Victory on the Vine: From Resurrection to Renaissance – The Burial, Pt. 1

Victory on the Vine is a weekly column, published every Friday here at The Well Report Media Ministry Blog. “From Resurrection to Renaissance” is a multi-part series, divided into four sections: The Death, The Burial, The Resurrection, and The Renaissance. Below is Part 1 of The Burial. For the three-week discussion of The Death, click here, here, and here.

Dejected and bewildered, I maneuvered myself through the maze of rush hour traffic to pick my daughter up from work.  It had been twelve hours since we had walked out of our home for the last time.  I thought I would exhale when I closed my front door that rainy morning. Instead, I felt like a car that was hydroplaning, drifting to and fro, waiting to be buried in a watery grave.

Navigating the rain-drenched streets towards downtown, I thought about how my ministerial sojourn began. It began in the fall of 1994. I had been working at an area children’s hospital when the Lord let me know it was time to enter this next phase in my life: full-time ministry. I was eager to obey His command; however, I thought about all  my personal debts. What do I do about all my bills? I asked my Co-laborer.  As I waited for Him to reply, I worked part time jobs and temp jobs and with each work assignment, I grew increasingly restless.

During that time, He reminded me that this wasn’t the way He intended for me to do it. He intended for me to step away from work completely and depend on Him. I obeyed.

One day an ex coworker called asking if I had gotten a letter from our former employer. I told her I hadn’t.  She said the department we worked in had been audited and it was discovered that she and I were owed back pay.  I told her that I was certain I wasn’t due money. She insisted that I was the other person they were referring to and since I had worked there longer than she had, I would probably receive more.  Sure enough, within a matter of days, I received a letter, confirming.

When the money finally came, it was enough to pay off my car, credit card bills, and the $1,000.00 pledge I made at church. I was even able to take a mini vacation.

I remember the day I went to pay off the car and Visa.  The woman at the credit union said that they had tried various ways to contact me, regarding my outstanding debts.

“It was like you were hidden. Every letter we sent came back and we couldn’t reach you by phone. We even sent someone out to look for the car.” she said.

I smiled that day as I realized, God had hidden me as He worked His master plan.

“Wow! You’ve done good,” she continued, looking on as I wrote out a check for my entire debt. She had become quite familiar with me during the time of my credit union membership.

With my debts behind me and my calling in front of me, I needed to focus totally on Him, and my husband was well aware of the time, attention and dedication this would require.

One warm Spring afternoon during our courtship, I asked, “How do you feel about having a wife who is called to full-time ministry?”

“Oh, I don’t have a problem with that. My mother is in ministry,” he replied assuredly.

I should have probed.

There’s a difference between your wife’s ministry and your mother’s. The sacrifices are different, I should have informed him.

This conversation repeatedly played in my head, during our turbulent times.

Six years into our marriage, I went to my husband and told him what I heard the Lord say.  He assured me that we would be okay.

“I won’t let you starve,” he promised that day.

I knew my Co-laborer had gone ahead of me and spoke to my husband’s heart concerning this matter.  My spouse confirmed this on the day we settled on our house.

“The Lord told me that all this was gonna work out, if I trusted him. I know that,” he said as we discussed me entering full-time ministry and us entering our new home.

However as quickly as he made peace with it, he became disturbed by it. He started making acerbic remarks about my calling and capabilities. And he didn’t stop there. He also seemed to be talking to colleagues and mutual friends. Some of his acquaintances started making snide comments to me. At times I would even hear small details of our home life laced in Sunday morning sermons.

One afternoon as I relaxed in the family room, my husband was standing behind the couch peering down at me.

“Too bad your ministry is going to fail,” he said smugly. “I mean, I feel bad and all and I did what I could to help you, but you are going to fail,” he continued, no longer able to hide his disdain.

I stared back at him like someone had just told a joke, and I was waiting for the punch line to sink in.

Who said anything about failing? I wondered, laughing to myself.  I don’t think I responded at all to the comment that day. I didn’t have it all figured out; nobody does when you are living by faith. However, failure never entered my mind.

Now I realize my spouse thought he had the power to control my destiny.  It hurt when I discovered that he thought my ministry was something he could talk me out of. When it dawned on him that he couldn’t, he set out to destroy me.

At times I marvel at how, even in this day and time, some people still view women ministers as make shift or second rate. We fight in the same army: we fight the same enemy and should receive the same honor!

GOD’S PROVISION

One day during my devotional time the Lord spoke. “I’m your source,” was all He said.

