Micah's Blessing

By C. Lynn Williams

There must be another way.

Pastor Micah Daniels has grown weary with his well-doing, even worse he’s losing faith in what God has for his life. The only solution Micah can see is to step down from his position as pastor of Revival Tabernacle. Maybe some time away from the parish can restore his ailing heart.

Lord, please help m

• Language: English
• Publisher: The House of Lynn
• Release date: Jun 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781470153250

Book preview

Chapter 1

What was she doing? Delilah stared through a sheen of tears at the handful of tiny white pills cradled in her palm. Was that what her life had come to? A handful of pills?

So many late nights...she could hardly keep track of the days...or the men. Each time she tried to recall their faces, their images blurred and merged. Nothing filled the emptiness gaping and gnawing at her soul. Not the men. Not the singing. I’m Not even the alcohol. What was she supposed to do about the constant nagging ache in her heart?

A sob caught in her throat. She couldn’t go on like this.

She dumped the pills onto the scarred Formica top as she sank into the padded leather chair in front of the mirrored vanity.

The sedatives were too numerous to count, but would be enough to give her the rest she craved when combined with the bottle of vodka sitting at her elbow. She unscrewed the cap and poured four fingers worth into a waiting glass.

She gulped down the clear liquid, hissing when it burned. Lowering the empty glass, she stared at her reflection, not recognizing the woman staring back. How could she when she took great pains to hide her true self? Sorrow clung to her brown eyes now bloodshot from excessive booze and crying. The skillful cosmetics she’d applied a few hours before held twin squiggles of runny mascara. Her eyelids were puffy and swollen from weeping, and her full, pouty lips drooped. What a mess.

Delilah managed a self-deprecating smile. She sang the blues for a living and here she sat in her dressing room, lower than ever, despair her constant companion. She tipped the bottle, watching the liquid run into the glass. Night after night, she sang, and the music never did any good. Night after night, she drank until a man took her home with him, and still, none of it could fill the yawning chasm within her heart.

She brought the glass to her lips. There must be another way. Twisting in her seat, she surveyed her dressing room. A rod ran the width of the wall at one end. It displayed all sorts of beautiful, sexy evening and cocktail dresses. The folding door to the deep closet stored shoes and other accessories to match the gowns. Next to the closet and beside the dressing room door squatted an overstuffed sofa. She had her own bathroom and an ancient changing screen.

It was everything she’d ever wanted, but it no longer made her happy. She returned her attention to the pills and drew one toward her with a trembling finger. She held the tablet between her thumb and forefinger, studying it. This was her last resort. She’d thought long and hard about how she would die. Her death was all planned out—down the pills, then finish her set.

When the booze and drugs took effect, she would be onstage. A bitter laughed filled the air. She could almost see the headline, Slutty Singer Drops Dead. No one would ever know why. The pill bottle would find its way into one of the trash cans in the club, and having an empty liquor bottle in her ftressing room was the norm. She would leave no note. There was no one to read it anyway. No family, at least none who would speak to her, no husband and no children. She brought her hand to her mouth.

The pill touched her bottom lip; she lifted her gaze to the mirror. Moisture drenched her cheeks. So much defeat and hopelessness in her eyes, in her heart. How could she go on? She peered at her reflection until the image blurred. Tears ran unchecked down her face to meet beneath her chin and drip onto her lap. All she had to do was pop the tablets on her tongue then swallow. There would be no more pain—but what then? An anguished sob bubbled past her lips. She didn’t want to die. She just didn’t know how to live.

Oh, God, she pleaded, if you’re real, please help me. I can’t . . . I just can’t anymore.

Heavy pounding reverberated on the dressing room door. She jumped. The pill dropped from her hand while her elbow careened into the glass, knocking it over. The alcohol dissolved the tiny pile waiting to be consumed. Dismay and an oddly strange sense of relief stole through her. She swore. Now what was she going to do?

What! She was unable to keep the annoyance from her tone.

Ten minutes! The raspy male voice belonged to her employer, Gabriel Johnson. Did you hear me, Delilah?

What? She grabbed a towel, tossed it over the soggy mess on the countertop, then combed agitated fingers through her hair, muttering to herself, yeah, yeah I heard you.

Are you okay in there?

His concern grated on her already taut nerves. She stalked to the door and jerked it open. What?

Gabriel stood on the threshold looking her up and down. You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?

She swiped at her still damp cheeks. She’d forgotten about that. The last thing she wanted was his condemnation. She received enough of that from her family. Nothing. I’ll be ready. She slammed the door, cutting off any further dialogue, twisted the lock, then closed her eyes and leaned against the wood.

Now what was she supposed to do? She didn’t have another bottle of sleeping pills. Fine. This wouldn’t be the first time she failed at something.

