Prodigal in the City

By Louis Jones

James Whitaker is far from being the perfect Christian. Having abandoned his faith during his teen years and spent several years in prison, he returns home to Washington, D.C., yearning only to spend time with his devout, long-suffering mother. However, his plans for a perfect homecoming are thwarted when he is attacked shortly after release, and then targeted by a distraught father bent on revenge for the disappearance of his young daughter. These events threaten not only to destroy his life, but the lives of his family, his friends, and the pastor and first lady of a D.C. mega church. Along the way he is assisted by a young social worker whose efforts to help James only exacerbate her own struggles and yearning for companionship.

Could these events have something to do with a prophecy he received as a child? Or are they the natural repercussions of a fateful decision made several years ago? In this Christian fiction novel set in the gritty urban environs of the nation's capital, drama, suspense and romance come together to create a compelling and realistic story that illustrates the unwavering faithfulness of God and the virtues of perseverance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dove Christian Publishers
• Release date: Feb 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393439219

Book preview

Other books by Louis N. Jones

Adverse Possession

The Colors will Change

Wallflowers in the Kingdom

Conquest Publishers

A division of Conquest Industries LLC

P.O. Box 611

Bladensburg, MD 20710-0611

www.conquestpublishers.com

Copyright © 2008 by Louis N. Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission of the publisher.

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. While this work occasionally uses the names of real people, agencies, events and locales, their use is intended to enhance the realism of the work and is used entirely in a fictional context. Any other resemblance to actual events, agencies, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

These Dry Bones shall live

The hand of the LORD was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the LORD, and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones,

And caused me to pass by them round about: and, behold, there were very many in the open valley; and, lo, they were very dry.

And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord GOD, thou knowest.

Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say unto them, O ye dry bones, hear the word of the LORD.

Thus saith the Lord GOD unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live:

And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring up flesh upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the LORD.

So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to his bone. And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came up upon them, and the skin covered them above: but there was no breath in them.

Then said he unto me, Prophesy unto the wind, prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord GOD; Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.

So I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army.

Then he said unto me, Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel: behold, they say, Our bones are dried, and our hope is lost: we are cut off for our parts.

Therefore prophesy and say unto them, Thus saith the Lord GOD; Behold, O my people, I will open your graves, and cause you to come up out of your graves, and bring you into the land of Israel.

And ye shall know that I am the LORD, when I have opened your graves, O my people, and brought you up out of your graves,

And shall put my spirit in you, and ye shall live, and I shall place you in your own land: then shall ye know that I the LORD have spoken it, and performed it, saith the LORD.

Ezekiel 37:1-14 (KJV)

DEDICATED

To my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, who gave me the wisdom, the words and the wherewithal to write the vision and make it plain upon tables, that he may run that readeth it.

To the two families I have been blessed to have:

To my family by blood; my sister, my brother, my aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, and especially my mother, Lillie Baker, whom I love dearly. Mom, your guidance, love and wisdom have raised me into the man I am today. I am heartened and humbled by your support and encouragement over the years.  You are the greatest mother anyone could ever have.

To my church family at Christian Conquest Fellowship in Washington, DC, you were on my mind and my heart as I wrote this. The love of Christ that is reflected in this book is but a tiny example of your love and fellowship that I have experienced over the years.  We are few, but we are blessed, and I am doubly blessed to know each one of you.

To my pastor, Bishop Dr. Paul Gaskins, and First Lady Belinda Gaskins.  Without your teachings and support, I would not have been able to write this book or even envisioned this story. Your prayers and your support have been indispensable, and I thank God for you and for the joyous privilege you have given me to be your son in the gospel.

Finally, to all the men, women and children who struggle with imperfect lives, but live them in deference to a perfect Saviour.

Prologue

For Kendall Morrison, growing up in Washington, D.C., in 1990 had its challenges.

Even at the tender age of seven, Kendall Morrison knew he was not like the other kids in his Wheatley Elementary School second-grade class. Nonetheless, before he fully understood peer pressure and what it meant, Kendall had a strong desire to conform.

A few of his classmates once came to school, talking about M.C. Hammer’s latest rap hit sung to the tune of a popular Rick James song called Super Freak. They knew the lyrics by heart, and in some cases, some of the kids would imitate M.C. Hammer’s dance moves.

However, Kendall Morrison knew nothing about that. His strict Christian parents did not allow secular music into their home. If a tune did not sound like Tramaine Hawkins or James Cleveland, his father would make sure that the music stayed on the coldest side of his front door. Of course, that never stopped Kendall’s ears from digesting every hip-hop, soul, and R&B song blared from boom boxes on his way to school.

