Pinnacle of Faith

By Leverda Watkins

Life was so good with a wonderful, loving and well known husband. The pain of losing him was intolerable but there was little time to feel it. Left alone with four children all under the age of 9, Leverda Watkins had to figure out how she was going to do this. How was she going to raise four children on her own? Three of the four had chronic asthma and her oldest daughter was diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder that required numerous operations. With a lot of faith, a good sense of humor and the help of good friends and family, Leverda overcomes each trial one by one, one day at a time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 24, 2010
• ISBN: 9781469118444

Book preview

Pinnacle Of Faith

Leverda Watkins

Copyright © 2010 by Leverda Watkins.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2009904892

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4415-3909-0

ISBN:   Softcover   978-1-4415-3908-3

ISBN:   Ebook   978-1-4691-1844-4

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.

Leverda Watkins

c/o Abby Watkins Lewis

3482 Golden Orchard Drive

Mississauga, Ontario

L4Y 3H6

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

57606

One day at a time is all I’m asking of you.

Just give me the strength to do all the things You’d have me do.

Yesterday’s gone, and tomorrow may never be mine.

So for my sake, help me to take one day at a time.

—Christy Lane, One Day at a Time

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 1

No matter what, I made a promise to myself that I would get through the day without a lot of uncontrollable outbursts. I did not want to lose it. I wanted to be strong for my small children. Yet, there I stood, staring down at that gigantic, brown, glazed box resting over a deep, depressing hole in the ground, waiting to forever enfold my husband, the father of my four children, the man I had been happily married to for the past ten years.

I tried to separate my thoughts from the box because it meant that our lives were never going to be the same again. Yet, he was lying there and it was hard to make sense of it all. It didn’t seem right. I felt as if I were standing in the middle of a sea of faces, all shapes, sizes and colours, drawn and strained. Grief was so heavy on my chest that my heart was racing and my head was ready to explode.

I hated being there! I hated bringing our three small children to their father’s burial! I hated having to leave our seven-year-old daughter, Julie miles and miles away at Shriners Hospital in Montreal. She was waiting for an operation the next morning and had no idea that her father was dead and being buried at that very moment. I hated myself for not cancelling the operation. I should have brought her to the funeral to say good-bye to her dad in her own way, to experience her own feelings, to know what it meant to say good bye forever. I didn’t know.

Thinking back, I am glad I insisted that he be the one to take her to the hospital that last time instead of me. I wanted the two of them to share the long ride together. It would be at least twelve hours from Windsor to Montreal, a long time to be together.

I had taken her once, and sometimes twice, a year since she was three. The time we spent together was warm and intimate. Fortunately, our other three children never resented the time we had to spend with Julie. For being so young, they were always tolerant and understanding, when it came to their sister.

Julie was full of joy and excitement throughout each of the trips, but when the train began to pull into the Montreal train station, she would suddenly become quiet and still, realizing that, yet again, she would soon be left behind. Little tears would form in her eyes, and she’d reach up with her tiny hand and wipe them away, not wanting me to see that she was crying. When we would reach the hospital and old friends would run up to greet her, the smiles would return.

I would have had her operation canceled, but her father emphatically insisted that nothing, but nothing should ever interfere with her progress. I still hated myself for not bringing her home anyway. My heart was breaking because I wouldn’t be at her bedside when she opened her eyes in the recovery room. I wanted my face to be the first face that she saw. It was out of my hands. My mind and my soul were filled to the brim. I felt like a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it together.

In retrospect, I believe Howard was aware that he wouldn’t be with us much longer. Several times, just out of nowhere, he’d say, You know, I don’t think I’m ever going to see Julie again. Almost in anger, I’d tell him that if he really felt that way, he should call the airport and take a plane to Montreal immediately, to prove himself wrong and to put his mind at ease. He would, then, simply shrug his shoulders and walk away, but I know he never lost that feeling.

That kind of talk made me very uncomfortable, because I didn’t know if he was foreshadowing his own death, or if he had a premonition that Julie wouldn’t survive her operation. I was too afraid to ask. I knew that he wasn’t comfortable enough with either idea to discuss them with me, and I didn’t think I wanted to hear the answer. I simply said that everything would be fine and let’s not worry about it.

All of these thoughts were flashing in and out of my mind as the crowd slowly began to swell, drawing in closer and closer around me, heads lowered and faces tight. I wanted to shout out loud, Howard, you can’t do this to me, Julie needs you! We all need you! What am I supposed to say to her? How am I going to tell her about all this? What if something goes wrong tomorrow, who will be there for her, for me?