I thought I would see miracles similar to the financial one I had experienced when I received the back pay. I thought people would walk up, giving me the saint’s handshake, placing money in the palm of my hand. Maybe bills would be amazingly canceled or speaking engagements would come in abundance.

Instead, there were days I would have to eat dry baked potatoes and quote the 34^th Psalms or take pennies to the gas station.

There was even one night we had no lights. I went downstairs and danced before the Lord in the dark.  As I danced and sang “As the Deer,” a warm dim light started filling the room. I looked out the window to the backyard and it looked like a spotlight was shining on the grass.  Looking up in the sky, I saw the moon, brilliant and powerful.  I don’t recall ever seeing it shine that bright. There was a skylight over the landing upstairs. The moon was so luminous, it lit the staircase leading to the bedrooms. I worshipped Him that night through my tears, realizing He had been faithful to me once again.  Glory!

There was a satellite dish on the roof. My husband had long discontinued Direct TV.  Imagine my surprise when I turned on the television and, aside from receiving the local channels, we still received two cable channels: The Word Network and TBN! My daughter and I would lay on my king sized bed and religiously watch Video Gospel and Gospel Grooves, sometimes dancing around the room, hysterically laughing. At night, I lay there alone, soothed by powerful voices assuring me I’d make it out alright.

Those times were painful and humiliating, to say least, but to feel His presence beside my bed as I cried myself to sleep some nights, to feel the warmth of His smile over me when I praised Him, to experience His overall sustaining power and peace that no man can provide, I would go through it again! I understand now what the Apostle Paul meant when he said  he would rather glory in his infirmities so that the power of God may rest on him.

There is much gain in losing!

HOTEL HAVEN

When I reached my daughter’s work place, I told her I was going to the Holiday Inn.  I suggested she go to a family member’s house. “Nope, I’m staying with you,” she said.

Deep down, I was glad she chose to stay with me. Or was I?  I still needed to sort through the garbage bag of emotions that was bunched up in my head. I wasn’t sure if I wanted someone with me during that process.

The hotel lobby was filled with weekend travelers and business opportunists.  A church was having a Friday night service in one of the conference rooms.  Usually when I would see the saints, my face would light up and I would happily go over and strike up a conversation, like a child on a school playground.  That evening, I was afraid to look over at their candle-lit faces, lest I recognize someone or they recognize me. I was certain that would happen. I stood somberly at the desk while the clerk found a room for us, wondering if my face still glowed like theirs.

The clerk finally found us a room in the back of the hotel.  I didn’t request this; perhaps God did.

Once inside the room, my daughter and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was glad to be able to provide something for her that night: a peaceful place to lay her head.  One of the hardest things during that time was not being able to provide answers for her. I felt like a woman, trying to breastfeed her child, long after her milk had dried up.

As I prepared for bed that evening, I looked over at my daughter, who had already fallen asleep in the full-size bed beside me.  Her facial expression and breathing seemed more placid than the day she was born. But she wasn’t a baby anymore; she was a full grown woman I had grown to admire.

When my husband and I were still together, my daughter once overheard a dispute we were having over money.  Usually, she didn’t interfere but that day, as she prepared to leave the house, she paused on the landing between our bedrooms and said, “Mom, take my ATM card and pin number; go get whatever you need,” diffusing the situation.

She had always seen me strong and independent. Seeing me so vulnerable was hard for her—and for me.  One thing I think she and I both gleaned from this is that when you love someone, it’s easy to support them. One day during one of our many heartfelt conversations, I expressed my concern about her helping me. I still wanted her to go on and live her life.  She said that day, “Mom, you have taken care of me all my life. I can do this for you.”

She knew the hardships I had faced as a single parent, the shame and ridicule, circumstances very similar to what I was currently facing.

Over the years, I had discovered the many parallels between birthing vision and natural birthing.

As I lay there, trying to grasp a good night’s sleep, I thought about my other child: the ministry.

Why had I lost custody of her? Did I give her enough care? When will I see her again? I lamented.

Staring blankly in the dark at the ceiling, I searched for my feelings. In that hour, I wasn’t sure what I should be feeling or who I was. The more I writhed over this, the more vexed I became. As I grappled in the dark, I felt my Co-laborer hand me a weapon, to help me slay the dragon of misery.

He handed me Psalms 127:2: It is vain for you to rise up early, to stay up late, to eat the bread of sorrows: for so he giveth his beloved sleep.

Victory on the Vine: From Resurrection to Renaissance, The Death Pt. 3

It had been months since my husband and I had our last confrontation; however, I can’t tell you just how long.  My days were now fused together. There were times when I would frantically walk through the house trying to find out what day it was. Is it Monday or Friday? I would anxiously ask myself, as I searched each room looking for clues.

