"He who beholds the Saviour’s matchless love will be elevated in thought, purified in heart, transformed in character. He will go forth to be a light to the world, to reflect in some degree this mysterious love. The more we contemplate the cross of Christ, the more fully shall we adopt the language of the apostle when he said, “God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the world is crucified unto me, and I unto the world.” Gal. 6:14. 23
LuCinda and Jack sat at a table in Derby’s
restaurant, sipping their cokes and munching on hamburgers and
french fries.
Jack was everything George Ballard had described
and more. His dark brown hair hung down around his ears in a unkempt
manner, his beard was unkempt and he wore an earring in one ear.
His shirt hung outside of his dirty blue jeans, and he desperately
needed a bath. But LuCinda saw none of these things, for Jack
had a wild side to his personality that enticed her and made her
feel daring and adventurous when in his company. He did those
things that she only dreamed of doing. He had a devil-may-care
attitude that excited her and made her blood run in wild torrents
of passion. Just the way he looked at her, with savage desire
in his eyes, made her feel ravished and desired. None of the other
boy made her feel that way. No, that wasn’t it, he wasn’t
a boy but a man, and she was his woman. He was all man, and, in
his company, she felt like she supposed a woman much senior in
age to herself would feel in the presence of a handsome musician
or rock star. He made her feel mature, womanly in nature and body,
much desired.
She desperately wanted to be wanted by someone.
As with most young girls, her age, she made the mistake of believing
raw, naked lust to be love, the purest of substances and the most
delicate of flowers. She allowed herself to be swayed by his animal
magnetism, his beastly bearing, his manly machismo. Was it too
trite, she thought, that she was Jane to his Tarzan. This thought
sent a ripple of pleasure through her body and she tingled all
over in the way she supposed older women felt when in love.
The thought never occurred to her that she
could do better in the selection of male companionship. Those
other prissy boys, the so called nice boys, didn’t make her
feel like this. All they wanted to do was hold hands and exchange
an occasional kiss. What tripe. Why settle for the imitation when
a girl could have the real thing.
Her thoughts were momentarily disturbed
by laughter from a nearby table. Glancing in that direction, she
saw Katrien and her boyfriend, jolly Bart Tibbs. He had acquired
his nickname because of his perennial good nature and infectious
laughter. LuCinda despised him and fervently wished he and Katrien
would go away, preferably far away. They were everything she wasn’t
and this bothered her.
Jolly Bart was a football star, played fullback
for East High, had good grades, and dated only “nice girls.”
No back room fun for him, clean shaves, hair cut to his father’s
immaculate standards, no ear rings, he was even wearomg a suit
and tie, the silly notion of a boy wearing a suit and tie almost
made LuCinda laugh out loud.
She eyed them malevolently as a cat would
eye a mouse in search of a slice of cheese. They were making the
rounds of this community restaurant, chatting first with this
classmate then with that one, for the restaurant was a hangout
for students of East High. One of the last places of innocent
fun, many parents described Derby’s. They seldom minded when
their daughters or sons preferred to hang out here then remain
at home. How naive, LuCinda thought.
She had seen it all here, or at least it
had begin here. The furtive look, the snicker of anticipation,
the heads bowed in close communication then, separately, more
often openly, boys and girls, hand in hand, would leave the restaurant,
enter their cars and drive to a more covert place.
Nice kids, indeed, she smirked. If only
their parents knew how nice their little darlings were, they would
be shocked. She had seen it all, or thought she had. She had seen
the joints passed around and had even indulged herself. The habit
had gained control of her more fiercely then she imagined and
even now she craved stronger stuff. Jack had promised to introduce
her to his local pusher who had a veritable menu of designer drugs
that promised hours of pleasure.
She had seen a murder committed in this
very restaurant, although it had been hushed up and most of the
parents were oblivious to its occurrence. Two boys had gotten
into an argument over a girl, the usual stuff, and one drew a
knife only to meet the muzzle of a handgun. One died while the
other went to the hospital and jail. While she hadn’t actually
seen it, she head that a girl had been raped in the women’s
rest room several weeks ago. That made the papers, but parents
still thought of Derby’s as a nice place for their darlings
to hang out. What fools parents could be.
