My Mom and I: Dreams Producing Acts of Crazy Faith

By Vurnice Maloney

Dreams produced acts of CRAZY FAITH.

One hot day in a cotton field of Mississippi, I saw a pregnant teenager leaning on her hoe, looking up to heaven with tears running down her face. She said that she was constantly being ridiculed and rejected by both her mother and her baby's father.

Still crying, she said, "It was my first time

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Dec 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647737979

Book preview

Introduction

As I write this book and look back over my life, I can understand why my children call it Crazy Faith. As I would have dreams and God would give me the interpretation and the moves to make, many times I did not understand the moves, but I had to carefully take step-by-step. Many times I did not even know the how, but only I had to move. Those were the times I would fast and pray and just watch and wait. While waiting, I was faithfully working in the ministry with joy. I would not let the needs of the ministry take my praise. Many times in my praise-and-worship time, I would hear God speak, giving me the next step to take. I learned that from my mother. She knew what God would have her to do, so she moved in obedience, taking step-by-step. She would give her last to the poor and wait to be replenished. All the time as a family, we were never in lack. My dad would stand and support her most of the time, and when he didn’t, he would just stand and look at her, not saying a thing. And miracles would happen.

My mother introduced my husband to Jesus, and then she introduced him to me. I share my dreams with my husband and what God has told me. Many times he doesn’t understand and he, too, just stands and looks at me and says, Honey, you do what God tells you to do. And guess what? Miracles do happen. Now when our children saw some of the things Granny did that did not make sense to us yet produced miraculous blessing, they called it Crazy Faith. Now, when they see me obeying God and it does not make sense but produces miracles, they say, There Mom goes again, acting like Granny—Crazy Faith.

So from the fields of Mississippi to the state of Illinois, we brought nothing. My parents knew who Jesus was, but not as their personal Savior. But one by one we heard of Jesus and accepted Him as our Savior. We began to realize how much He loves us, and more and more we welcomed Him into our lives. We experienced a great joy. We began to live to please Him. All we knew is that we wanted others to know Him, to experience His love, and to live a life of peace. So with that came a deep love for abused and neglected children. Although we had no money, the love of God compelled us to live by faith, addressing the needs of children and even providing a home for homeless senior citizens. One strong saying of my husband: The Lord will provide. And that He has done, and He is still in the blessing business.

A Teenager’s Prayer

Some say they love me but turn and treat me so bad. I’m surrounded by those who say they are my friend, yet I feel so alone. Some say God is this, and others say He is that. But I need to know Him for myself. I try hard to fit in with the crowd and do what they do, but it’s not working. I’m getting worst. The more I try, the more I get hurt.

But now I hear the sound of the drummer calling me to come home. It’s strange, for I feel the sound of love with each beat. It is Jesus. I ask Him to be my friend.

They say in the motherland the sound of the drum means for all to come to a certain location to hear an important message. Today I hear the drummer down in my heart. It’s calling me to a central location (on my knees). On my knees I hear a very important message and know that the drummer is Jesus. He says that He loves me so much that He died for me. So I talk to the drummer and ask for forgiveness for all my sins. Oh, what a great feeling I have down on the inside. I now know I have a true friend. We talk every day, and sometimes several times a day. As I journey through life, I still make some poor decisions, and I still get hurt by others, but I just talk everything over with my true friend, Jesus. Jesus and I are real close. Oh, we talk a lot. So I have good days and some bad days, but I have peace and joy down on the inside.

One day I know I will hear the sound of the drummer with a very special beat. Then I will know He is calling me to a special place, heaven. I pray that other teens will answer the call of the drummer and ask Jesus into their heart. He accepts us as we are, and what a feeling of love and joy! Oh, you will hear the drummer; He calls each of us. I pray you will answer just as I did and ask Jesus into your heart. He will forgive your sins and be your friend forever.

My Mom and I

It has been many years now. I was born on October 8 to a wonderful young eighteen-year-old black girl named Doris Renee Brown. She was the daughter of a sharecropper named Rosie Lee Brown. She lived in the town of Ruleville, Mississippi. My dad was Harry Lee Bass. They lived in a town called Clarksdale, Mississippi. My dad’s parents owned a country store and other acres of land. My dad was being trained to be a young deacon of a Baptist church. Mom and her sister Mary Lee Brown and cousins would go to my dad’s church sometimes.