Just as a man nearing the end of his life wrestles with two worlds, I was also in limbo.  My Co-laborer wanted to take me into a world of faith and spirit but I wanted to stay in the world of reason. As He and I tussled, I thought about the friends, church members, mentees, and family members, who had gleaned hope from us.

What am I going to say when people find out? How am I going to tell my family? I asked the Lord one day.

By the time they found out, I wanted to be able to say I had everything under control, however, the Lord wanted to cut away that logic and expose my shame.

There were only a handful of people who knew what was going on in our lives: my daughter, my mother, and a couple of former church members.

But the neighbors were starting to suspect something.

One warm Sunday afternoon, as I returned home from church, turning onto my street, I watched as neighbors washed their cars and trimmed hedges.  Some were clustered together, catching up on community gossip. I must have been the topic of the day because, as I pulled up in front of the house, they all froze and watched silently when I got out of the car.  The expression on their faces looked embarrassed, almost as if they thought I had overheard them.

As if the suspense was killing her, a short brown skinned woman broke free from the crowd and headed towards me.  The others looked on as if they had delegated her.

“I’ll cut your grass if you’ll sweep,” she offered boldly.

“Oh, thanks,” I sighed.

I looked over at my front yard and realized the grass really hadn’t grown much since my husband discontinued the lawn service.  Maybe it’s dying too, I thought.

“Your husband still out of town?” she asked, as if she was determined not to return to the group without an answer.

I stared at her, longer than I should have, she stared back, bravely.

“He doesn’t live here anymore,” I mumbled.

She proceeded in disgust, telling me how he had told her he was going out of town on business. I was hardly paying attention to what she was saying, but I couldn’t help noticing the expression on her face as she realized she had been lied to.

Over time, I came to realize that our house had become the lighthouse.  I was never one to fraternize with the neighbors. My husband, on the other hand, would stroll up and down the block like a politician. Two community newspapers had recently run articles about me and the ministry. The neighbors seemed surprised when they found out about my vocation. Some discussed knocking on our door for counseling and prayer, as there were several crumbling marriages on our street. One neighbor even suggested I run for president of the Homeowners’ Association.

As swiftly as my acclaim spread, it shriveled.  I had now become a reproach.

1Peter 4:12-14 says: Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trials which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you: But rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ’s sufferings; that when his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy.  If ye be reproached for the name of Christ, happy are ye; for the spirit of glory and of God resteth upon you: on their part he is evil spoken of, but on your part he is glorified.

The First Epistle of Peter is the book for suffering Christians. Peter was one of the most prominent disciples, and his impact on the early church was profound. Not only was the epistle written to encourage suffering saints of old, it was also written  for believers today who are experiencing persecution all over the world. Peter’s purpose for writing the book was to exhort disciples to suffer for being Christians, as opposed to suffering as a result of committing sins.

In verse 12 of 1^st Peter, he mentions the fiery trials that were to try us.  The word try means a testing to prove.  So in other words, our fiery trials that God allows are sent to prove our authenticity: to prove to us and others what we are made of!

When there are trials in a court of law, there is often a jury. Periodically, it was as if I could hear my jurors (neighbors) deliberating: No man would leave a good wife.  It must be her fault. This nice man, who gave good advice, did good deeds, and played with babies, would never just walk away without a cause.

I thought about this as I remembered the cold stares I was starting to receive as I walked back and forth from my car.

I could feel the icy glare of one neighbor and she peered over at me, forcing me to look up at her.  She exaggeratedly sucked her teeth and shook her head at me to show her disdain. This infuriated me! Just a few days prior, I had helped her, as she stood crying on my porch.

My initial reaction that day she was in distress was not to let her in. I felt if I responded to her, I would eventually be letting her in on my troubles in some way.  Still, I could not ignore her sobs as others had ignored mine over the years.

I stood there, stunned as my insensitive neighbor gawked at me. It would be nice if I could tell you I smiled and said, “God bless you,” as I walked to my front door, or that I was humming “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” Instead, I had to fight back the urge to cuss her out!

Once inside the house, I feverishly paced back and forth, thinking about what I wanted to say to her, how I wanted to bang on her door and let her know what I thought about her as a neighbor and about the skeletons she undoubtedly had in her own closet.

The Lord interrupted my ranting, reminding me that we are called to die daily and a dead man had no feelings.

1 Peter 4:13-14 talks about the exceeding joy and happy state we would be in when His glory would be revealed. I couldn’t fathom this.  I could hardly muster up a smile in those days let alone be happy or have joy.