Here, around these very tables, LuCinda
heard tales of child abuse, of theft, of ritual murders, of bed
hopping by those supposedly good parents. Here, she encountered
her first experiences in oral sex. She watched in fascination
as another couple, hidden by the potted plants that conveniently
obscured much that went on here, openly pleasured each other.
Here she learned to smoke, here she had her first taste of beer
from a plain paper bag. The snobs didn’t allow drinking in
the restaurant but tolerated it if the kids kept it under cover.
Here she met Erny, who was visiting from Chicago, and discovered
that anything was possible for a price, a quick loan of a car,
a new color television, a stereo and CD player, rings, watches,
cameras, anything a girl could desire was available, for a price.
She listened in rapt fascination to the
Boss, a big man, full of muscles and self-confidence, regaled
her and her other friends with stories of crooked cops, dirty
politicians, smutty preachers, nice decent men who, again for
a price, could produce any type, color, or race of child for an
evening or for a more extended visit. What happened to these children,
she didn’t care to think, for she was wise in the ways of
such things.
Here, she learned to swear like the proverbial
sailor and even knew words that would make her father blush. Here
she learned the fine art of philandering, or rather, as they preferred
to call it, liberating merchandise from the oppressive capitalists.
She reveled in the talk of socialism, of communist intrigue, of
the suppression of the working poor by rich merchants and employers.
Here, she heard black men tell of being exploited by ‘the
man’, of lynchings, of plans for the uprising of black separatists,
of killing white people and doing to them what they had done to
the blacks for two hundred years.
Here she met mothers who would sell their
children for drug money, who trafficked in stolen children, whose
sole purpose was to have children, claim the welfare, then sell
them into child slavery. Such things do exist, even in America,
she confided to her incredulous father, and the cops know about
it and do nothing.
All manner of evil was familiar to LuCinda,
but until now, she had maintained a watchful eye, kept her distance,
and, except for a journey into the pleasures of drugs, she had
stayed clean. But now, this wonderful, exciting world was opening
before her admiring eyes and she eagerly sought entrance to this
forbidden universe of joy and ecstasy. She would enter fully into
its hidden secrets, revel in its romance and become its goddess,
if but for a moment, before it gobbled her up and spit her out.
“Hi, LuCinda,” Katrien enthused.
“I haven’t seen you around lately.”
She glared at the intruder but Katrien seemed
oblivious to her unspoken retort.
“Some of us kids are getting together
at the church this Saturday night for a party, some records, pop
corn, you know, the usual. Want to join us.”
LuCinda hoped. “No thanks, Katrien,”
she answered. “Jack and I have other plans. Jack’s invited
me to go with him and some other guys over to Chris’s place
for some real fun.”
LuCinda observed Katrien for a long moment
noting her petite figure, dark green eyes that sparkled, long
shinny black hair, curled at the ends, delicate eye brows, high
cheek bones and forehead, firm mouth, a creamy complexion, and
a pert nose.
“Sorry you can’t come,” Katrien
replied with genuine disappointment, LuCinda thought. “We
would love to have you and Jack. You have such a nice voice, LuCinda.
I bet you could be a singer. You've such a good talent for singing.
I heard you last week singing along with the radio while you were
sitting on your front porch.”
Jack turned toward LuCinda, “I didn’t
know you could sing.’
LuCinda blushed over the memory of that
single indiscretion and to think that Katrien heard it.
“What were you singing, he inquired?”
Before LuCinda could frame a reply, Katrien
interjected, “She was singing the Old Rugged Cross. She was
so sweet, and her voice had such a nice quality about it, I am
sure Pastor Kent would love to have her in the church choir.
“The Old Rugged Cross,” Jack sneered.
“You were singing religious songs. LuCinda, I’m stunned.
Why I’m absolutely stunned. LuCinda’s got religious,”
Jack laughed.