My mom was a beautiful black woman. She was mixed with Cherokee Indian. She had a beautiful, smooth chocolate complexion, with long black hair and pretty white teeth. Now, there were no toothbrushes, so people would get small twigs off a tree, pull back the bark, and begin to peel the top of it so it looked like a brush. Then they would put the twig in baking soda and begin to brush. After brushing, they would rinse their mouth with salt water. So my mom knew how to look and smell fresh. In the South, one would say she had the shape of a Coca-Cola bottle. She worked hard in the fields and made sure her hair was tied in a rag to keep the dust out. My great-grandmother would make her clothes. On Saturday, my mom would make sure her dress was washed and ironed. Now, my great-grandmother would wash the clothes in a large black pot over the fire. The soap was made out of ashes and lye, so you know they were germ-free. They had to be starched. Starch was made out of flour and water. The girls were taught how to iron. The iron was just that: it was made out of iron. The irons were heated on the old black kitchen stove. When it was heated enough, one would run and give it to Grandma. She would put her finger in her mouth and then touch the iron to make sure it was the right temperature. Now, she would say, Girl, you can’t have faces in the clothes. Wrinkles. The item you were ironing had to be smooth. The men’s pants had to have straight creases. The women took pride in how the family clothes looked. So on Saturday you were busy preparing for church. Grandma always cooked Sunday’s dinner on Saturday. When the preacher was invited over for dinner, we always had fried chicken. The minister and adults would always eat first, then the kids. We would pray that there would be chicken left.

Now, the Bass family was a proud family. There were five boys and one girl. They were hardworking people. They had land of their own. It was a small farm, but it was theirs. They had worked hard and saved their money. They had a small store with a small restaurant in it. People would come buy from them. They also owned a car and a truck. When they had finished planting their farm, they would use the truck to pick up sharecroppers and transport them from one farm to another. Sharecroppers were a little above a slave, which was no longer legal. As sharecroppers, you lived on a plantation in a house owned by the owner of the plantation. Some plantation owner were nice and treated their people good; some didn’t. So families would work for these plantation owners. You worked for your place to live and for your food. He kept a record of your expenses and the money you brought in from your crop. Some plantation owners were fair, and if you had a large family and made a good crop, you came out ahead, like the Basses, and could buy small tracts of land, like the Basses. We, the Browns, were a small family with two girls and no boys. We were hard workers and brought in a good harvest year after year. But we had a bad plantation owner. We never earned enough money to have anything at the end of the year. We either came out even or in debt, which meant we had to work for the owner of the plantation for another year. This went on and on. The Browns were poor but believed that one day things would change.

Now, let’s deal with color among the black race. Your color had a lot to do with your success in life. Let’s look at the two families, the Browns and the Basses. The Browns were definitely black: my great-grandmother, black; my grandmother, black; my grandfather, black; my mother, black; but my aunt Mary was light in color, which didn’t count. We were listed as poor blacks. Now, let us look at the Basses. The entire family was light-skinned, except my father, who was listed as the black sheep of the family. He was dark-skinned with curly black hair. Both families were highly mixed with Cherokee Indian. As stated before, the Basses were businesspeople; they stressed marrying educated light-skinned mates. So with the Basses, what has love to do with it? This ideology messed up the lives of two of their children, my aunt, who married a dark-colored man who was not respected in the family, and my dad, who later married a light-colored educated woman who brought him much sorrow. So being light in color and hard workers, this made them a member of the middle class of the South. They were also well recognized in the church with leadership roles. One of the boys (James, the eldest boy) was studying to be a minister, and my dad was being trained to be a deacon.