One day, while sitting in my kitchen, the mailman drove up. He paused, quizzically inspecting the front of our house, before he placed our mail in the box. I had seen him do this a few times before. That day, I decided to go outside for a chat.

“I know you may be wondering what is going on with us,” I said, getting straight to the point.

“Yeah, I had,” he admitted, dropping his head.

I proceeded to tell him that even I didn’t quite know what was going on with me; but the one thing I did know was that the Lord was going to bring me out! I told him that I was learning everyday how to endure the cross and to think little of the shame, as Jesus had done, according to Hebrews 12:2.

I preached and preached to him that day until I preached myself happy! That day, my eyes cleared up and my smile broadened. I started doing this regularly. I would see the mail truck pull up, he would wait a minute or two for me to come out, and we would have church!  He shared pleasant stories with me about his wife and family. There were times that I would be laughing and testifying and he would be looking over my head at something.

The Lord let me know that he had placed a spirit of glory on me in those days and the letter carrier recognized that.

From that day on, my laughter grew heartier, my joy and peace were more abundant. The spirit of glory brings weighty things, spiritual and natural riches. The word glory in the Greek is the word, Doxa, which means, an appearance; recognition belonging to a person, honor: to reflect what is within on the outside. When the Lord glorifies something or someone, he puts his stamp of approval on it.  He brings to the surface what is on the inside. When that person is showing forth his nature, he brings it out for all to see.

The Hebrew word for glory is Kavod, which means weighty honor, esteem, majesty abundance, wealth.

Some people are uncomfortable with the word glory. There are times, people will say, “No, God said he will not give his glory to another” in an attempt to quote Isaiah 42:8. In Isaiah 42, the Lord is stating that He will not give His glory to another diety. He will place the spirit of glory on His children who suffer for His sake and who show forth His attributes.

When the spirit of glory is placed in our lives, we don’t recognize it, lest we become prideful.  Those around us will see it and surely react to it, oftentimes with persecution.

NIGHT MOVES

For reasons I won’t go into on the blog, my daughter and I had to move out of the house. We had nearly six months to find another place to live. My one relief was having a set moving date; not only did this date serve as an anchor—something to hang on to, in a sea of indistinguishable days—but it also gave me a sense of hope. Surely, after that date, things could only get better.

My daughter was still hanging in there with me. I was glad that she was beginning to have a social life. I was relieved when she went out on dates or out to eat with friends. I thought it was sweet how her friends would show concern, checking on us every so many days.

“Where are you all gonna go?” some would inquire.  We had no idea; the Lord had not revealed His plan. The haunting fear of the unknown was causing my anxiety level to rise again.

How far are You going to stretch me? I wondered out loud as I packed boxes.

Still, I marveled at the waves of peace and joy that would rise up in me, forcing the fear and darkness back.

When moving day came, the boxes were packed, the storage space was secured, but we still had no help moving the furniture. This was no small challenge; we had several rooms of furniture. I looked at it all and felt overwhelmed, like I was out on a limb that had begun to violently swing. I’d spent most of the day alone; my daughter had gone to work while I took stock of everything we had left to do.

I cried out to God for direction, and He told me to call a friend who was familiar with our situation. This friend gave me her neighbor’s phone number. Within hours, he arrived at our door with two other men to haul everything that was too heavy for us to lift.

Before long, my daughter came home from work. With her face set like a flint, she rolled up her sleeves and said, “Let’s go.” She was a tower of strength that cold rainy night.

At one point, one of the movers came up to me and said, “Miss, I don’t mean no harm… What, your husband didn’t want all this? I mean, people are fighting to get out here in this neighborhood.  Seems like you all would want to fight to keep it.”

“Seems like it,” I said nonchalantly. By now, my shame had been diffused.

It was evening and most of our neighbors were home from work. Some houses that were normally lit up like Christmas trees were now pitch black. I could see one of my neighbors’ silhouettes in his kitchen, watching us move in the rain.

One family passed by in their car. I waved and smiled broadly as they passed. They rolled their eyes in response.

I would miss my home, but not the coldness of the neighborhood.

By 3 am, all our help had left. We had three hours to rest before we needed to wake up and confront the day. As we loaded a few remaining boxes into the car, my daughter and I decided to sleep in what used to be her bedroom.

We headed up the stairs to the hollow, white-walled space, so empty now we could almost hear ourselves echo when we spoke. We laid down on the carpeted floor, before it dawned on us that, in our carefulness not to leave anything behind, we’d forgotten to pull out a blanket to sleep with, on our very last night in the house.