LuCinda blushed even deeper at his reaction
and her own momentary lapse. But there was something about that
song that brought back childhood memories, of a long lost time
of innocence, of a grandfather who would cradle her in his lap
and sing lullabies to her. Little delightful songs of Jesus and
little sunbeams. She had almost forgotten about these songs, but
Jack’s laughter made her acutely aware that she, for at least
one moment, had been swayed toward Christ and religious. Never
again, she resolved. She hated Katrien for mentioning this incident,
thus affording her boy friend an opportunity to laugh at her.
Turning on Katrien with what was her most
withering smile, she said, “I like all types of music and
unlike some people I know, I’m not afraid to sing any song
that crosses my fancy.”
Jack laughed at this cutting rebuke and
eyed Katrien carefully to see her reaction.
“That’s wonderful,” she replied,
“I just love those old time gospel songs and I am so glad
you like them, also. Come on LuCinda, join us Saturday night.
I’m sure we have lots of song books and Pastor Kent has a
guitar. We can sing all of your favorites.”
This conversation, LuCinda could see, wasn’t
getting anywhere. Katrien just wouldn’t take the hint and
leave her and Jack alone. She just kept smiling, that idiotic
smile, never took offense at anything anyone would say to her.
Such a nice, sweet girl, LuCinda thought. I wonder if Jack would
find her interesting in bed.
Katrien went on, “Guitar music is my
favorite. It reminds me of old time southern hillbilly music.
My mother is from the South and she enjoys blue grass gospel music.
We went to a festival last year in Kentucky, heard some lovely
gospel music. So much of that junk rock and roll and acid rock
music is being played on the radio, today, that it is refreshing
to hear old, fashioned gospel songs.”
Sitting down on the corner of the bench,
she continued, obvious to LuCinda’s embarrassment. “Southern
folk are such nice people. O, they have their peculiar ways, but
on a whole, they are friendly and outgoing, if you don’t
get on their bad side. They came from Scotland or Ireland, originally,
I believe, and settled in the Appalachian mountains over two hundred
years ago. We studied about that area in our history class last
year. I just love history, there are so many fascinating people
to learn about.”
“Take Abraham Lincoln, for example.
He reminds me about Abraham, in the Bible, While Abraham of the
Old Testament came from a wealthy family and Abraham Lincoln came
from a poor back woods family, they both played important roles
in leading their people out of slavery.”
“Katrien,” LuCinda interrupted,
“Tell me something,”
“Sure, LuCinda, what do you want to
know.”
“Does God love bad people?”
“He loves everyone, regardless of who
we are.”
LuCinda watched for her opportunity to humiliate
this silly girl. “Does he love the rapist?”
“Yes,” Katrien enthused. “He
doesn’t like what they do, but he loves them. It often seems
that he loves bad people even more then he loves good people.”
LuCinda thought she saw her opportunity.
“If Jack raped you, would you love him?”
Both girls turned and looked at Jack who
was listening with evident interest, especially at the mention
of his name.
Before Katrien could answer, LuCinda pounced.
“Suppose you became pregnant, had to quit school, were forced
out of church because those nice church people couldn’t have
a pregnant, unmarried girl in their congregation, and suppose
you got a venereal disease, would you love and forgive him?”
She continued her remorseless attack on
Katrien. “Suppose he cut your face, your pretty face, and
you were never pretty after that. Would you still love him?”
In a demanding tone and with rising voice,
so that other patrons in near by booths stopped talking and listened
to her, she continued. “Would you marry Jack or would you
get an abortion? If Jack asked you to forgive him and marry him,
would you become Mrs. Jack Spencer, so that you baby could have
a father?”
She paused and deliberately twisted the
knife and thrust it even deeper. “Would you love him even
if God would not forgive you, even if you could not go to heaven?
Would you love him so much that if the only way he could be saved
was for you to go to hell for an eternity?”
LuCinda was finished. The knife was deeply
embedded in Katrien’s heart. She paused and watched Katrien
intently.
In the silence that filled their corner
of the restaurant, with all eyes on Katrien, Jack leaned forward
and took her small wrist in his powerful hand and squeezed until
the skin turned white. Looking directly at her, he reached into
his pocket and withdraw a switch blade. Flicking it open, he leaned
forward, breathing his smoke laden, alcohol breath deliberately
into her face and stared suggestively at her bosom. Tightening
his grip even more and noticing her wince, he moved the knife
close to her throat and, with a snarl in his voice, for he hated
nice girls also, he growled, “I can do those things LuCinda
spoke about, and I would enjoy doing them to you.” He licked
his lips as if in anticipation, noting, with barely canceled pleasure,
the look of fear that entered her eyes. But she made no effort
to withdraw her hand, even though the pressure was intense.
