Stephanie Renee Bell Book Excerpts

Book Excerpts

“In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:16 (NIV)

Testimony and Overview I was in the fifth grade when the Lord called me to accept His Son. Before then, my family’s church was located in Ashland City so we didn’t go every Sunday. I only went to church on Easter or to attend a funeral. I remember getting dressed up in my Easter dresses every Easter Sunday and my family and I packing into our car to head out on the long drive to Ashland City. We would arrive at the service late, and there was always an Easter egg hunt at the end. I didn’t know much about God except that He was kind, loved me, and I didn’t have a problem with Him. I was always taught to do right, but I wasn’t given a detailed description of the Gospel. I remember how my mom used to read the Bible to my brother and me before we went to bed and my dad used to always tell us to pray when there was a bad storm. I may not have known that salvation was the key to eternal life, but I did know that God was a real person that I should revere and love. I would always say a memorized prayer before I went to bed, (one of those “now I lay me down to sleep” ones). That was as close as I came to God for a while.

But one day when I was about ten years old, my mom, brother and I were coming home from somewhere and mom checked the mailbox before entering our house. She found a green card on it and told my brother and me that it was an invitation to a vacation Bible school being held by our neighbors down the street. It was obviously open to all the kids on my street. At first I didn’t want to go because everyone on my street that wasn’t a parent or a grandparent was much younger than me, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with little kids during the summer. I figured that since I was a fifth grader, I was better than they were. (And I had always been the type to cherish being older than someone else (I guess that’s what happens when you’re the youngest in your family)).

But not only did I not want to go because of younger people, but also because I didn’t really even know what vacation Bible school was. Mom explained that it was a five-day long seminar on, of course, the Bible. She also told how she had gone to one herself when she was a kid, and how she made different arts and crafts there and had a good time. But still, I wasn’t looking forward to it. But whether I wanted to go or not, I went. When getting ready the first day, I was wearing the coolest—as I would put it back then—clothes that I could find just to let the little kids know who was boss. (But I had only just then started dressing more my age, and I figured that fashion was my only solace in that situation). So the first class began. When I walked into my neighbors’ yard, I saw that the teacher looked like one of those love-joy hippie-type people and wondered why my mom had done this to my brother and me. I remember her name to this day; it was “Shawna.” At the beginning of the class she asked us where our church was and our grade. I spoke very loudly when answering that question and took pride in being a fifth grader. The class continued and I noticed something strange. Shawna was speaking a lot about Jesus. Sure, I knew who He was and all; I just didn’t understand why she was talking so much about Him. That is, until we sang a song. It went, “Nothing but the blood of Jesus.” And I remember how Shawna spoke of how Jesus cleans us and makes us pure because without Him we’re not clean and pure. This puzzled me, but I continued to listen anyway. Shawna finally ended the class by saying that we should accept Jesus into our hearts for salvation. I had never heard that before, or if I had, I was too young to understand. We needed Jesus for salvation? I always thought that everyone had Him in their hearts. Shawna prayed the closing prayer and in it she said an “unbeliever’s” prayer for us to repeat in our hearts. Though my head was bowed, I didn’t pray that prayer in my heart at that moment. I don’t remember why, though.

At the end of each class, there was a time when we’d just have fun and play in my neighbors’ yard. Before we dismissed though, Shawna asked all the people who had prayed that prayer to come see her after the class. I knew that I wanted to tell her that I wanted to accept Jesus, but I was too shy and still felt rebellious and closed up to everyone else. But my brother stayed behind and talked with her, though.

I don’t remember if it was the last day of the Bible school or the day of the prayer, but while changing my clothes (strange as it sounds) after class, I prayed that prayer as best as I could remember it. It wasn’t anything fancy, and I wasn’t on my knees with my face on the floor; I just simply asked Jesus to come into my heart and to forgive me for my sins, because even I—as vain as I was—knew that I had done bad things before. And after I prayed that prayer, I didn’t feel enlightened or hear voices immediately as you’d think it would be, but just felt a feeling that I’ll never forget. It’s a feeling I can’t explain though I still feel it to this day. The best way I can put it into words, is that I felt someone’s presence, as if God were holding my hand or was closer to me than before (because I had always had a sense that someone was watching over me, protecting, and I knew it wasn’t just Mom and Dad). And since that day, I’ve never felt the need to pray that prayer again. Because I believed that that was the day Jesus got a hold on me, never to let go, because He’s changed so many things about me, even things that I didn’t want to let go of.