What we found was a beach towel, lying on the top of an open box. Once we were nestled under it, I was reminded of an episode of Sanford and Son, when Lamont had purchased coffins to sell, but soon discovered he and Fred were afraid to sleep in the same house with them. Instead, they slept on the back of their truck, fighting over their shared blanket and pillow.

We were playfully doing the same, with our tiny beach towel.

Unlike them, we weren’t afraid of the death that had come to our home. Unlike us, they could return to their home in the morning.

We were too wound up to fall asleep right away. Whenever we thought one of us had drifted off, the other would crack a joke and we’d begin to laugh. Our laughter was so infectious, eventually, it drowned out  the sound of the rain.

Victory on the Vine: From Resurrection to Renaissance,The Death Pt 2

THE DEATH, PT. 2

I didn’t have time to dwell on the cowardly way my husband left. Now that I was in the Dark Place, I was too busy focusing on preserving my strength for whatever lay ahead. Why is the Lord stripping me bare? I lamented. You would think, after being in ministry for several years, I would have learned to trust Him with the unknown, but here I was, groping in the darkness, trying to find my clothes.

I never thought I would swipe at the darkness, in an attempt to push His hand away.  I was ashamed of myself. How could I try to swing at God? I wasn’t angry with Him; I loved Him.  I just didn’t understand where He was taking me. Then it hit me.  I was behaving like a toddler, resisting a nap without realizing the repose was for my good.

The Lord wouldn’t allow me to condemn myself.  Knowing my trials were extreme, He put me in remembrance of my Elder Brother.

Matthew 26:39,42 says: And he went a little farther, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will but as thou wilt.

He went away again the second time, and prayed saying, O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, thy will be done.

“I’m starting to get it now,” I said to the Holy Spirit during one of our intermittent counseling sessions.  You want me to drink from the bitter cup and not be bitter. Instead of wrestling with You, You want me to help crucify my flesh.

After I discovered my husband had departed, I never went after him.  Not once. I was all too familiar with male flight.  My daughter’s father had left in a similar fashion—no discussion, no provision—and so did my biological father before him. My Heavenly Father had left, too, it seemed; but unlike the others, He left discussion. He left provision.

One provision He left for me was a rock solid awareness of His love. Like a never-ending cascade, His love flowed over me with such a force, I never had a chance to doubt it. Ever.

Romans 5:5 And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.

I could feel His love pulsating through me, but like all folds of love, pain is a sure counterpart.

I came to realize, over time, that I was experiencing the back side of love: the component that connects us in a greater way to our Lord.

We cannot become His bride, if we have nothing in common.

I am going to continue to share my personal testimony in a few; however, I feel the Holy Spirit leading me to talk about peace.

The Process of Peace

Peace was the other provision my Heavenly Father left me.

Romans 5:1 says: Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.

This is our current standing with God; this is how He presently sees us. He sees the finished work of His Son, already completed in our lives.  Then there is our present state, the place where we are right now.  We must go through a process to get to where God sees us, in our perfected position.

Isaiah 53:5 says: But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.

Chastisement is the roadway to peace.  Our modern-day definition of  peace is undisturbed tranquility. We feel our outward circumstances have to be a certain way in order for us to have peace. Often we can be heard making statements like, “I can’t wait till the kids go back to school so I can have peace!” or “I wish they would stop that banging next door, so I can have some peace and quiet!”

True biblical peace is an overall sense of wellbeing. Even if nothing changes on the outside, the peace He lays in our souls will keep us and we will gain access to every blessing He has for us!

Now, as I said previously, this peace can only be obtained through chastisement. The Hebrew word for chastisement, in Isaiah 53:5, is Musar. It means punishment, discipline, instruction, and self control.  It’s a correction which results in an education.

Hebrews 12:8 tells us that all must be partakers of chastisement.  If Christ was chastised to purchase our peace, then we must be chastised to obtain it!

Hebrews 12:6 says: For whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.

I want to point out the difference between chastisement and scourging.  Whereas chastening is discipline, instruction, and self control, scourging is far more severe. It means flogging; a more severe beating; oppressive, debilitating pain.

All are not called to scourging; only those who have peculiar favor with God.

Dark Places

The sound of the diesel engine of our late model Mercedes caused my stomach to fold in two, when I heard my husband pull up in front of the house. “What is he doing here?” I said as I scurried around the kitchen. I wasn’t doing anything in particular, but his presence was already causing me to become frantic.

He had been there a few times before, only to taunt me.

“What do you have?” he asked, on one occasion. “What do you think you are called to do, sit here and read the bible all day?”