“This isn’t sweet guitar music
and gospel songs any more,” LuCinda said with barely concealed
glee. “This is the real thing, baby, the big time. No more
pretty sermons and fancy dresses, no more witnessing and Bible
studies, pretty girl,” she added with barely concealed resentment
in her voice.
Their eyes met, Katrien’s and Jack’s,
and for a long moment, both of them stared intently at each other,
the one with nothing but scorn and hate reflected in his eyes
and the other with love shining out of hers.
Reaching up with her free hand, she gently
grasped the hand that was holding the knife. “I would gladly
go to hell for you if by this means you could be saved.”
LuCinda burst into a fit of laughter so
intense that her eyes watered. “O baby,” she giggled,
“your even more foolish then I thought. Jack ain’t never
going to heaven, are you Jack?”
Momentarily, Jack looked puzzled, an uncertainty
that did not escape Katrien.
A few moments later, Katrien excused herself
and the tension, that had become palpable, relaxed into its usual
babble of voices. LuCinda and Jack were again alone at their booth.
LuCinda could scarcely refrain from laughter.
Then, as if struck with a novel idea, she paused, in mid laugh,
and, looking serious, she turned to Jack and inquired, with an
ever so slight smirk on her face, “Will you do it?”
“Do what,” Jack asked in surprise?
“Will you rape her and cut her up?”
Jack looked stunned at LuCinda’s question.
“Lets find out once and for all whether
she’s really a Christian.”
“Your an evil girl,” Jack responded.
“Ya, isn’t it great,” she
laughed sarcastically. “I bet she’s all talk. That pretty
face never had anything bad happen to her. I bet she doesn’t
even know where it goes.”
Jack laughed at this feminine put down.
“Do you really hate her that much, she seems like a nice
girl to me.”
“I hate nice girls,” LuCinda replied.
“You hate everything and everybody,”
Jack responded, sipping the remainder of his Coke.
“I want her to feel the pain, the humiliation,
the embarrassment. I want her to feel used, to know that she is
being used for someone else’s pleasure. I want her to feel
dirty, to feel dirty and despised and rejected. Then let her tell
me that she can forgive, that she can love. Then let her tell
me where God is when she is being raped and cut up and abused.
What kind of God would let bad things happen to her? Tell me,
that Jack,” she demanded. “Tell me what kind of God
would let bad things happen to nice people? Hurt her, Jack, hurt
her real bad until she curses God, until she hates him, until
she would kill him if she could get her hands on him.”
She paused in her tirade and looked intently
at her companion. “Do it,” she commanded.
* * *
“Honey, I’m going to the store,
be back in about an hour and a half.”
“Be careful,” Alite reminded Skipp
as he slung his knapsack over his shoulder.
“You always say that,” he laughed,
“and I’m always careful.”
“I don’t want you getting hurt,”
Alite protested, “there may be bears, and lions, and tigers
out there that may eat you.”
Skipp kissed his wife, “I won’t
be long.”
“Bring me some cookies.”
“Its a small country store,” Skipp
reminded her, “they only carry beer, cigarettes, and a few
groceries, but I’ll see what I can find.”
Skipp loved to walk in the cool of the evenings,
especially in the country, along a rutted, mountain road with
a babbling brook to keep him company. The solitude and tranquility
of the mountains allured him as noise and confusion entice others
less inclined to seek their Lord.
The mountains of East Tennessee really weren’t
mountains in the sense of the Rocky mountains or the Appalachians
just across the North Carolina border, but he loved them just
the same. He was drawn by the timelessness and stability of the
hills, finding his heart drawn out to his Lord through their grandeur
and majesty. Lifted up by the violence of the flood, they endured
beyond the short span of time man called life, to testify to the
eternity of God upon his throne in heaven.