Plip-plip-plip. Alcohol dripped on the frayed rug beneath her vanity. With an exhale, she mopped up the remaining pills before rushing the towel to the bathroom. She shook out the cloth, ran the cotton beneath the water, then watched the pills swirl around the bowl before they slipped down the drain.

So close and yet so far. When the vanity top was clean, she recapped the Vodka and tossed the rug into the laundry bag behind the door. She still had to get ready for the next set.

Make-up repaired and costume changed, Delilah stepped into the hall. She now wore a short, vibrant blue number. The chiffon skirt whispering around her knees when she walked. Matching stilettos adorned her slim feet, allowing her pink-painted toenails a view of the world. Several silver bangles jangled on her left wrist while her right one sparkled with a lone tennis bracelet. Too bad. She smiled wryly. The outfit would’ve made a fitting death shroud. Her steps faltered when she saw Gabriel waiting by the stage door.

She didn’t want to be bothered, but his tight-lipped grimace let her know he wouldn’t be ignored. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, the material of his slacks stretching to accommodate the action.

I don’t have time for this, Gabriel, she snapped, impatience making her voice sharp and brittle.

He studied her a moment, and a frown tugged down the corners of his mouth. She didn’t like the concern coloring his eyes. They’ll wait for you. They always do. The band was warming up with some sultry number that hummed. A smattering of applause reached her ears.

She tapped her foot, waiting for him to continue. They won’t wait long.

He smiled. My nephew, he goes to the church up the street and around the corner. He removed his hand from his pocket extending a card to her. Me and the pastor go way back. Maybe you could drop in on a service.

I don’t need a card. She pivoted on her heel to leave.

He grasped her hand, pressing the card in her palm. Maybe you do. He reached past her and opened the door. Knock ‘em dead, kid!

She turned away, preparing to tuck the card down in her bosom, then paused to read the plain front. Revival Tabernacle was emblazoned in the middle of the stiff white card. The pastor’s name was obscured, but the service times were still legible. The band’s tempo changed. Stuffing the card in her bra, she hurried up the steps. She entered the stage to thunderous applause.

The energy of the crowd used to be addictive, but the clapping had long since lost its luster. She launched into her number, a moody ballad of lost love. She could relate. A corner of the business card poked her skin. Church? She’d tried everything else, might as well give church a chance.

Delilah lurched down the deserted sidewalks, past empty, dark buildings and broken dilapidated houses. She teetered toward an old brick building in the middle of the block.

The edifice dated back before the Civil War, if the cornerstone was to be believed. The structure had since been expanded to the hodge podge of architecture it was now, yet the walls housed a ministry that touched anyone who needed the contact.

Clinging to the rough corner of the building, Delilah suppressed a giggle. She should be home, not stumbling through the streets hoping someone was at the church. With a deep breath, she pushed off the wall and managed to stay upright all the way to the door. When she tugged on the handle, she was surprised the door swung open. Who came to church at three in the morning?

Cautiously, Delilah stepped into the dim vestibule. Soft singing drifted from somewhere in the building. Curious now, she followed the song to a small chapel and peered around. It appeared older than the rest of the building, with elaborate stained-glass windows, dark paneling, and scarred wooden floors badly in need of refinishing.

Hello, she called out.

Without missing a beat, a plump woman, her frame a little bent with age, stepped into the hallway. Delilah squinted at the warm smile on her wrinkled face.

Have you come for prayer? The woman offered Delilah a gnarled, pruny hand.

Delilah bit back a giggle. I don’t know. She leaned against the wall. I had to come.

Well I’m Emma Peters, one of the mothers here. If you like, we can just sit and listen to the music.

I think I can do that. She followed Emma into the chapel, astonished to find they weren’t the only ones present. Even in her diminished capacity, Delilah recognized a few people from the neighborhood, most of whom occupied the grayer side of the law.

Gratefully, she sank into a pew. Had she finally reached bottom? Well, trying to commit suicide was as low as she could go. She leaned back, drawing in a ragged breath before slowly exhaling. As she did, an odd sensation enveloped her, the turmoil in her mind settled, while the painful ache in her heart stilled. She could almost describe the sensation as peace. Sitting in a pew, listening to soft hymns, was not her idea of having a good time, but it was soothing. Being in this environment of reverence was like soaking in a hot bubble bath after a long set. It relieved her sorrow and rejuvenated the body. Being still provided a balm to her ailing soul.

She peered through the sheen of tears blurring her vision. How could sitting here remove some of the darkness shrouding her life? Things didn’t seem so bleak now. She glanced to her right. Emma sat across the way.

Delilah stood, and the buzz she staggered in subsided. I don’t understand.