The Bible was the only place I knew to go.  It was my sanctuary, my hiding place.

“What do you have?!” He repeated, pressing me for an answer.

“I have the grace of God,” I weakly replied, as I searched his face, hoping to find the reason he now despised me. I hated being so vulnerable. I had come from a long line of strong women, who fought to stay alive and fought their men, if need be.

While I was hating what I was feeling, God was loving who I was becoming.

That night, I felt a cold gust of air as he opened the front door. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” I screamed.  He didn’t reply. He just gave a cold stare as he passed me, looking in closets and cabinets.  He seemed surprised when he opened the kitchen cabinet and saw the cupboard filled with food.  I had gone to a local church’s food pantry for groceries.

By this time, I had been in full-time ministry for a couple of years. I had happily acknowledged the call; however, it was the separation I struggled with.  To be separated unto your call means there is no turning back; the bridge is burned behind you.  It’s the place where you respond to His sending only and not your neediness. It’s the place where you become His bondservant.

Strolling through the house as if he were under a spell, my husband headed towards the basement.  I was right on his heels, demanding to know why he was there.  I knew tonight had to be the last night for him coming to the house.  I had to stop him. But how? I wondered.

“GET OUT! GET OUT!”  I screamed over and over.  I would open my mouth to say something else and that’s all that would come out.

“Oh, you want me to leave? I think I’ll stay,” he said chillingly, as he sat down, flipping through some envelopes.

“And I think I’ll sit here and scream in your ear until you leave!” I moved in close enough to kiss him and continued with my mantra.

“GET OUT! GET OUT!” I repeated, almost to the point of hysteria.

Then the voice from hell chimed in whispering, “Get the knife.” I shuddered at how close this thought was to me.  It was as close as I was standing to my husband.  Another thought affixed itself to my mind, “Call the police.” Like mischievous children on a merry-go-round, the thoughts repeatedly circled my head: GET OUT! GET THE KNIFE! CALL THE POLICE!

I was drenched in sweat; he didn’t break one.  He got up, walked upstairs and strolled right out the front door, without incident.

Prior to this particular night, my husband informed me that he didn’t want the house or its contents.  He was referring to me, but I decided that night to rid myself of some baggage of my own.  I started with his belongings.  I ripped all his clothes off the hangers.  Nice sweaters, dress pants with tags still on them, shoes, boots, gold watches, and leather duffel bags and suitcases.  While gathering all his belongings and sitting them by the front door, I remembered that a neighbor yelled over to me one day and said, “Change the locks, Tamara. He’s coming there, taking things out when you leave in the morning.”  Well, now when he comes back, he won’t have anything to take, I thought.

Feeling exhausted and empowered at the same time, I continued down to the family room. Opening the deep walk-in closet under the steps, I paused to remember the plans I had for that closet.  I had planned to make it my prayer closet. Taking out dusty bags and boxes and dragging them in front of the fireplace, I recalled the intentions I’d had for them. I had promised to give a bag of my daughter’s old clothes to a single mother at church.  I’d promised to go down two dress sizes to get back into my old wardrobe.  I’d promised to decorate my home on holidays tastefully with these items. I examined each item, one by one, as if hoping to find the clue to what was happening to my decaying marriage.

I didn’t hate him. I still don’t.  I just hated what he did to us.  We were not Cosby-style; just a hard working family who loved Jesus.  We worked hard and served in our fellowships faithfully.  We were a family who would stand in a circle on warm Spring nights and sing hymns.

We had great times as a couple.  We didn’t vacation often, but when we did, we enjoyed them.  The spontaneous getaways were the best.  Armed with our favorite gospel jazz cds, we would load up the Benz, only deciding which direction we’d go in when we hit the expressway.  He would stop and get my favorite snacks; then, we’d continue down the highway, laughing at funny things we remembered about neighbors and coworkers.  Sometimes we’d stop, finding a place to make love before venturing off to find a hotel. I was his exotic beauty; he was my earthly hero.

But like helium balloons released in the atmosphere, those times had long disappeared.

The sunlight startled me as I realized it was now 5 am.  Just in time for the garbage truck, I thought.  I had 19 bags for him. Hoisting the bags up the stairs and dragging them out to the curb, I smiled, thinking about how mad the garbage man was going to be. I arranged the bags in such a way that they looked like a black Christmas tree. Placing my husband’s nicer things on top, I wanted the garbage man to know it wasn’t all junk, some of it was a present for him. From my kitchen window, I watched, as the sanitation worker got out of the truck.  He looked really perturbed when he saw the amount of garbage out front.  As I expected, his face lit up like a kid when he opened the leather bags on top.  He pulled out item after item beckoning for the driver to get out and see his good fortune. My smile faded, as I thought about how junk to one man is treasure to another.