But in the end, I’ve always come out of the change with a smile and praise of thanksgiving, including the change He made back in my room when I prayed the prayer that changed my life. . .

When I Grow Up

Create and express

Deliver to bless

“Jack of all trades” is the name I possess

Someday I’ll get it—meantime I’m committed

Ask me if I wanna quit and I’ll tell ya’ “forget it”

It’s like Quincy Jones or Debbie Allen

Creative juices pump—accumulate by the gallon

So I gotta release, gotta learn as I go

While I’m followin’ Christ, my destiny He will show

Poetry, music, beats and dance

I write from the heart like it’s really my last chance

Don’t know the chapter, but I know it’s my story

And Jesus, the Author, I’ll give Him the glory

My 30th Birthday

(Stephanie wrote this at age 15 years)

March 4, 2005; church youth group skit

My 30th birthday . . . I-I can’t believe time passed so quickly. It’s funny how all you need is a birthday to get you to stop and think about life . . . God . . . yourself. (laugh lightly and shake head).

That reminds me of something my old youth pastor said once—during a youth group session. And Pastor had a way of making you think—he said that when you stop and be still . . . you think about yourself (shrug). And I guess that’s what I’m doing today. There’s... so much I messed up on—so many careless mistakes that if I were God I would have taken this unworthy girl out a long time ago (wry laugh). I thank God He’s (point up) in control and not me. (Shake head)

I mean, there was so much selfishness . . . (pause and think, frown). We’ve all been there before. . . but back as a teen— it was like free candy—to take at will. You’d be chillin’—havin’ a good time with your friends—you’ve got your girl on your right—the one that goes back to the sandbox—a few hypocritical believers . . . and that one guy or girl you knew God had been tellin’ you to be real with. . . share Christ with . . . (laugh). But not me, right? Psst. Too much earthy stuff at stake to be cursed and laughed at but blessed and rewarded while my Heavenly treasures stock up. God kept speaking . . . and forgiving—His voice, though muffled by my stubborn flesh, kept calling . . . That’s mercy to me . . . and it was selfish—what we didn’t see was that we had Christ in us; to offer to those who needed His saving power. But if offering the steps for eternal life meant a beating on our “reputations”—it wasn’t happening. And what made us look even worse, while showing God’s love and grace more, was that He would raise up someone else to be a witness if we wouldn’t do it. And that . . . made me mad a lot of times. I felt like God didn’t have the right to pass me by like that—like I had done too much—endured too much pain, suffering verbal beatings, tears . . . (shrug and laugh)—might as well have nailed me to a cross and. . . (abrupt stop, blink, frown) crucified me. (sigh).

I missed the fact that I was already dead—dying daily to the desires of my flesh, and that Jesus had already taken the umpteen times worse punishment—for the stupid things I would do some 1,989 years later and beyond . . . for the sin He never nor would ever commit. And somehow . . . I thought I deserved better, when I wasn’t even getting the punishment I did deserve. Nothing I went through then or now could match up to what He went through for me. And I still complain. Sometimes I wanted to get closer to my Savior . . . others I wanted nothing to do with Him. The Bible addresses God in so many ways, that we should worship Him . . . as our one and only Idol. I remember thinking about Heaven once, and just how we’ll feel about Jesus there. I realized that we’re going to want more than anything to be near Him—like starved people hungering for food. I saw that we would go crazy over Jesus like we did for our favorite artists or basketball players, aching to just breathe the air He breathes . . . and eventually I wondered what was keeping us from feeling and living like that then . . . and now.

