~I am coauthoring a new book with my husband Stephen McClelland. It is a wonderful story of living with Jesus in the midst of adverse circumstances. The setting is early America, when slavery was still lawful. This is a rough draft sneak peak. Enjoy! <3
Thomas stood stiffly at Pappy’s unmarked grave; his solid body, a mass of concrete. Jade grass was breaking through the frozen earth as the gentle spring sun began to slowly wane the harsh effects of winter. Branches drenched in Spanish moss swayed in the chilly breeze like torn sage curtains— dew dripped down them like crystal tears.
Thomas thumbed Pappy’s old beaten up Bible with his large calloused hands and then stroked a hand down his coarse beard. His warm brown eyes misted as he thought fondly of Pappy’s Bible studies with him and the other young slaves. No matter how exhausted he was, Pappy would faithfully sit with them every weekend and teach them the Word of God.
Thomas inhaled deeply as he remembered the night he finally surrendered his life to Christ. How sweet was the love of God that enveloped him. His insides felt like warmed ginger. His heart, for the first time, had felt peace. The pains of the past melted away like butter over a hot stove. He had finally understood the light in Pappy’s eyes.
Although his encounter with Christ had saved him…life was still hard at times. Especially now, since Pappy had been dead for over a year.
“I know that, that I’ll see you’n again…b-but,” his voice cracked with pain, “but it feels so different with you gone.” Thomas sniffled and pretended his dear older brother in Christ were still with him. He put the back of his hand to his nose to wipe the drops of snot away.
He imagined Pappy’s fatherly arm were wrapped across his massive shoulders.
“Old mas’er is sick and weak now. He ain’t been getting out of bed much. The doctors cum round frequently but he only get worse. I haven’t seen mas’er but a few times in the last couple months. I think he gone go yonder soon?”
Thomas closed his eyes shut as he prepared to voice a heartbreaking matter. His free hand baled into a fist until his fingernails dug into his skin.
“Ivy gone have a baby. The baby’s name is Libya. She fairer than her mama. I think Ivy was raped like her mama. Anyway, Libya only 5 years old and she sick. She ain’t talking…she ain’t moving. She just still. Ivy give her water here and again…but Libya refuse to eat. Tonight we gone go pray for Libya and ask God to heal her.” Thomas’ breath shuttered and he began to weep.
Several minutes passed before he collected himself. The peace of Christ swelled within him from the Holy Spirit. The love of God soothed him and he felt his heavenly Father say Libya was cared for.
Thomas smiled and thanked God that he could know Him so intimately. He grinned at Pappy’s grave. I understand how you were able to walk like Jesus now. No matter what, you always acted like Jesus even to your enemies.
Thomas continued talking as if Pappy could hear him and voiced news of some other things going around at the plantation.
“I know it’s minor compar’d to what I was talking about before. But it sure does my heart good to say it to you anyway.”
After he was finished, Thomas dipped his chin in respect and said goodbye before heading back home.
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The evening sun filtered through the dusty paneled windows in Solomon Blake’s room, creating a foggy light effect. He coughed harshly and let out a pained groan. The veins in his wrinkled hands surfaced unnaturally and he trembled despite the massive blankets that rested on his gaunt body/form. There was whispering going on in the room and Solomon shut his eyes to rest. He only intended to pretend to fall asleep, but he quickly entered into a state of unconsciousness. By the time he awoke again it was night.
“Huh?” he slurred and felt a trail of drool running slowly down his lips unto his chin. Spots of blood was on his white sheet.
“What’s this?” he demanded and peered around—his vision hazy.
Brass oil lamps glowed with melting white candles fixated on top of them. The faint aroma of sickly sweet mint coated the air.
A grown John with pitying eyes answered, “your nose began to bleed in your sleep father. We wiped it up as fast as we could.”
Solomon’s vision cleared momentarily and he saw the shimmer of tears behind his son’s hazel eyes. His chiseled face was strong, tanned and handsome. His mutton chop beard illuminated the forte of his jaw and framed his face favorably. Solomon glanced at the way the flickering candles lit up the edges of John’s golden blonde hair…making it glow like embers.
Solomon fussed, “well, why couldn’t you take the bloody sheets away boy?”
John sighed and forced a smile. The illness had made Solomon temperamental over the last couple of months. “We would have woken you by moving the sheets. But I can get Biltha to bring in new sheets?”
“I’d prefer that over sleeping with my own blood on top of me!”
“Yes sir,” John responded before looking over his shoulder at Silas.
Silas stood stiffly next to a ruby red ruffle couch. His forehead was beaded with sweat. Anxiety and weariness had caused his head to throb and he pressed some fingers to his temples before slowly circling his fingertips to the pressure.