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by our four-year-old son, David, crying out, Ouch Mommy! You’re hurting my hand! He pulled his small hand out of mine. I hadn’t realized I was squeezing it so hard. Our youngest child, Abby, then twenty months old, looked up at me, wondering why I was hurting her brother’s hand. Sorry David, I was about to say when he interrupted again, saying, Mommy, are they going to put my Daddy in that great big hole?

God has taken Daddy to a very happy place. God has taken Daddy home to live with Him, I answered. I told him that we would talk more about it at home but I knew this didn’t make him feel any better. In the eyes of a four year-old boy, a deep hole in the ground couldn’t have seemed like a better place to be going. He looked up at the sky, raised his little fist and said, God, I hate you! I’m going to get you for taking my Daddy away from us. This was all too heavy for him to comprehend, too heavy for me.

I began to think about something Howard had said jokingly so many times before in the company of our friends. With a faint smile on my lips I thought, Well, Howard, as far back as I can remember, every time we were in the company of a group of your police buddies and their wives, your big joke was, Listen guys, when I die, don’t let my wife have my body cremated. She’ll just take my ashes home, put them on the mantle and use me for face powder, trying to look good for some guy on a date. You said that you wouldn’t mind it, if I were going to church with some guy, but not on a date. You were worried that he might end up rubbing his cheek against my cheek, and spread your ashes all over his face, and you’d never be able to rest in peace.

Well, I thought, You’re being buried. I hope you’re satisfied. You can rest in peace. I looked around and surveyed the location that the coffin would be lowered. I carried on my conversation with Howard in my head. I hope you like this spot. Remember you picked it out yourself, a long time ago. You stood right here under this little tree and said, This is the very spot I want to be buried. Right here in the shade of this little tree."

I glanced around at the crowd as the Minister began to make his closing remarks. Two Mounted Policemen were standing straight and tall, wearing their striking red tunics. There were a lot of police officers in uniform and many others in regular clothes. There were officers from our police department and more from various other departments in Ontario. I looked at them, along with the many attending relatives and friends. Howard, look at all of these people. It’s really wonderful. They are here to say farewell to you. I only wish that you could see this for yourself.

Taking a rose from the bouquet that lay across the casket, I quietly said my farewell and also one for Julie. I told him that the time we had spent together had been short, sometimes difficult, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, and that I would always miss him. I smiled again, remembering his teasing words to his friends, "Hey you guys, when I’m laying there dead in my little brown box, keep an eye on my wife. After she puts me into the ground, she’ll be looking around the cemetery for some good-looking guy to drive her home.

Well! I thought, You can see for yourself, I’m not looking around for any guy to take me home. I will always love you, so you can rest in peace. You never really knew how very handsome you were, or did you?

Chapter 2

June l951, several kilometers east of Windsor, Ontario, in the small town of Puce, Ontario, at the Puce Baptist Church, I was, once again, joyfully greeting old friends and new friends. It was the church’s Homecoming Celebration, one of many. Each year, on the fifth Sunday in July, church members, former church members, relatives, friends, neighbours, strangers, and probably those who just happen to be driving on Puce Road, arrived at this tiny spot on the map.

It was a homecoming because this church marked and represented a large part of African Canadian heritage. Escaped slaves risked their lives to find freedom in Canada. Puce, Chatham, Windsor and the surrounding areas were home to many escaped slaves. Churches formed the center of many of these communities, and Puce Baptist church, was one of them. Spirit-filled sermons, friendships, courtships, and family gatherings was the heritage that homecoming was all about. People from everywhere came together to revisit; to meet, to greet and to seek. If you had been there before, you were certain to return. The homecomings at Puce Baptist Church, seemed to be a little piece of heaven on earth, and everyone wanted to share in it. If God wasn’t there, he certainly sent some of his best representatives. That Sunday afternoon was one of the many visits for yours truly.

As I drove east on Highway No. 2, nearing Puce Road, my heart began to beat just a little faster, increasing with the pressure of my foot on the gas pedal. Finally the sign appeared saying PUCE ROAD. I made the right turn and just a little farther down was the church. I turned left into the parking area, a large space beside the church that was covered with soft green grass. I was lucky to find a nearby place among what seemed to be hundreds of cars on both sides and at the rear of the church where additional parking was available. I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror and decided that I looked about as beautiful as I could. I admit, I was there to worship and to reconnect with friends but one never knew whom one could meet in God’s house.