People were like that in the Bible—on fire for God—kissing His feet and hanging onto His every Word. I guess it was because a lot of them were poor—and they didn’t have cable TV, Ciara, 50 or Usher. Jesus was that to them—and much more. But when I was a kid and now even—it’s gotten so crazy. If a human “idol” wears this outfit, does this dance, drinks this soda—everybody’s gotta do the same, or else you’re shot down by what they think about you. What we didn’t see was that peer pressure was one of Satan’s most favorite toys—weapons of mass destruction to be correct, and bodies of teens who just wanted to be loved and accepted lay in its path.

Too many times I was one of them. I thought I’d go crazy choosing between light and dark—blending in or standing out. One night I spoke with my team leader about this. I told her that I was getting tired, and she told me to remember 1Timothy 4:12: “Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith and in purity.” She stopped me here.

Over time, it made more sense. I, along with a lot of other teens, was trying to blend in with the hungry, when it was my job to give them food, or Jesus Christ’s saving power. And truthfully, if I couldn’t drop my superficial, selfish pride for one second to look Satan in the eye to say no for a change— to help a friend, most importantly to please God . . . then I had blended in . . . walking in step with a crowd who patted me on the back . . . but while my Idol, faithful friend and true admirer . . . was shedding tears of sadness. Whose feelings would you rather hurt—Satan . . . or Jesus Christ, the One with the hands that are still scarred just for you? I beg you to answer that now, not on your 30th birthday.

The Thorn of a Rose

Painted in poetry so that no one will know

Of the pain deep inside that just cannot be shown

For to know is to feel, to feel is to hurt

And no one else but the poet deserves to be dragged through this dirt

What is it like to be the thorn of a rose?

What guilt must it feel when, to friends, it is a foe?

All that it desires is to grow and to love

But its prick leaves a wound when others near for a hug

Though it means no harm, someone always pays

Thus the thorn would rather push the ones it loves away

To spare them the worrying, anxiety and tears

Because living as a burden to others is the thorn’s greatest fear

High School Graduation Speech in its entirety (starts on page 97)

----Video----

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMdBKoMnj9g

“You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; You have put off my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness…”

Psalm 30:11 (NKJV)

One

Josiah Seth Carmichael

She was always the expressive one, the girl who starred in just about every drama production imaginable. We didn’t go to the same high school; she wouldn’t recognize me. But I remembered her. It was during one of my adventures to snag a girl that I found myself sitting in the school auditorium, watching a production of West Side Story. I saw it once with my brother Jonathan when we were kids, and I knew from the start that I liked it. Minus the dancing, singing, and love story, there was action, tough guys who fought for their turf. That’s all I needed. If it was any other play than West Side Story, I probably wouldn’t have even thought about attending—cute girl or not.

So I was sitting next to Julia, my date for the night. We were hidden away in the vacant back row, and I was making sure my arm was around her shoulders at all times. I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to the play, but instead constructed a plan to get alone with her afterwards. Maybe I was too old for West Side Story, or maybe I was afraid to be interested in anything involving guys doing ballet. I zoned out for the first scenes of the play. But that quickly changed when Miranda Phillips came onto the stage. I watched her dance and sing, following her every move (although I tried not to get too caught up). She was still one of those “off-limits” girls, you know, the type that are morally grounded and serious about their future.

Miranda had always been like a chameleon, transforming into every role given her. Though I had only seen her in two shows, I knew this off the bat. I remember taking my grandmother to see Miranda in The Nutcracker Suite. When I walked with Nana Jo out of the community theater that night, all she could talk about was the “beautiful dancer” who stole the show as the Sugarplum Fairy. She wouldn’t stop asking me if she went to my school.

Perhaps it was the fact that Miranda and I once met years ago that caused me to take such notice of her. Nana Jo was always telling me the story of how, when I was a toddler, and while visiting her in North Philly, she would take my mother and me to the park. Somehow, more than twice, she would pass the same lady and child on one of the paths; the little girl, of course, being Miranda. Chuckling, Nana Jo patted my hand and turned to my mother, saying, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if those two crossed paths someday.” My mom shook her head with a sigh, replying, “Momma Jo, what did Clay and I tell you ’bout bein’ superstitious?” Raising her eyebrows and hands, Nana Jo said, “Who said anything about superstition, Evelyn? I’m talkin’ ’bout the Lord’s providence!”