“At least somebody’s happy this morning,” I said to myself.  Wearily, I climbed the steps to the bedroom, hoping to get a few hours sleep. Into a brown paper shopping bag, I placed the remnants I had set aside, things I thought should make my husband feel like a man: his military information, his police academy certificate, and a picture of his only son.

Victory on the Vine: From Resurrection to Renaissance, The Death Pt 1.

Victory on the Vine is a weekly column, published every Friday here at The Well Report Media Ministry Blog. “From Resurrection to Renaissance” is a multi-part series. Below is Part 1 of our “From Resurrection to Renaissance” series.

DYING THE DEATH

“I thought maybe you had moved out of town” someone speculated as I shopped in a local supermarket. The comment was as commonplace as where I was standing. Everyone from ministerial colleagues to lay people to total strangers had inquired.  Were the saints now having me for dinner?  Had I become the babble of beauty salons? The scuttlebutt of the mechanic shops? These are the places I frequented, these were places I met my inquisitors. The queries were starting to tax me, partly because, after a ten-year odyssey, I still had no answers.

It had never occurred to me to run.  Two decades earlier, I arrived in Baltimore with my life’s savings, a stereo, television, clothes, a four-year-old daughter and her toys. I had come full circle, yet only three of those things remained with me.

The Lord had now numbered me among the poor and needy.

Psalms 40:17 says: But I am poor and needy: yet the Lord thinketh upon me: thou art my help and my deliverer; make no tarrying O my God.

THE DEATH

It happened at a fruitful time.  It was the season that most ministers long to see. A kairos moment.  The ministry was starting to gain acclaim.  Great victories were taking place in my personal life. It was the best of times.  Effectual doors were opening. Like a quarterback, I was dodging adversaries and, armed with the promises of God, I was scoring touchdowns. All was not entirely well; with blessings come much persecution. Still, I was too elated to dwell on my troubles.

Everything changed one humid Saturday night in April.  I was ministering at a church Gospel Fest.  As the service was coming to a close and the weary were lining up for prayer, I felt something unfamiliar.  It was as if I was standing on a fragile limb that was crackling underneath my feet.

I was equipped.  After several years of ministry, I had learned how to prepare as if it only depended on me, but to stand only depending on Him. As always, God had truly labored with me during this service; however, as it drew to a close, it seemed as if He was pulling away. In that hour, I didn’t recognize myself, my Co-laborer, or my ministry.

Then the Lord spoke.  He told me, as I peered from the pulpit watching the saints gather at the altar, that this would be my last night in ministry.  Too bewildered to be disappointed or to search my soul for answers, I seemed to be moving in slow motion as I maneuvered myself through the service. Am I dreaming? I wondered.

I didn’t understand this uncomfortable evening. Still, it was okay; I knew enough not to go ahead of God.  I needed Him. I loved Him.

What is this all about? Where am I going? I pondered later on that peculiar night. He didn’t answer.

Several days later, He spoke again. “Let go,” was all He said.  Then in a daydream or vision, I saw myself slipping into a grave that had been freshly dug for me.  I was tightly clutching the dirt and lush green grass around me. As I am writing this, I realize, the green grass represented the measure of prosperity I was experiencing and the dirt represented my very own flesh. I had never considered myself to be controlling but He was showing me that I was.  I was trying to control the outcome of my life and ministry without even realizing it.  At His command, I released the fistfuls of dirt and grass and slipped into a place where I thought I would lose spiritual consciousness.  I was entering into a season called the Dark Night of the Soul.

Isaiah 50:10-11 says: Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord and stay upon his God. Behold all ye that kindle a fire that compass yourselves about with sparks: walk in the light of your fire, and in the sparks that ye have kindled. This ye shall have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow.

Unlike the wilderness, where your release is determined by your obedience, the Dark Night of the Soul is just the opposite. Your obedience leads you there, and the time of your release can only be determined by God. It is the place of death. Hell on earth, so to speak. It’s the wait beyond the wait. The place where you give and it’s not given unto; you hurt and there is no balm for your pain. Provisions are made for you but you can’t see the hand that provides due to the darkness. There are no doors, no windows, no visitors. No one can speak to you there, but God. No one understands. Your only pastime is trusting him.

I thought it was interesting that in verse 10 of Isaiah 50, the word “stay” is the Hebrew word, Sha’an, which means to support oneself, to lean against. Here’s where it gets deep (smile). It also means to lean upon a spear to commit suicide! As my Co-laborer was determined to kill (crucify) my flesh, I had to lean in to allow Him to do it! By no means was it easy. The process is perpetual while we live on this earth. We must die daily.