The narrow, winding dirt road was carved
out of the side of a mountain while the brook flowed along side
the road. Rutted and filled with pot wholes, it was impossible
to walk a straight line without stepping over or around them.
Skipp always hated leaving the solitude
of the valley for the narrow paved country road that led to the
small country store two and a half miles from their house. But
the evening was cool, the light was rapidly fading from the sky,
and he wanted his quota of sugary candy bars and potato chips.
The proprietor of the store, a retired farmer
supplementing his Social Security check with a tiny back woods
convenience store, wasn’t much on talking, at least to Northerners.
The Appalachian southern mountain folks were polite, in general,
friendly, to a point, but maintained their privacy and clannishness.
The after glow had vanished from the night
time sky as Skipp, knapsack filled with candy, cookies, and potato
chips, left the country highway for the dirt road that served
the valley they called home. A full moon was shining which shed
enough light on the road making the flashlight, he carried in
his knapsack, unnecessary.
At night, his eyes functioned better without
intense light, something related to his visual impairment, thus
he preferred to guide himself by the shifting pattern of light
and shadows cast by the moon and trees.
As was his habit, to meditate and pray while
walking, accompanied, by the friendly sound of the brook and the
melody of frogs in the rushes along its bank.
After walking a mile, Skipp suddenly realized
that he hadn’t stepped into any pot wholes. Knowing they
were scattered about in random profusion, he had shifted from
side to side of the road to avoid them, even though he could not
discern their presence in the faint light that afforded him enough
illumination to remain on the road and not fall into the creek.
Out of curiosity, he removed the flashlight
from the knapsack and switched on its beam. To his consternation,
he was standing in the middle of a large section of ruts and potholes.
Everywhere he shown the light, the road was covered with gravel
large enough to twist an ankle, wholes, ruts, or water filled
depressions. He could easily have broken an ankle or leg by blindly
stumbling into any of them, yet he had walked for over a mile,
unaware of their presence, without sustaining injury.
Praising the Lord for his providential guidance,
he switched off the light and walked on, in full confidence that
the Lord was directing his path as he had promised to do in the
Psalms.
“Tell them about the time we moved
from Chattanooga to Rogersville and what happened to Richard’s
truck,” Alite prompted, as Skipp concluded his narrative.
Skipp’s face broke into a broad smile.
“That was an interesting experience,” he said, as Clerisse
and Jacques listened intently to their guests.
“Its a long story, and I won’t
bore you with some of the details, but our land lady, preferring
to rent the house to another more congenial couple, decided we
should move. She gave us six weeks free rent as an inducement.”
“In other words,” Alite interjected,
“she evicted us.”
“What makes the story funny, at least
from our point of view, is that our son’s wife’s mother’s
husband’s mother was our land lady. Lets keep it all in the
family,” he laughed.
“We wanted to stay in the Chattanooga
area, but the Lord had other ideas. We couldn’t find a house
to rent that met our needs and was still in the country. As the
time neared when we had to vacate the house, we prayed for Divine
guidance while we packed our possessions. Faith without works
is dead, James said, so our faith was mingled with the works of
packing. We didn’t know where we were going but when the
time came to go there, we would be ready.
“A week before the date we had to move,
we invited some acquaintances for dinner. As we chatted over desert,
they happened to mention that their son and his wife had a house
for rent in Eidson.”
“Where’s Eidosn,” Alite asked?
bout a hundred miles Northeast of here,”
the wife replied.
“As dull whited as we are, it wasn’t
until the next day, Sunday, that we both realized the significance
of the comment. We were looking for a rental house in the country
and here was a rental house in the mountains of East Tennessee.
Several telephone calls later, we had rented a house sight unseen.
We assured ourselves that if the Lord wanted us to move in this
direction, then it wasn’t necessary to see the house, he
had already seen it and his judgment was sufficient.”
“Now that we had a house, we had the
problem of finding someone to drive us there. After prayer and
searching our minds for a suitable person who wasn’t constrained
by a job, we hit upon the only alternative, Richard, the land
lady’s son. The only problem, he and Phoebe were on vacation
in Virginia and we only had three days in which to move. We found
his telephone number and called him. To our relief, he agreed
to drive us Monday, the day after they returned home.”