Over a decade later, I’m certain Miranda wouldn’t have recognized me for all of the dance competition trophies in the world. She had much more important things on her mind.

Popular as she was on the side of the North Philly neighborhood I lived in with Nana Jo, there was much to be found out about Miranda—at least by me. All my friends and I knew was that she attended Marshall High, danced and acted, and lived a few blocks down from me in the West Oak Lane neighborhood with her parents—emphasis on parents. Miranda was fortunate to have both her mother and her father at home, and she was envied by many, including myself.

As for me, I was raised in an “okay” neighborhood in the South. While it wasn’t the best, it wasn’t the worst, either. Everyone held a special sense of community. Homemade ice cream on a neighbor’s front porch, bike riding up to the market for some Kool-Aid, and watching the older boys fix up their cars was everyday life for me in Memphis, Tennessee. I felt like my life was normal—I wasn’t ever held up on the way to school (unless you count the elementary bullies). I never had an older brother in jail, and I made decent grades. But I didn’t come close to learning about the life waiting for me outside of Memphis until the Sunday night my parents had the argument.

Mom and Dad almost never fought, but I guess that changed when the money got low. My father was an elder at our church and a physical therapist. He worked hard to help people who had strokes or injuries to be their best, giving them the confidence to live life. I remember watching him at work one day after school—the way he talked and laughed with the patients as though everything was normal for them. It made me feel proud to know that he was so appreciated. If only those days could have lasted . . .

I was ten years old when my father lost his job. My first real taste of the violence of the streets finally visited my doorstep. My dad was shot in a random drive-by shooting. Now he needed the very help he used to give on the job. He got very sick from complications due to surgery and couldn’t work anymore. My older brother and I were heartbroken to see our dad, our hero, so dependent and weak. The doctor bills piled higher and higher, and my young mother, having to take on two jobs in order to support us, soon grew weary. She was quietly carrying the burden of providing for our family by herself, and I suppose she must have eventually had enough, because she was gone the morning after a bitter argument with my dad.

My brother and I later moved in with Nana Jo (Dad’s mom) in Philadelphia, and that’s when the change in me began. Almost as though it had been waiting to surface, I saw and felt things in me that I never knew were there before. I started to not care about my future and depended only on the present. I wanted to be liked by my new “friends” in Philly, so I did everything they dared me to, tackling every risk without a second thought. I was the “country boy,” the kid from the South who would never be anything but soft. I proved them wrong every chance I got. I had to fit in; it was all I felt I had left for me.

At sixteen I was finally “the man” at my high school, just as I planned from the start. Anyone who wasn’t my friend feared me, and it felt good to know that I was important in some way. My brother, Jonathan, being four years older than me, was in college, giving me the room I wanted to express myself without the intimidation of his shadow above me. And I ran with it, forsaking my studies and responsibilities more than ever in order to gain respect and “star status.” I shoplifted a little here and there, boasted of being a bit of a “class clown,” and lied about dating tons of girls (when in reality I couldn’t have been shier around them). I tried alcohol in front of my boys once—just in case they thought I was still “soft.” Popular as I was with the guys, girls usually steered clear of me (the more academically-focused ones, at least) but I didn’t mind. If they wanted to pretend that they were too good for me, well, I didn’t care. Who needed a smart girl with morals? Not only was that lacking in “fun,” but it didn’t earn me any points with the boys.

My life is filled with stories, some good, but more are bad, though I won’t share them all here. True, they shaped me in one way or another, but I have only one particular story to tell, as it’s the one that led me to something new, something different and, as I can now admit, something beautiful. . .

Prologue

“All the ends of the earth

will remember and turn to the LORD,

and all the families of the nations

will bow down before him,

for dominion belongs to the LORD

and He rules over the nations.

All the rich of the earth will feast and worship;

all who go down to the dust will kneel before Him—

those who cannot keep themselves alive.

Posterity will serve Him;

Future generations will be told about the LORD.

They will proclaim His righteousness

to a people yet unborn—

for He has done it.”

