Whispers of Hope

By Laura P. Jones

"Whispers of Hope" is a dramatic story of a feuding family dealing with tragedy. In the midst of the ongoing ordeal, a young boy, Elijah, tries to escape the drama but finds himself on an adventurous journey that changed the course of his life. The lessons he learned transformed him and paved his way to a life of success.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Engaging Escape Publishing
• Release date: Mar 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781733272025

Laura P. Jones

Laura is a Jamaican native living in the US. She has a Ph.D. and is a Business Professor and entrepreneur. Growing up in a Christian home, the church was her social space. She draws from her church experience to develop characters and lend meaning to her stories. Laura is married and has two sons.

Book preview

WHISPERS OF HOPE

LAURA P. JONES

Publish by Engaging Escape Publishing

Chesapeake, VA., USA

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Laura P. Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

ISBN-13: 978-1-7332720-2-5

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATION

There is never a pair more perfectly matched

than the part of you that was shared

with me

To my husband and our children,

with all my love.

Also by Laura P. Jones

EVERYTHING SHE NEEDS

CROSSROADS TO AVALON

DANCING IN THE RAIN

Emerging Truth

An anomalous moment

On our quest for truth

Leads us closer

To something-

And our roads crossed

And we passed each other

Somewhere-

But we touched each other

As we passed each other

Somehow-

And we journey on

But we’re forced to look back

And we see things differently

Sometimes-

A paradigm shift

Nothing is the same

For we’ve touched each other

As we passed each other

And our truth emerged

LPJ

CONTENTS

When the Bell Tolls

Where Do I Belong

Home Sweet Home

On My Own

Street Life

When the Walls Tumbled Down

Picking up the Pieces

No Place Like Home

New Beginnings

When the Bell Tolls

AT A TIME WHEN I WAS just beginning to learn about the plight of Marcus Garvey, I was entering into a plight of my own. Only, I didn’t know it then.

It was a hot morning in early summer. The wind was blowing the red clay up from the dry barren ground and into the sweat that was already running down my cheeks. I tried to scrape the clay away with my fingers, but my nails left rows of open welted tracks on my face. And in them, I felt the burning sting of my salty sweat as the sun pelted my delicate skin.

On any other morning, the already rising sun would have found me on the playground shooting marbles with my best friend Robbie. We would play until we heard the sound of the old school bell ringing for us to go into our classroom. I was sure Robbie was expecting me to come that morning, but I had heard the toll of another bell coming from the old Anglican Church. Since then, nothing has been the same.

I remember walking barefoot down the narrow path that morning with Aunt Marybell dragging me along behind her. It wasn’t that I was resisting her, but my aunt had long legs that simply moved more quickly than mine.

Every now and then, I pulled away from her to reach after an unsuspecting butterfly or to fan away the gnats that were longing to rest in the sweat forming on my face. But almost immediately, my aunt would pull me back toward her.

We must hurry up Elijah. Don’t you know what happened? she pulled hard and asked me- almost chastising me- as we made our way down the path.

Yes ma’am! I answered, making sure to mind my manners. I know what happened.

I could hardly breathe as I ran along with her, trying to keep up the pace while holding on to what felt like my last gasp of breath. I was not even a teenager at the time, but I wasn’t too young to know that something terrible had happened.

As we neared the foot of an old familiar hill, Aunt Marybell began to pull me with more urgency than she had the whole journey. I could hear her breathing hard, and I glanced at her to be certain she was alright.

When we came to the foot of the hill, she suddenly stopped. I stopped, awkwardly, beside her and watched as she gathered the ends of her colorful flair skirt in preparation for going up the steep hill.

Before we started, she stared intensely at me. I could feel more of the warm sweat forming on the side of my face, and I wiped it away.

Tell me boy, she said, ignoring the sweat running down her face, If you know what happened, how come no tears not coming from yo’ eyes? 

I don’t know, ma’am, I said. My aunt shook her head and turned to look at the hill in front of us. Our old wooden framed house was at the top of the hill, and a crowd had gathered in our yard.

It’s yo’ mama they come to see, Elijah, she said without looking back at me.

I looked up at the top of the hill also- trying to make sense of what I saw in the yard. The crowd of people there immediately drew my attention. The image of all those people coming together for the sake of one person stayed with me well into my adult life.

Even now, when I speak to an audience, as I often do, I look at the people who come to hear me speak and reflect on that specific moment when I first took notice of the crowd. I didn’t fully appreciate it then, but I don’t take it for granted now.

It looked like everyone from the community was in our yard; some were fanning with handkerchiefs, while others used them to wipe their eyes. I looked at my aunt in awe, but without another word, we both began to make quick strides again up the hill.

Aunt Marybell didn’t speak to anyone when we walked into the yard, and everyone moved quickly out of our way. I could feel the burden of their pity as we walked through the crowd with all eyes on us.

I looked around in hopes of finding my little brother, Daniel, and my sisters, Leah and Rachel. In the back of the crowd, I finally saw one of my uncles, Willie, holding onto Daniel’s hand. I continued to search the crowd until I saw Leah, standing next to another one of my aunts, Lena.

My sister was only five years old at the time; too young to understand how the commotion would affect her later. Aunt Lena was