not much has changed, but these girls have perfectedhair-weaving and created some amazing styles. For a few bucks, youcould get a twenty-seven piece flip-flop with a twist. I mean, in themorning they'd have short nappy hair, and a few hours later, they lookedlike Tyra Banks. Then they put on their tight jeans or short shorts andwaltzed the streets like runway models.

Justin, Dewayne's best friend next door was the neighborhoodbarber. He was always featuring a new cut on boys in the area. Everyboy had zigzags or arrows cut into his head. I was fascinated by theamount of talent in the neighborhood and equally disturbed by thethought that they might never realize their full potential. Limitationscame from a lack of mentors, lack of motivation, or the need to survive.Unfortunately, by the time they reached adulthood, the girls usually hada child to care for and many of the guys had a criminal record.

The activities among the youth however were noticeably different.Youths of today were fascinated with cell phones and video games, whileour skills were demonstrated on the neighborhood basketball court,baseball diamond, or football field. We couldn't wait for the sun to godown enough for the games to begin. We all played around with our ballof choice. We'd shoot baskets or throw and catch the football to showour talents. But when a certain group of guys came to play, it was strictbusiness. In those days, all the guys had nicknames—Skull, Sleepy, Yab,Hawk, Fat, Peanut, and Yi; just to name a few. These guys were famousin their hood when it came to sports. When they took the court or thefield, we compared their talent to the NBA or NFL stars. People, old andyoung, came out to watch the performance, and the guys played withheart. Their fancy footwork and quick moves brought the crowd to itsfeet, whether on the field or the court. There were usually no refereesand sometimes arguments stalled the game. If the teams could not cometo an agreement the game would end. Or if the owner of the ball was notsatisfied, he would take his ball and go home. Sometimes a fight woulderupt, but there were no weapons involved, just fists, so they foughtuntil someone was able to break it up. No one got hurt, so it was allconsidered entertainment.