“We thought it ironic,” Alite
commented, “that the Land Lady’s son was the only who
would help us, but such are often the ways of the Lord.
“Late Sunday, Richard parked his pick
up truck in our driveway after renting a U-Haul trailer. As we
were all packed, it only took several hours for me to load our
possessions. Before leaving the next afternoon, which was unseasonably
warm, Richard warned us that his truck might overheat pulling
the heavy load, especially when we drove over Clinch mountain.”
“We always pray for Divine guidance
and providential blessings before we go anywhere,” Alite
commented by way of explanation.
“We arrived safely at our destination,
without over heating the truck, in the early evening, met our
new Land Lord, unpacked our possessions, and said good-by to Richard
as he set out for the return trip in the early evening.”
Alite laughed pleasantly. “We learned
later, that on the way across Clinch mountain, at night, with
an empty load, his truck overheated.”
“Such are the blessings that come to
those who place their trust in the Lord,” Skipp said, concluding
their united testimony.
“A lot of our experiences with the
Lord arise out of our need for transportation,” Alite said
in the momentary silence. “Two blind people living in the
country and moving as often as we do, are a conundrum to people
who place their trust in their cars and perfect vision.”
“We know we’re needy,” Skipp
said, “therefore, the Lord is able to bless us more often
then he can bless those who know not their need.”
“If we understood our true condition
and relationship to the Lord,” Alite said, “all of us
would have a basket full of testimonies of the Lord’s goodness
and mercies to relate.”
“I remember the time we were living
in Berien Springs, that’s where Andrews University is located.
Several months earlier, while living in Grand Rapids, we felt
the Lord was urging us to move, again,” Skipp said with a
sour expression on his face.
“He hates to move,” Alite said
with laughter in her voice. “When he gets planted, its like
he’s set in cement, a bulldozer can’t move him.”
Skipp smiled sheepishly, “she’s
right. As often as we have moved, I still hate the prospect of
relocating even though I’ve resigned myself to the inevitable.”
“We prayed about moving,” Alite
said, “but Skipp didn’t think we had enough money to
move just then.”
“We told the Lord about our needs,
asking him, if He wanted us to move to Berien Springs, to make
it possible. Several days later, we received an unexpected check
in the mail that more then covered the expenses of renting a truck
and the other sundry expenses involved in moving.”
“That hasn’t happened very often,”
Alite said, “but what better method would God choose to reveal
His will then to supply the funds we required.”
“Obviously, He wanted us in Berien
Springs. Even I was convinced that we should move,” Skipp
said. “So we moved.
Several weeks later, Alite and I were talking
about the reasons for our relocation, we could discern none, and
I was bored, so she suggested that I visit the collage and see
if there wasn’t a blind person who might need some help.
“Reluctantly, I walked to the Collage
and inquired at the reception desk of the Administration building.
I was directed to Alexander Orloff, who was the only blind student
on campus.
“Alexander was about 23 years old,
congenitally blind and was having problems graduating due to an
insufficient number of volunteer readers. The Lord didn’t
have to hit me over the head with a 2X4 to understand why we were
in Berien Springs, especially when he told me later that he had
prayed for eight months for someone who would help him graduate.
“Andrews University is a religious
collage, Alexander was studying for the ministry, therefore, many
of the books, he wanted to read, were religious in nature. As
I began reading for him, it became apparent that he was so far
behind in his studies, that it would take months for him to catch
up, but he eventually graduated, although he never became a minister
because of his handicap.
“But my work with Alexander didn’t
end with his graduation. Like any denomination, the church had
a large selection of spiritual, religious, and theological books
available for its pastors and laymen. Naturally, Alexander wanted
to read these books, but most of them weren’t available in
braille or on audio cassettes, so I volunteered to read them for
him. Over the next five to seven years, I recorded in excess of
1200 hours of audio cassettes. I’m not sure who derived the
greatest benefit from this project, Alexander or myself. I learned
more about the Bible in those years, then most Protestant ministers
learn in a life time. It was a wonderful gift from the Lord, a
time well spent.”