Psalm 22:27-31

NIV

†

It was another warm, sunny day of 1851 in Birmingham, Alabama; a region well-known for its muggy, summer climate. The hospitable natives were more than accustomed to Alabama’s atmospheric conditions, and found the good points of that particular time of year in which to take pride. Vivid flowers graced the earth in full bloom, crops prospered, and the famous rolling hills of the Old South carried tall trees tinted with a rich forest green. Despite the at-times-unpleasant heat, the Southerners took advantage of summertime to hold grand parties and get-togethers in majestic mansions, where gentleman dressed in coats and tails while ladies sported fashionable hoop dresses and large, feathered hats of all sorts of colors and designs. Children would laugh and play tag outside as their fathers and mothers socialized in the shade with freshly-squeezed lemonade, and the youth would behave much as they do today—young men looking for a young lady to court, and the young ladies giddy at the thought of having their first beaux.

This particular day, a luncheon was being held at the home of the prestigious and esteemed Taylor family, where games of croquet, dancing, music and of course, extra Southern hospitality by way of cooking inhabited the list of features.

Nathaniel Taylor III happened to be the most respected man in all of Birmingham. He was rich, owning the most land of anyone in the state of Alabama, being the head of a large cotton production and manufacturing company, and possessing over one hundred slaves to work the fields, with fifty more to tend to the buildings and property. There wasn’t a man who didn’t respect Mr. Taylor, and if anyone dared not to, he would be hung no sooner than he had made up his mind.

Behind every successful man is a strong woman, and Mrs. Taylor was just that. Lucinda Preston Taylor was the only daughter of a general in the French and Indian War. Her father received a Purple Heart along with other accolades, in recognition of his many achievements, and his goal for his daughter was to marry a rich man without a drop of French blood in his body. Known for his tendency to be biased, General Preston had always harbored a hatred for the French, thus giving him more than good reason to take part in the war. His plan for his daughter succeeded when he met Nathaniel on a business trip. He knew right away that this was the man Lucinda was to marry; therefore they were wed in the late summer of 1831, with Lucinda only being sixteen at the time. Nathaniel was twenty-two, and already had his heart set on beginning a cotton corporation, seeing from the success of his two older brothers—who had already jump-started their corporations—just how much money one could make in the cotton business. With the help of his new father-in-law, his dream became a prosperous reality.

A year later, Lucinda bore a son, Nathaniel Jr., and the following year, on Christmas Day, a girl was born into the Taylor family. They named her Noëlle Joy, her name referring to Christmas carols. Three other children were born not long after Nathaniel Jr. and Noëlle, two more girls and a boy: Wilhelmina, Daniel, and Anna.

Noëlle was by far the family’s pride and joy next to Nathaniel Jr., as each family had one—whether they switched from child to child over the years or remained stuck on one.

Noëlle had every physical and personality aspect with which to attract admiration from all whose acquaintance she graced. Her flawless skin was a fair ivory just as her mother’s. She had long, silky, raven hair and a slim figure that every girl envied—her stunning blue eyes could pierce any young man’s heart. She wasn’t overly shy, but just coy enough to be charming, and was confident about everything upon which she set her heart. . .

~ Chapter I ~

†

“There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.”

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

NIV

†

1980s

Chicago, Illinois—the city with the highest crime rate in all of America. Under towering skyscrapers filled with successful businesses lie the streets, where at night gangs of abject teenagers roam about in search of a fight, drugs, sex, or money. This was the only thing they could truly hold on to and count on: their gangs. This was basically all they had, as family was a forgotten concept. You become one with the streets because you have to. You learn how to fight in order to survive. You may pick up a few friends: a few people to “assist” you through life. You may even find a substance with which to help you reach that place where the world fades away as your brain cells decrease. Most did just about anything—unthinkable things—for the sole purposes of receiving money and/or so-called “love,” and the sad part of the story is that this was life for them. This was all they knew; this was their reality.

Having just barely turned fifteen years old, Lorena Gabrielle Selenez was one of the most notorious of the female gang-bangers where she lived. She was second in command, or “vice-chief,” of Chiquitas Poderosas (“powerful girls”), a rising Latina gang found on the West Side of Chicago. Because she resided in Cabrini-Green, the nation’s most impoverished high-rise, this should come as no surprise. Lorena had dwelled in housing projects her whole life, and had lived virtually face-to-face with everything a parent shields their children from since she was born. She lived with her grandmother, as both her parents were in prison. Her mother was black, with some Caucasian in her blood, and according to her grandmother their family came from a long line of unfortunate mishaps when it came to relationships.