I stepped out of the car, flashed a quick glance to see who was looking, and joined the crowd of friends and strangers, all greeting each other. After a few minutes, there were only friends, as no one remained a stranger for very long. The next several minutes would be ‘seek and search’, a time when I (and most of the other guys and gals of courting age) casually strolled around the grounds until the worship services began. If I hadn’t spotted a handsome possibility by then, I’d probably find my way into the sanctuary and hopefully find a good seat. The older crowd would already be seated, occupying almost every seat from the front to the back of the church. By that time, the whole sanctuary would be filled, but there always seemed to be extra chairs somewhere to be placed in the very back or along one of the aisles for latecomers.

Sitting at the rear of the church had its advantages. The young people preferred the very back. A lot of innocent courting went on before and, sometimes, during the service. It was discrete and unnoticed most of the time. However, it was never surprising to hear the Minister very loudly calling out the name of some young man, telling him to sit up straight and pay more attention to the service, and less attention to the girls. This established a special kind of rapport between the preacher and the young people, not to mention how excited and giggly the young ladies would become.

On this special occasion there would be a guest preacher and a guest choir. Homecoming brought out the very best that could be engaged, sometimes coming from as far away as Toronto, Detroit, Cleveland or even Chicago. It was a special privilege to be asked to participate on this occasion. Everyone knew that they were in for a religious treat. The preaching, praying and singing would be remembered and talked about for years to come.

The preacher usually spoke louder, longer and with greater determination and articulation than anyone had witnessed for a very long time. Sometimes, if he were a really great singer, he might begin his sermon with his own special solo, singing with the soulful sounds that the popular stage singers could only wish for. His solo would be followed by a personal testimony, which would move the crowd to tears. Then he’d begin an uplifting and rousing sermon. If that wasn’t enough, the visiting choir, would sing a number of songs that could be heard as far away as Highway Number 2, at least a kilometer away. The crowd might become so involved that everyone would begin clapping their hands and singing along in their heavenly voices. The crowd of young people, milling around outside, were not left out. They were able to enjoy the services through the loudspeakers attached to the outside rear of the church. Everyone in the neighbourhood would enjoy the service, including the neighbours, who purposely sat quietly on their country porches, taking advantage of the inspirational songs and speeches.

There was a huge dining hall attached to the rear of the church, completely filled with tables, perfectly set, and fit for company. White linen tablecloths covered the rows and rows of long tables with water goblets, plates, cups and saucers, and silverware all sparkling in the reflection of the bright ceiling lights. In the rear of the dining hall, there was a huge kitchen humming with excitement that would make Grandma envious. The volunteer cooks were in charge of the meal. Some were old, some were young. They worked like a well-oiled machine, putting the finishing touches on the home cooked meal, organizing the desserts and tending to the punch, coffee and tea.

The smell of the food cooking, and the aroma of the desserts displayed on the shelves, made the wait to eat, unbearable. As the sermon was coming to a close, the fragrance from the dining room would waft its way through the congregation. If you were a young child, those final moments of the sermon could seem like hours because the prayers went on and on and on and may break into a familiar song of which everyone knew the words. After the service, people would slowly, and some quickly, make their way to the dining room. The aroma of the coffee brewing on a table in the corner would bring tears to my eyes. I could already taste it while waiting in somber anticipation for the preacher to finish grace. The grace was often a mini sermon in itself. The day wasn’t complete if dear Aunt Stella Butler wasn’t there. She was from one of the oldest families in the area. Her kindness and generosity was equaled only to her wonderful cooking. I frequently referred to her as my aunt, my friend, my mom and my mentor. She lived to be a hundred and two. Most of those years were spent helping others.

As the services hadn’t started, I continued to scout the whole place, inside and out. The people were still coming. I was still strolling. I was still meeting and greeting as my eyes scanned the crowd for that handsome, young man who hadn’t been caught yet. Today might be my special day. I struck up a conversation with my old friend, Irvin Walls. He was one of the many children of Frank and Olive Walls, known to all as Uncle Frank and Aunt Olive. We chatted back and forth, constantly shaking hands and saying hello to everyone who passed. My gaze was splitting the crowd, keeping an eye on the tall, good-looking guy, who was constantly staring back in my direction. I was told by Irvin, upon request, that his name was Howard Watkins, the Windsor cop. Oh yes, I’ve heard a lot about him. I thought to myself, He’s still single! We had just missed meeting by minutes, at several different places, a number of times.