Now, since my dad was being trained to be a deacon, naturally, he had to sit up in the front of the church so he could clearly see everyone in church. He had a good eyeful of my mother. He really liked what he saw. My mother was black and beautiful. His brothers would tease him after church, for they saw how he looked at her. My dad began to ask for the family car so he and my mom could go for a joy ride on Saturday nights. Naturally, my grandparents approved of my mom dating a Bass. My mom would be well-dressed and looking good as my dad pulled up in the family car. They dated time and again. Their relationship became full of love and excitement. One ride led to another, and another. One night, in the beautiful moonlight, they ended up in the back seat of the car, expressing their love for each other. Then it happened—they had sex. My mother was a virgin, and wouldn’t you know it, the one and only time she had sex, she became pregnant. My dad felt guilty knowing this was a sin. He never came to visit my mother again. My uncle James told my dad my mother was carrying his child. He denied it over and over. He did not want to give up his position at the church and lose his family respect.

Well, my mom told my great-grandmother what had happened. My mother cried and cried. Finally, my great-grandmother told her daughter. My grandmother told Momma Rose, who was so angry and would fuss at my mother time and again. She told my mother she was a disgrace to the family. My dad, the deacon, did not come around anymore, and my mother never went back to church. As a matter of fact, she stopped going anywhere. In those days, a pregnant girl was really looked down on and treated harshly even by their own family. My mother cried many tears. My uncle who was studying to be a minister would come and talk to my mother, telling her he had been talking to my dad. My uncle told him how wrong he was, for he knew my mom was a virgin and he was the only one she dated. Again and again, my dad denied that he was the father. He never talked to my mother. Next thing my mom knew was that he had enlisted into the Army. My mom wrote him and told him she was pregnant and he was the father because he was the first and only man with whom she had sex. My father wrote her back, denying what he had done, because he was a young deacon in the church and he would no longer be in that position if the church found out. My mother burned the tips of the letter and sent it back to him. After he returned from the Army, he still denied that I was his child. So two black sheep produced another black sheep, me. I was black and beautiful, with long black hair, which was a great gift to any girl, black skinned or light-skinned. But I was not good enough to be a Bass. The Browns accepted me with open arms because I was the first grandchild. I was a happy baby full of charm. I was a joy to the Browns.

Now, my uncle James Bass made sure he kept the Bass family informed about my growth and development, for I was their first grandchild as well. He would keep in touch with my mother and the entire family. As I got older, he would come and take me and my mother for a ride in his car. He was and still is a great uncle. One day, Mom and I went to visit the Bass family, although my dad wasn’t there. He was never there, and maybe he was still in the Army. One day, my mom told me something that hurt her real bad. My mom said Uncle James came and took us to the Bass restaurant/store. While we were there, Grandma Bass was there. A lady came into the store, and she was amazed at how beautiful I was. She said, Oh my, what a cute little girl! My grandmother said, Oh, that’s my cousin’s little girl. This really hurt my mother. She said it hurt her so much she never went back to visit. The feeling of rejection pierced her soul. She said she never returned to visit. She would let me visit with Uncle James, who would always take me to visit the family. Uncle James tried to tell my dad that it was wrong of him to deny what he had done, for he knew my dad was the only man in my mother’s life. My dad knew my uncle was right, but he never admitted it. My uncle would continue to come and get me to visit the family.

One day, when I was about three years old (I remember it to this day), my uncle James came and took me for a ride in the family car. We stayed a long time. My uncle tried to keep me. I can remember crying and crying for my mother. (A good example of childhood trauma.) So he took me back home. He admitted to trying to keep me. We laugh about that to this day.

Now, back to the Browns. In my mother’s family, there were my mom, Doris; her mother, Rosalie; her only sister, Mary Lee; Grandmother Gladys; and her stepfather, Lemon Brown (although there was no marriage; it was known as common law, which was a part of our culture back then). My mother was so happy she had Mr. Brown in her life. She had prayed so hard for a father. He was a good, hardworking man. Sad to say, after several years, my grandmother let him go and found someone else. She would go back and forth to Chicago, but my great-grandmother would stay in the shotgun house and wait until she came back. Later, there would be another man acting as grandfather. She was like that. I guess it was fairly common with her.