Lorena was given a silver locket by her mother when she turned thirteen, and two pictures to place inside of it. The pictures were said to have once belonged to an ancestor of hers, from Alabama—though Lorena never could understand their significance or which of the photographs was of her ancestor. One picture was of a woman of about thirty, or so, dressed in an elegant, 1800s style, high-collar dress. The other was of a younger woman, seemingly in her late teens and dressed similarly, though this picture didn’t look quite as old as the first—giving Lorena reason to believe that the latter was taken at a later date. The factors the two women had in common were mostly their eyes, as they both held a distant, melancholy gleam. The other similarity was a single, silver, heart-shaped locket both were wearing in the pictures. Lorena suspected it must have been the same piece of jewelry, rather than duplicates. This idea gave the story a particularly interesting twist of which any other version would be void.

As for Lorena’s father, he was a gang-banger (as was her mother) who was born in Puerto Rico and immigrated to America with his family when he was very young. The Selenez family was larger than average, with eight children, and lived in the Bronx of New York for a while, until the parents divorced and half of the children lived with their mother, who moved to Chicago.

Lorena, not surprisingly, had never met her father, but her grandmother on his side had taken care of her when her son ducked out and left Lorena’s mother to care for the child by herself. Lorena’s Hispanic grandmother took care of her until she turned seven, or so, when the woman died of a heart attack. From there, Lorena was shipped through various orphanages and oftentimes abusive foster homes. This cycle continued until her grandmother on her mother’s side moved from Alabama to Chicago. The woman made the decision upon hearing that the daughter she herself was forced to give up was in prison and had long since given birth to a child.

Lorena’s mother was young, having had her child at just fifteen, and though attaining a change of heart regarding her streetwise ways upon conceiving her, she was blackmailed by the gang she was in to remain true to her “first priority,” as they had called it. Elsa Jordan would visit from time to time when her daughter was under the care of her boyfriend’s mother, but soon enough her gang persuaded her to make an abortive move that landed her in prison for five years.

Lorena never understood her mother’s actions, that is, until she herself was forced to become the vice-chief of Chiquitas Poderosas.

Life for Lorena was a daily habitual sequence, consisting predominantly of fights, boys, money and school, respectively. Though Chiquitas Poderosas was much respected at school and on the streets, there still remained the few that thought they could challenge the growing Latina gang, and Lorena had the battle scars to prove it. She knew everything there was to know about guns, knives, and other lethal weapons— had even stabbed various people several times. She was one of the best female fighters on the streets. . .

~ Chapter I ~

But he (an expert in the law) wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

In reply, Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have’.

Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

Luke 10:29-37

NIV

†

Chicago, 1990s

“What about that one—what’s his name?"

“The one with the baseball cap? That’s Terrell Thompson—he’s usually not too much trouble. His mother gave him up when the father didn’t pay child support—the classic storyline.”

“Oh. And this one?”

“That’d be Josiah Myers—he’s not the best behaved of the bunch, and has stolen from local markets lately.”

“No, we wouldn’t want a little thief, now would we? How about this one?”

“The one sitting in the corner? That little girl was found wandering the streets barely a month ago—she hasn’t told anything about herself but her first name. . .”

“Her name is Caramelle,” the woman spoke up for her daughter when she remained coyly silent, “with a double ‘l’ and another ‘e’ on the end.”

The kind sidewalk artist smiled, sketching the name into the picture.

“That’s a beautiful name,” he commented, and Caramelle smiled shyly as she held tightly to her mother’s hand. “And here’s a beautiful painting for a beautiful girl,” he added, handing Caramelle the canvas, on which a watercolor collage of pinks, browns and maroons composed gracefully-formed flowers.

It was a peaceful afternoon at Grant Park in Chicago, where joggers whizzed by and children laughed and played on the playgrounds. The weather was perfect for enjoying the outdoors, and the setting sun shone cheerfully on the landscapes.

