What God Can Do: How Faith Changes Lives for the Better - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Deborah Mathis, author of Yet a Stranger: Why Black Americans Still Don't Feel at Home, is an accomplished journalist, writer, and researcher. A regular commentator on America's Black Forum, she has also appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show, Good Morning America, and Frontline. She lives in Ocoee, Florida, and Washington, D.C.

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Chapter 1: Standing on the Promises

Normally, in the middle of a summer day, all the action would be on the sidewalk, where the neighborhood children gathered for hopscotch or jump rope or hanging around swapping bits of gossip about childhood crushes or feuds or So-and-so's run-in with his grandmother's switch right there in the middle of the grocery store for all the world to see. The street per se was usually quiet and empty; most of the traffic flow was confined to residents' comings and goings in the long or chunky sedans they kept in driveways, carports, and garages that hugged their houses. So, of course we noticed the row of cars parked along the curb in front of our house. Only visitors parked on the street.

"Looks like ya'll have company," the lady said as she slowed the heavy, rumbling sedan to a stop.

"Yes ma'am," I answered, nudging my little sister who was beginning to doze off under the summer heat. We grabbed our little Vacation Bible School workbooks and bid our carpool driver adieu.

Curious looks passed between Sandra and me as we scanned the strange line of cars. Only one was familiar: the shiny brown Lincoln that belonged to our favorite grown-up in the whole wide world -- our mother's first cousin, our lively, beloved Janet. We could never get enough of Janet, a first-grade teacher with a transparent love and an honest-to-goodness respect for children. Although we lived in the same city, we didn't see her as often as we should have or wanted to, but when we did, she always left the impression that she could never tire of us, not even if our frisky little selves showed up on her doorstep every day.

The truth was, however, that Janet usually only came to our house on special occasions, like when some out-of-town guests were staying with us. About the only other time she came was when something was wrong.

My sister and I flew up the twenty-one steps that scaled the long, green terrace leading to our front lawn. Rounding the house, we raced through the back door, past the den and the kitchen, slowing only as we approached the living room with its muffled, grown-up voices emanating from behind closed doors.

Easing into the room, I found my mother seated on the sofa, a handkerchief pressed to her cheek. The loving and lovable Janet sat next to her with one arm draped around her shoulders.

Mr. Fowler, the principal at Rightsell Elementary School where Mama taught first grade, was sitting in the stuffed swivel chair nearby, pipe clenched in his teeth, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed.

Two strangers stood near the piano -- very strange strangers, I thought. One was a woman in a nun's habit, the other, a man in a long white doctor's coat. The nun looked sweetly sorrowful with her hands clasped below her waist. The man in the doctor's coat looked perturbed. He rubbed his brow so hard I thought he was going to pull the skin off.

My nine-year-old brain burned with worry and confusion. Then dread. Somehow I knew the scene had something to do with my father, who had been in the hospital for three days for something called "elective surgery" -- an operation he chose to have, not one he needed. At least that's what we had been told.

A doctor? A nun? Mama crying? Janet consoling? Mr. Fowler not his usual outgoing, smiling self? We had been assured that Daddy's operation was no big deal, that he would be fine and home soon. But what I saw that day said otherwise.

I tiptoed into the room and gingerly took a seat next to my mother. My eyes drifted from her to Janet to Mr. Fowler. Nothing.

"M-m-mama?" I stammered, my heart racing. "What's wrong?"

Mama lifted her sweet face, dabbing at the tears.

"Hi, baby," she said tenderly. "You doing okay?" Her pretty brown eyes swam in tears and her voice was weak.

"Mama, what's wrong?" I repeated, almost breathlessly. Beyond the door, I heard Sandra begin to cry.

"San, you can come in, sweetheart," Mama called out. "Everything's all right. Daddy's just got to be in the hospital a little longer than we thought. It's going to be all right, okay? Do you believe me?"

We nodded out of respect for our mother and to encourage her...and ourselves.

"The doctor is just explaining what's going on, but your daddy is going to be fine," Mama explained, brushing my brow and hair, then Sandra's. "Let us finish talking and I'll be in there in a minute." She smiled and hugged us both.

Sweet, sweet woman. Mama was so gentle and good, good to the bone. She practically never lost her temper or her calm. She never cussed and almost never cried. But she had a tough core. As a black woman born into the Depression-era Jim Crow South, she needed one. If ever there was a "steel magnolia," it was she.

Sandra and I retired to the den and its console TV. I turned the knob and located one of our favorite shows. Sandra dutifully plopped down and stared at the screen. Yet I knew that, like mine, Sandra's mind was on the living room and on Daddy.

After a few minutes, I slipped from my sister's side and took refuge in the bathroom, locking the door and turning on the faucet. Holding on to the basin, I lowered myself to my knees and clasped my free hand over my mouth to stifle the full-throated sobs I could no longer suppress.

God, I don't know what's wrong, but I know something is wrong with Daddy. Please, God. Please don't let him be too sick. Please don't let him die. If you have never heard me before, please hear me this time. We need Daddy. He is such a good man. Please, God. Please make everything all right.

To this day, I can recall the utter helplessness I felt in those moments in the bathroom with the water running. I was a young Christian, having been baptized only the year before, and I had only a fledgling knowledge of and faith in God. Would He really listen to a nine-year-old on her knees in the bathroom of a rambler on Twenty-first Street in Little Rock, Arkansas? Could my urgent and simple plea get through all the wails of starving children, of war-torn lands, of poor people, of presidents and prime ministers with a world to run? Was there something more profound to say? Should I have quoted Scripture in the prayer? Should I have promised something in exchange for the grace I sought?

And would God hold it against me that, at the same time I cried out to Him, a part of me was wondering if He really existed at all? Lord knows, I wanted to believe it, especially then. My mind was a scramble of thoughts. The man in the long white coat was obviously the doctor Mama talked about. Yet judging from the look on his face, the solemnity of his voice, he was at a loss of what to do. Janet was a comforter, but she couldn't heal. Mr. Fowler was a good friend to the family, but his bowed head had been a discouraging sign. And Mama, a woman of great faith and resolve, was clearly in distress. God was all I had left. Please God. Please, be there.

Sandra tapped lightly on the bathroom door. "Deb," she said sniffling. "Are you coming out?"

I don't know how long I had been frozen in those tiny quarters, but it had obviously been long enough to rouse my little sister's suspicions and worry. I shut off the water and swallowed hard to steady my voice. "I'm coming out now," I said, hoping

I sounded normal.

Sandra stood at the door with rosy cheeks propping up her wide but fearful eyes. She had news. "I think the man and the Sister are leaving now," she said. She stared at my face as if for answers. "Are you crying?" she asked.

"Naw, girl," I said. "Some of Mr. Fowler's pipe smoke got in my eyes and I had to wash it out. There's nothing to cry about. I asked God to make everything all right and He will."

Just then, Mama and Janet entered the kitchen.

"You all hungry?" Janet asked, already tinkering in the stove.

"Let's get you something to eat," Mama...