My mother and her sister would travel north to Chicago on the train with my grandmother and leave my great-grandmother to keep the house. Where she would get the money, I don’t know. Apparently, this was after harvesttime. I can remember my grandmother being a hardworking field hand. And she would speak up to the plantation owner, demanding fair wages. My grand would always take her two daughters with her when traveling to Chicago. My mother would always take me with her because, although I was walking and talking, I was still breastfed. My aunt Mary, who had no children at that time, had made up a jingle to tease my mom. She had taught it to me. It went as following: Milkman, milkman, keep those bottles quiet. Mommy, I want my ninny. People on the train would laugh, and my mom would get so embarrassed. Her sister would be tickled pink. But I guess that’s what little sisters do. Well, one day, coming back from Chicago, my mother saw a handsome young sailor. His name was Shole Lee Jordan. They talked a little and went their separate ways. On another trip, she saw him again; they began to talk again. He had just returned home from the service and found that his girlfriend had married someone else. He and my mom developed a lasting relationship, and she had a baby by him, my brother Shelly Level Jordan. Soon after his birth, they got married.

Shole Lee Jordan, although my stepdad, never introduced me as his stepdaughter. I was introduced as his eldest daughter. We had a hard but good family life. We children lived in the South with my grandmother and great-grandmother until I was about twelve years old. As mentioned earlier, we lived in Mississippi on a cotton plantation as sharecroppers. We lived in a shotgun house. A shotgun house had three rooms: There was a front room that had a bed and fireplace; that was my grandmother and grandpa’s room. Next was the bedroom. It had two regular beds and a couch, on which my brother and cousin slept. Granny, my grandmother’s mother, slept in one of the regular beds, and my sister and I slept in the other bed. Now, the mattresses were made of rough cloth with a hole in the middle. The hole was then stuffed with cotton and corn shucks. The pillows were of similar material but stuffed with cotton. In this room was an old dresser in which Granny kept goodies. Now, I would steal some gum, and it was so good. Also in the room was a potbellied stove. Oh, in the fall, we would grease sweet potatoes and put them under the hot ashes. Boy, were they good! Now, the next room was the kitchen. It had a kitchen table, an old stove that burned wood to cook on, and an icebox. Sometimes we would get block ice, but not too often. So that meant our meat was smoked in a smokehouse out back and Granny canned everything, even meat, in jars. Now, the canned foods were kept in Granny’s room so she could keep an eye on everything, especially the canned fruit.

We all had to work. My great-grandmother and my little sister, Betty, worked in the house cleaning and cooking. Now, my aunt Mary had a son named Roosevelt. He was a year younger than my brother Shelly. So there were four of us. We all were about two or three years apart. Our day started at 6:00 a.m., and it ended at 6:00 p.m. We had two breaks in the field, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Sometimes we would eat veggies that the farmers would plant with the crops. One time, we ate onions and corn bread for a snack. We had lunch from 12:00 p.m. to 1:00 p.m. Lunch was our largest meal. Afterward, we would take a nap underneath the beds, away from the flies. We did not have screen doors; as a matter of fact, we didn’t know there were screen doors until we came up north. Once we had finished our fieldwork, we would go and work on other plantation. The adults would work for $3.00 per day, and I can remember working for $1.75 per day. I was a hard worker. I can remember my grandmother arguing with the field boss, who did not want to pay me my $1.75. Well, he did, and I can remember planning on what all I would buy with my money on Saturday. That was the day the workers would go to town and buy things. I remember going into the five-and-ten-cent store, thinking everything was five or ten cents. My grandmother didn’t let me buy anything; she said my money had to help buy grocery. I was so upset, but I couldn’t dare let her know. My brother, sister, and cousin would stay home because they were too young. They would take care of the chickens and care for the garden. During the summer, my parents would come and get us for vacation. During this time, it was okay to leave the plantation because all the crops were in and harvesttime started in late September. We were gone for about a month.