He needed his pipe and felt like he could pull out each red hair in his bandholz beard at this moment. He was going stir crazy in the room. The hair on his head was unkempt. Red curls shot in each direction but down and made him look like a cave man despite his black tail coat, white collared shirt and coal dark pants. Even in his mid-thirties he still struggled with boyish fears and John picked up on his stress like a hound chasing runaway slaves.
“Hey!” John snapped and Silas awakened from his thoughts.
“Yes sir?”
John’s visage was fixed in a frown and he chastened Silas in his tone, “go get Biltha to bring father clean sheets!”
Silas’s emerald eyes flickered when he realized he had been tuning John out. Heat rose to his cheeks.
He nodded briefly and hastened out the room so quickly he almost jolted into the doctor.
“Fresh air at last,” he whispered to himself once he was outside the door. He exhaled in relief before searching for the household slave.
He found her inside Mrs. Blake’s quarters and whistled sharply.
Old Biltha jumped and when she saw Silas, she immediately bowed her head. Despite her many years she was strong and just as fat as she had been in her younger years. Her coarse hair was wrapped up with a ragged blue cloth.
“Go fetch a clean white sheet for master Blake. He’s in his room. Wash the bloodied one.”
“Yesum m’ser Silas,” she said respectfully before scurrying away like a mouse escaping a hungered cat.
She never liked him much. Not since that faithful day he’d gotten Pappy unjustly beaten for a crime he committed.
Some people never forget.
Luckily his tenor was always easy with Biltha. She’d nursed John and Silas knew her since he was an infant. She had the friendlies face and a comforting demeanor.
Silas hesitated at Solomon’s door. He hated seeing his uncle sick. He hated watching him suffer without being able to take the horrible pain away. What was this illness that captured his uncle?
He prayed for help before pushing the door open.
When he entered he saw the doctor at Solomon’s side, putting a wet, oiled towel across his forehead.
His uncle looked emaciated…like a skeleton with pale crumpled flesh on.
His once straw thick hair was now white, damp and sickly. He was withering away before all their eyes and Mrs. Blake kept up in her sewing quarters crying day and night with grief.
Solomon cussed when he was told to drink some tonic.
“I hate that damn stuff!” he fussed and glared at the deeply purple liquid with disdain.
“It’s for your respiratory system Mr. Blake,” the doctor said calmly.
Solomon sucked in a shagged breath. Mucus was clogged in his throat.
“Hot tea’ll clear that,” he protested.
“Not this time sir,” the doctor stated as nicely as possibly.
“Gin then,” Solomon risked.
The doctor shook his head slowly. His specks fit like tiny hour glasses on his chubby face and drooping cheeks. He had the rosy complexion of a bleached strawberry and the physique of an obese squirrel.
Solomon thought his features deplorable, but he had learned the doctor was compassionate and knowledgeable.
With a relenting frown Solomon took the tonic with a shaky hand and drew the tube to his lips.
He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard and quick.
He gagged as his taste buds revolted at the bitter liquid.
He handed the empty tube to the doctor and stuck his tongue out in disgust.
He flicked his fingers beckoning and John put a piece of chocolate in his hand.
Solomon quickly popped the hard-sweet candy in his mouth and slurred it around in delight.
“Ahhh,” he sighed, “a piece of heaven after hell.”
The doctor chortled, slightly amused before he stood, “I’ll be back to see you shortly Mr. Blake. Please kindly remember all of my instructions.”
Solomon nodded.
With humor and an arched eyebrow, the doctor ordered, “and don’t give your son or nephew any trouble when it comes to taking your medicine.”
Solomon grunted in response and folded his arms before looking away.
The doctor shook his head and put a hand on John’s shoulder before guiding him where Silas was standing.
John’s hazel eyes were still shimmering, but this time with slight hope his father might recover.
The doctor saw it and hated that he would disappoint him.
“He livened up there for a moment,” John said and played at the fabric in his pockets nervously.
Silas backed against the wall and envied a piece of chocolate. Maybe something sweet would distract him from his anxiousness?
The doctor dipped his chin before holding his head up again, “I’m very sorry John, but I don’t think there’s much more I can do for your old man besides ease his pain with the tonic until…he passes.”
John studied the doctor’s blue eyes and read a finality the doctor dared not speak.
I suspect your father will pass soon.
A small gasp escaped John’s lips and his heart pounded in his chest like thunder.
He felt winded for a moment and managed to calm himself quickly for appearances sake.
“Thank you for your help doctor.”
They nodded at each other before the doctor and Silas left the room.
John stood in the corner motionless for a few minutes until the sound of heavy snoring caught his ears.
He turned and saw his father covered in blankets like a shroud. His bed was like a tombstone and the way his wrinkled hands lay atop each other reminded John of a corpse.
A sick feeling leapt inside his stomach and John hesitantly made his way to his father’s bedside.
His eyes fell upon the pale form of his dad. His feet seemed frozen in place as if he could not move.
He had stood in that exact same spot, staring, brooding off and on for months.
~For more information on Stephen’s ministry, click here.