Galatians 2:20 says: I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh, I live by the faith of the Son of God who loved me and gave himself for me.

Isaiah 54:6-7 says: For the Lord hath called thee as a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit and a wife of youth, when thou wast refused, saith thy God. For a small moment have I forsaken thee; but with great mercies will I gather thee.

Not everybody’s calling or preparation is the same. The greater the calling, the greater the suffering. God loved Israel, but now they were being held captive and He had removed His glory from them.

Now, as things were dying in my ministry, things were also falling apart in every aspect of my life. Upon returning home from a trip to Michigan, I discovered my husband of 11 years had left. No discussion. No provision. I wasn’t entirely surprised. The Lord spoke to me twice and revealed it.

Prior to this, my daughter (You remember the four-year-old?) had recently graduated from college and called to inform me that she was moving back home. I wanted her to keep going. Feeling that taking a break before going to graduate school could mean she may never go back, I was upset by her decision. She insisted that she needed a break and wanted to come home.

After the phone call ended with my daughter, I was overwrought. How could she be coming back home? I didn’t want her to experience the toxicity in our home.

She and I had always been extremely close. This would sometimes cause those connected to our lives to envy the bond we had. She had a way of feeling my pain and taking it on as her own.  A prophet told me once, when she was a child, to watch what I did in front of her. “She soaks up everything you do like a sponge,” he admonished. The Lord calmly said, “Don’t prevent her from coming back home…. I am sending her back to help you.”

I had no idea what I would be facing in the next few years. My daughter had a reservoir of strength I didn’t know she had, but the Lord knew I needed it.

All He would allow me to do in response to my tribulations was to seek Him and trust Him. The emotional strain and pressure seemed unbearable at times. My body began to shut down. My heart raced; my mind raced. The skin on my face peeled and bled. My stomach burned intensely after every meal. At times I couldn’t turn my neck, I would have to turn my whole body to go in another direction. My hair fell out and the texture changed. As I’m writing this, I’m chuckling as I remember that that was the first time I cried! It seemed like I was more upset about losing my hair than anything else!

My mind was going, it seemed. Every statement I made, I repeated three times. For example, if I was going to the store, I would say, “I’m going to the store. I’m going to the store. I’m going to the store.” It was almost like repeating myself would will my intentions into being.

There were days I couldn’t bathe. It took too much effort. I would only sit in a chair and rock my head from side to side, trying to comfort myself. One morning I got up and tears were leaking out of my face. Am I crying? I wondered. My lips weren’t quivering. I was calmer than I had been in a while but there was this steady stream of tears that lasted all day.

One day my daughter and I were at a McDonald’s drive-thru window. The young girl on the speaker asked that I pull up to the next window. We sat there for a moment discussing our order. The girl, thinking we hadn’t heard her, repeated herself. I screamed at the top of my lungs in a voice I didn’t even recognize, “I AM! I AM I HEARD YOU! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” I’m losing my mind, I thought. Even the simplest commands were intolerable.

One frigid night in December, my daughter and I were lying in bed watching TV. She would not leave my side. I was lying there cold and despondent. Ordinarily, she and I could laugh for hours on end. Usually I managed to stay pretty upbeat in front of her, but that night I could feel a demonic grip coming over my mind. I heard a cryptic-sounding voice from hell say, “If you strip all your clothes off, run up and down the street and yell at the top of your lungs, and get down on the ground and dig through the ice to the pavement, I will take this pressure off you.”

Almost on cue, my daughter began asking me if I was alright. I told her I would be fine but needed to go downstairs for a while. I walked downstairs unsteadily, without turning on any lights to the family room in the basement. When I hit the bottom step, I collapsed, falling forward. In frustration, I beat my fists on the floor until they were numb. I screamed and sobbed over and over, “WHY, GOD, WHY? I KEPT HIS EVERY SECRET! I STOOD WITH HIM WHEN HE HAD NOTHING! I WAS A FAITHFUL WIFE! I DID WHAT YOU WANTED ME TO DO! WHY? WHY?” I laid there sobbing until I had no more strength. That was the time He had been waiting for. He never answered, but instead, poured a warm liquid in my soul, a heavenly medicine that seemed to give me the strength and desire to get up and worship Him. I courageously walked back up to the bedroom and did something I hadn’t done in months: slept until morning.

Be sure to log on next week as we continue the blog series, “From Resurrection to Renaissance.”

Minister Tamara~