Emma stood as well. You will. Why don’t you come back tomorrow? It’s Easter, and I believe you would enjoy the message from our pastor.

That was doubtful. Maybe.

The older woman touched her hand as she passed. Delilah stopped and stared into eyes that seemed to know far too much. Come, child, the service will ease your burden.

Delilah smiled, but kept moving forward. Ease her burden? She stepped outside into the drizzling rain and hurried up the street. Nothing could ease the heavy weight she carried. She paused at the corner, then turned to study the church. A big, old building rising against a drab background, and yet a light seemed to emanate from the structure, beckoning, entreating. Maybe she would drop by in the morning, see if tonight was just a fluke. After all, she was still a little tipsy. She stumbled down the sidewalk. She would come again. Just sitting in a pew couldn’t give her peace...or could it?

The next morning, a marching band drum line used her head for practice. Too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Delilah sat on the edge of her bed, cradling her pounding skull. The card Gabriel had given her was propped next to her alarm clock.

Services had already begun. If she got up and moving now, she might be able to hear the sermon. Twenty minutes later, dressed in a pale pink suit, she studied her reflection. Her eyes were a little puffy, but her make-up covered her other imperfections. Tossing her hair back, she smoothed a hand down the flared; A-line skirt brushing her knees. The white and pink jacket grazed her waist, while pastel high-heeled sandals completed the outfit.

She didn’t allow herself time to think as she drove to church. It wasn’t that long of a drive, and she arrived before any doubts could form. Slipping dark sunglasses on her face, she stepped from the car and strolled inside. Last night the sanctuary had been empty, but today it was full of people.

The main sanctuary was the new part of the building. The wall separating the lobby from the main floor sported large windows. Everyone was seated, and an older man stood at a lectern off to the right of the pulpit. She entered through the closest door just as the man sat down and the choir stood to sing.

Delilah scanned the pulpit. Empty. Where was the pastor? She glanced at the people dressed in their Easter finery. No one seemed to care who she was or why she was there. She perused the recessed lighting and acoustic ceiling. The church was like any other church she’d

been in. Growing up, attendance had been a requirement. Once her mother walked out, church became an option. But something was different with this congregation. She exhaled, listening to the music. Just like when she’d been in the building the night before, a gentle calm washed over her.

This couldn’t be happening, could it? Maybe this sense of peace was only because of the choir. They were singing Albertina Walker’s I Can Go to God in Prayer, a song Delilah vaguely remembered from her choir days. Was it really true she could go to God with anything? She shook her head. He wouldn’t want her prayer. She had nothing worthwhile to say. She glanced down at her hands, then at the pulpit, and her breath caught in her throat. Distracted by the man walking to a high-backed, wooden arm chair, her inadequacies were forgotten.

Delilah leaned forward. He couldn’t be the pastor. Pastors had potbellies and gray hair, but this man was trim, his dark hair shaved so close to the scalp his head seemed to glow. His vibrant brown eyes held kindness and compassion. This man was sexy, definitely not something a pastor should be, with a smooth, round face and a strong chin covered in a neatly trimmed goatee. A mustache hovered above his tantalizing lips curved in a half smirk.

Resisting the urge to fan herself with the program, she forced air into her starving lungs. Pastors shouldn’t make her pulse pound, and yet this man made her long for a better way.

She shook her head again, trying to remove the warm fuzzy stealing around her heart. Maybe he was a deacon. When he set down the books he’d been carrying under a muscled arm, she realized he wore a black cleric’s robe and white collar.

Not a deacon. Pastor. He was definitely the pastor.

This was the guy Gabriel knew? She’d been singing at the night club for a couple of years now. How come she’d never seen him before?

Micah Daniels gazed over the congregation. This was the largest crowd he’d seen at an

Easter Service in a few years. As he scanned the audience, he did some mental calculations. The sanctuary seated three hundred and fifty people. They were a bit below capacity. Several gaps dotted the otherwise packed house. Whatever the numbers were, he was glad to see all these folks in attendance.

As he swung his attention to the front, a woman seated in the back pew caught his eye. He didn’t find it odd she was wearing shades inside the church. More than half the people on the far row were wearing shades—something he’d come to expect as an urban pastor. His church was located in the heart of what could be termed a red light district. He knew prostitutes, junkies, and drug dealers visited. His church was one of the few that welcomed these lost souls. But this woman didn’t seem like one of those. She seemed different.

Micah studied her. Her long black hair was swept into a side ponytail. She shifted in the seat, as if she weren’t used to being in a church. If he could see her eyes, maybe he could get a better read on her. When she sat back, she slumped against the wood. He sighed. That’s what was different about her. She’d