My interest peaked, as he began to stroll in our direction. Of course, I pretended that I wasn’t looking at him or the least bit interested in doing so. I acted as though I hadn’t even noticed him, as I continued to chat with Irvin. He walked right up, looked at me smiling, and said, Irvin, I don’t believe that I’ve met this young lady. Will you please introduce us?

Irvin, as with most of the people who knew this cop, never missed an opportunity to tease him. Later I discovered that he deserved every bit of it. In a rather loud, angry type of voice, Irvin said, No, I won’t introduce you. She’s been coming to these Homecoming celebrations for I don’t know how long. You should have already met her by now! Sorry.

Howard turned to me, reached for my hand and said, I’m Howard Homer Watkins, who are you? I smiled and said, I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you. We haven’t been properly introduced, and I don’t talk to strangers. With that I turned and strolled over to another friend and started a conversation, watching from the corner of one eye.

He followed me, from person to person, begging each one to introduce us. Having realized the joke, they all refused. Finally Irvin’s mother, Aunt Olive, also, the mother of, Earl Walls, a former heavyweight boxing champion of Canada, came over and in her very special, second-to-none greeting, put her arms around me and said, How are you, Leverda? She was like a relative because my late brother, Renard was married to her niece, Dorothy at that time.

Howard ran up and said, Aunt Olive! Will you please, please introduce me to this young lady? He told her that he had been trying to get someone to introduce us all day, but no one would. Aunt Olive said that she would introduce me, but it was going to cost him five hundred dollars, if we were ever married, and if we had children, Howard would have to pay her one hundred dollars for each child. She also couldn’t miss the chance to tease him. He agreed, and we were introduced. She said, Howard, meet Leverda.

Howard took my hand, bowed very low from the waist and said, How do you do, Ma’am. Will you marry me?

I replied, I’m just fine, but I will have to know you a lot better, and a lot longer before I consider marrying you. The answer is no, and anyway, I’d never marry a man unless he gave me a very large diamond engagement ring to brag about to the girls in my office. I smiled and strolled away, still watching over my shoulder. At the end of the evening, he went home with my telephone number. After all, we had met at church, at Homecoming no less, so he had to be a nice guy. My mother didn’t raise any fools. I knew what I was doing. She would be most happy because, at twenty-four and counting, there might still be hope for her only, aging daughter who wasn’t even seriously dating at the time.

The whole week went by with not even one telephone call. Instead of going out nights, I just sat home and stared the phone down to a mere shadow of itself. Finally, Saturday came, and the long awaited sound was heard. It was indeed the man, Howard. All was right with the world again. For a week, there was a call each evening, which at first, lasted several minutes. As the week progressed, the length of the calls increased, lasting much too long for long distance calls. We didn’t live very far apart, but I, in Detroit, and he in Windsor, talking from half an hour to almost an hour each night, was proving to be rather costly for him.

The following Saturday, he asked me out on our first date. Howard and many other Windsor policemen, had been invited to an evening barbecue at the cottage of Sergeant Dan’s, on the lake. The excitement was so much that I thought, surely I’d burst before the big day, the day when that huge handsome man would be standing at my front door.

On the day, I was dressed and ready at least an hour and a half before Howard’s scheduled arrival. I sat with both legs curled up on the antique sofa in front of our large picture window. My chin, pressed against my tired forearm resting across the back of the sofa, gave me full view of both directions of the street. I could see all cars coming toward the house. I was sure that every vehicle in the city had driven by, but no pink and cream l956 Meteor with a silver streak running down each side, bearing Canadian license plates. Suddenly, I spotted his car nearing the house. I jumped up from the old sofa and I glided to the front door. I could feel my mother’s eyes piercing my back. I knew she was spying on me, a straight shot from the back bedroom door. One knock and the door flew open. Had I tried, I’m sure that I could have counted most of his beautiful white teeth when he said, Hi! The same could have been said about me as I spoke and invited him in.

Julia Child taught great cooking, but Howard could have taught the social graces for dating. He greeted my parents as no other could. They were hooked for life. One would have thought my mother was going out on the date instead of me. I offered him a quick seat and guided my parents into the kitchen and told them to have a little snack. I then rushed back into the living room and said, I’m ready. Let’s go.