School was during the spring, after the crops were in, and late fall, after the crops were harvested. We all went to a one-room schoolhouse; you had to sit in the row according to the grade you were in. I can remember being in the fourth grade, so I had to sit in the fourth row. The school went up to the eighth grade. Once you graduated from the eighth grade, you became a schoolteacher, helping the younger kids. On weekends, our school turned into the community theater. I can remember on Sunday evenings, a man in a wagon pulled by two mules would come and we all would get in and go to the school to watch cowboy movies. Oh, there was no popcorn. You only got popcorn after the harvest, and then you had to have grown you own. Ice cream was a Sunday treat. It was homemade by my great-grandmother. She would use block ice, salt, and a box of ice cream mix that came in a box that looked like a box of Jell-O. Our other treat was when the men would get together in the fall to kill hogs. My great-grandmother would not let us see the killing, but we would hear the hogs screaming as they would die from a shotgun wound to the head. I hated the sound. Later that day, we would be treated to crackling, which was the skin of the hog cooked in a big black pot of hot grease seasoned with salt. Than my great-grandmother would make crackling bread, which was bits of crackling cooked in corn bread. Now we would go to the garden and get some fresh greens, and Granny would cook them with salt pork. And we would go to an area in the field where Granny had planted sweet potatoes. We would dig up some sweet potatoes and put them in the fireplace underneath the hot ashes for about an hour. As Grandpa would say, now that’s good eatin’!

We had fun playing games, games taught by Granny, our great-grandmother. Our grandmother was called Momma Rose. Our great-grandmother was called Granny. During the day, we would play church. I loved to play church. Oh yeah, we only went to church every now and then. There was one pastor over several churches. We kids used our chicken house as the church. We would sweep it out and bring boxes or old broken chairs to sit on. The pump area where the water would flow when filling up buckets for the house—we did not have inside water—was the baptism pool. My brother was the preacher, my cousin the deacon, and my sister was the lady who would get happy and shout every time. I was the one to keep order. One day, we were playing church in the evening, when the sun was going down. As we began to sing and shout, we felt something staring. A sudden joy filled that chicken house. We got afraid and ran out of the church / chicken house. Today, I know and believe it was the presence of the Lord. I don’t remember us ever playing church again. At night, two of us would be on one side of the house, and the other two on the other side of the house. We had an old ball, and one would yell and say, Send it over! and the winner would be the one that caught the ball. It was difficult because we had only the moonlight for light.

Were we good kids—not by a long shot—but our acts of disobedience were a joke. For instance, I got caught stealing cherries off the cherry tree, which was about two miles from our house. It was on someone else’s property, and we were told not to bother the cherry. Now, the tree was on our way to the county store. I passed the tree going and was obedient; I did not bother the tree. Granny had told me she would be watching me. On the way back, I decided to trick Granny, for I knew she just couldn’t see that far. So I thought if I passed the tree and then got on my knees and crawled back to the tree and stole some cherries, I was safe. Man, those were the best cherries I had ever eaten—they were so sweet! When I got home, Granny was waiting for me. I was told to go to the tree in the backyard and get a nice-size switch. I knew I was in trouble. I also knew I had to do just what she said, a nice-size switch. She said she had seen me steal the man’s cherries. I denied it, but I got several licks for lying.

I wasn’t the only one to get in trouble. My little sister Betty, who was always with our granny, saw her dip stuff. Granny would get powder chocolate and mix it with sugar, and we would put it in our lower lip. It tasted so good. One day, my sister decided to steal some stuff and put it in her lower lip. I decided not to try it. As she swallowed the juice, she became so sick. She ran to the outhouse. We did not have indoor plumbing. Our toilet was a small shack several feet from the house. It had a door and a deep hole covered by a long board with a hole in it. You would sit over the hole and do whatever you had to do. Now, there was no toilet paper to wipe with. We had old Sears magazines, and we would tear out the sheets and use them for tissue. Now, if there were no sheets, you had to bring in tree leaves to wipe with. My sister ran to the outhouse, and I followed her. She was vomiting all the way. I felt so sorry for her. She was so sick. Granny knew what she had done. She stayed with her until she had spit everything up.

Now, my brother and my cousin were always into something. We had a lot of birds during harvesttime. They would take rocks and see who could knock the most birds off the electric lines. Yes, we had electric lines, but no indoor lights. Our light was by kerosene lamps,