The woman looked expectantly at the girl.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you,” Caramelle stated quietly, and the sidewalk artist smiled.

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

“Thank you very much—how much will that be?” the woman questioned while withdrawing her wallet.

“Oh, no charge, ma’am.”

She frowned.

“Are you sure?—I have to pay you something. . .”

“No, not at all. You two have a great day.”

The woman shrugged lightly with a smile, and then led the girl off.

“Thanks—you, too. Now where do you want to go next, ’Mella?”

Caramelle skipped alongside her mother, her canvas under one arm, then looked up into her face. To her, she couldn’t see the kind eyes, or even the warm smile, but could only feel what should have been there. Instead, her mother’s face was a blank canvas on which she let her imagination paint what she must have looked like. And for Caramelle, she saw love, gentleness, and a song of peace and safety.

“I wanna go to the slide!”

“The slide?” the mother questioned. “That sounds good to me,” she stated with a smile, and the two continued down the path toward the playgrounds.

Caramelle closed her eyes, letting her surroundings envelope her. Soon enough, though, the rustling leaves, tranquil sunset, sounds of children laughing in the distance, and even the warmth of her mother’s hand slowly began to fade away.

Barely opening her eyes again, she allowed a slit of light inside and could make out a scene of tall, green tree leaves blowing softly in the wind. Delicate shadows and intricate ripples of light cast through the window, gently landing on her cheeks and nose. Blinking and closing her eyes once more, she felt a tiny teardrop on her face, and swallowed. . .

~ Chapter I ~

“Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.’ ”

John 11:25 & 26

NIV

†

South Africa, 1990s

It was cold—a restless night, as Elsa rose from bed, stepping along the cool, hardwood floor to the kitchen. Lavender moonlight showered through the paneless windows leading to the yard which overlooked a sparkling lake, and the white linen curtains flowed gently in the breeze from an open window. Shivering slightly, Elsa flipped the switch which controlled the palm-leaf fan hanging from the cathedral ceiling above—someone had left it on earlier.

None of Elsa’s dreams had been necessarily troubling, and she could barely remember most of them. All she really knew were intervals of being half conscious and deep into sleep. One dream stood out more than the others, though, and it consisted of a young woman standing in an empty hallway with a confident smile on her face, repeating the Scripture “Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him,” (James 1:12 NIV) her voice sure and steady. The words had echoed through Elsa’s thoughts since she left Lorena standing at the airport gate only a few days earlier. On the plane, at dinner with Imani after her arrival, and now in the semi-darkness—they stayed with her, drifting in and out of her ears.

“I’m in good hands.”

Lorena’s statement of reassurance lingered in Elsa’s mind as she tied her brown robe around her, moving to the cabinets for a glass.

She was so confident, so sure, Elsa thought as she began to pour herself some water from a pitcher in the ’fridge.

Then why am I so troubled?

Elsa knew that it was the boldness in Lorena’s words that caused her to fear for her daughter, because the reality of danger was inevitable. It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her courage, but rather shaken by the gravity of the situation.

Sighing heavily, Elsa rubbed her eyes as she leaned against the island. She had woken up several times, panicking and not knowing where she was—not due to a nightmare, but worrying about Lorena. With Lorena’s Scripture darting in and out of her mind, she reached for her Bible on the bedside table, quietly opening it up and turning to the Book of James. It was highlighted, for Elsa had memorized the verses years back while struggling with life in Africa. She had used the Scripture as a base for a lesson on perseverance to the girls at Lorena’s Freedom, and now since Lorena had quoted it at the airport, she was reminded of her when she read or thought about it.

As Elsa’s mind began to wander, the sound of the phone ringing jarred her thoughts. Frowning, she felt a leap in her chest. It wasn’t very often that she received a call at such a late hour.

Elsa allowed the phone to ring four times before she slowly walked toward it, unable to control the aching in her nerves. Reaching out to remove the phone from the receiver, she felt her heart pound against her chest, and prayed a quick prayer upon seeing the overseas identification on the screen. Before pressing the “talk” button, she took a deep breath. . .