I knew that we would be driving somewhere in the country, several miles from Windsor. We’d be spending, I imagined, a delightful evening with a lot of policemen and their wives or girlfriends at the great backyard barbecue. I would be meeting many of his friends for the first time and, needless to say, I was totally nervous at the thought of having to face all of those strangers, not to mention Howard’s policeman friends. The closest that I came to facing a policeman, one of those people who carried real guns, was in Detroit’s downtown headquarters trying to talk my way out of a ticket. It hadn’t worked.

There was a lot of small talk and a great deal of laughter as we drove down a very dark country highway. On the back seat was a wrapped package. Howard explained that the package contained two expensive, beautiful steaks. Each guy had to supply the steaks for himself and his guest. He would also have the responsibility of grilling those precious pieces of meat. We finally reached the party. Guests were seated inside the house, and some were sitting and standing outside around the hot fire, ready and waiting for the great chefs.

I was introduced to everyone and discovered the people to be friendly and receptive. Some of the men seemed to become a little restrained when I was sitting in their midst, and even some of the big burly cops cautioned the other men about using off colour language in my presence. Howard and I were both surprised. I smiled, not knowing how to respond. Their language wasn’t bad, but it was very kind of them to think of me. We joined the group around the fire, watching the men grill the steaks to absolute perfection.

Then, it was Howard’s turn to grill our steaks. He seemed just a little excited as the ten or twelve men and women sat around, watching his every move and engaging in small talk, joking and teasing. Suddenly, Howard dropped our steaks in the sand. He actually dropped our steaks in the sand! With all the joking and ribbing that was going on, I knew he’d never be allowed to forget that mishap as he sheepishly picked up our steaks, rinsed them off, and placed them back on the fire. What a thing to happen on a first date, but I didn’t mind at all. He apologized, and we ate what could be salvaged of the steaks, including just a tiny bit of sand.

As the evening wore on I became a good listener, overhearing through casual conversation, that each of the policemen had been forewarned that all the men had to go swimming in the lake that night. They were told to bring swimming trunks. Most of them did indeed have swimming gear, but not every single one. Howard Homer Watkins did not have swim trunks and was one of the few men who didn’t swim terribly well. The men, who brought their trunks, marched inside and came out ready to jump into the lake. The biggest of them shouted, Any man not changed into his trunks in fifteen minutes will be thrown into the lake, clothes and all. At this my eyes grew large.

Suddenly the crowd moved back against the building. The strongest guys were actually wrestling down anyone not wearing swimming trunks and throwing them, clothes and all, into the lake. Some of the fellows rushed into the cabin and came out wearing makeshift swimming gear. It was hilarious what some of these men looked like and what some of them were wearing. Howard had nothing, so needless to say, three or four of the guys wrestled him and the other ‘un-trunked’ men down to the water and in they went.

I was scared and wanted to scream when they threw my date into the lake, until he stood up in the two or three feet of water and strolled out grinning and fishing into his pockets for his wet belongings. He pulled out his wallet, took off his watch and handed them to me. I gladly accepted. I was relieved that the water was so shallow. It was surprising that he got wet all over. There was no danger whatsoever but there stood at least four soaking, sopping wet men, laughing, looking down at their dripping bodies, clothes, shoes and all. The party soon ended and I rode back to Detroit sitting beside a sopping wet date with water gushing out of those size fourteen shoes. It was a night to remember. I had a wonderful time. Cinderella had met her prince at last.

The following week, the convention for the Police Association of Ontario was held in Windsor. Howard was a member of the Windsor executive board, and was required to attend all meetings and activities. He invited me to join him. I was thrilled to be his date. I felt as though my fairy godmother had waved her magic wand and granted my wish. The dress shops in downtown Detroit separated me from my wages and some of my savings that week. As a result, I must say that when we attended the different activities, I was dressed to the nines and glued to his arm. It was such a thrill to walk into places I had never been before with that huge, handsome man. Beyond just being well known, I got the feeling that Howard was also well loved and respected. He was constantly introducing me to this person and that person. Everyone approached him as though they were greeting a long lost friend. We spent a wonderful three evenings of fun together during the Ontario Police Association Convention.

After a couple of weeks, our friendship had advanced to not one, but two telephone calls each day. One at my desk in the Engineering Coordinating and Services Department at the Detroit Edison Company in