He especially hated the holidays. While the other kids sported costumes emblazoned with images of cartoon characters, horror-movie monsters, ghosts, witches and goblins, Kendall had to wear his street clothes because his mother and father did not believe in celebrating Halloween. And during the Holy season, any thought or act of participating in Easter egg hunts or celebrating bunny rabbits was as taboo as pork rinds at a bar mitzvah. The Morrison household would aggressively, unapologetically, and unashamedly declare that the season called Easter was better spent celebrating the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus Christ. In fact, they had stopped calling it Easter Sunday many years before. Instead, they called it Resurrection Sunday.

Christmas was the only holiday where Kendall felt more conventional, for he would get as many toys under his Christmas tree as anyone in his neighborhood. That Christmas, he raced downstairs at barely six in the morning and found a blue-and-gold 16" Huffy training-wheel bicycle under the Christmas tree. He couldn’t wait to get it outside and ride it in the 45-degree chill, knowing he would be the envy of Oates Street.

Modest, well-maintained, single-family row houses lined both sides of Oates Street. Their neat front yards and various forms of Christmas décor brightened up their otherwise drab and faded facades. Kendall rushed outside, wrapped snugly in his new admiral-blue parka, and armed with his mother’s admonition: Don’t leave the block, and don’t let anyone else ride your bike. Kendall’s wiry frame barely managed to keep the bike steady as he clumped down the steps in front of his house. He hopped on the bike and rode it fiercely up and down Oates Street, hoping other kids in the block would notice him. It was nine in the morning and as quiet as a country forest, and he didn’t see any kids outside yet. Nonetheless, he was determined to get at least one wide-mouthed gape from a kid, in order to complete his Christmas satisfaction.

Against his mother’s instructions, he rode the bike to the end of the block. A street sign that had fallen off its pole denoted the corner of Oates and Lauren Street. Since the area was entirely residential, there were few cars passing by. Peering down Lauren Street, he saw some kids outside. Relying on his kid’s logic, he thought it would be no harm to ride into the 1300 block of Lauren Street. However, he knew better than to venture further into the 1200 block of Lauren Street, where all the thieving thugs held court. If he rode into that area, his bike was as good as gone.

Without a second thought, he pedaled slowly into the 1300 block of Lauren Street, hoping that his glistening new bike would draw an envious eye or two. As he had hoped, some of the kids on the block gazed at his new bike. Two eight-year-old boys leaning against a chain-link fence were especially interested. One of them, a short boy with a physique that made it obvious he had spent more time at McDonald’s than at the playground, stepped into Kendall’s path as he rode back up the sidewalk. When Kendall stopped, the kid stared covetously at the bike.

That’s a nice bike, the boy said to Kendall. You get that for Christmas?

Yeah, Kendall said proudly.

Can I ride it up to the end of the block and back? the boy said.

Kendall remembered his mother’s instruction not to let anyone else ride. No, I can’t. My mother said ‘don’t let anyone else ride.’

It’s just down the block and back, the boy insisted, spewing his next round of famous last words. I’ll bring it back.

The other boy, tall and physically imposing, quietly slipped behind Kendall and took position.

No, I can’t let nobody ride, Kendall said, putting his left foot on the pedal, preparing to ride away.

The tall boy waited for that precarious second when Kendall picked up his right foot and would be off-balance. Then, he firmly shoved Kendall just below the shoulders. The force of the push caused Kendall to cartwheel off the bike. He put out his hands to break the fall, and as he landed, he slid forward, scraping the heels of his hands on the concrete sidewalk. He ignored the pain and the bloody scrapes on his hands long enough to watch the two boys grab his bike and hoof it down the street. The tall boy hopped on the bike as he ran and was able to get both his feet on the pedals. He laughed at the success of his surprise attack. But he would make only two turns of the bike pedals before he got a surprise of his own.

The tall boy felt something push his shoulders, and he tumbled off the bike and landed with his left knee on the sidewalk, scraping a hole in his jeans. The bike rolled forward and bumped lightly against the side door of a parked car before it fell to the ground. The tall boy rolled over to see who had pushed him. The McDonald’s boy also stopped to see what had happened.

Standing at the open gate of 1316 Lauren Street was a boy who was slightly taller than the two who had stolen the bicycle. He was also wearing a new coat, but began to take it off, in case the two thieves confronted him. To his relief, neither boy was up for the challenge. And since there were no other kids outside that had seen what had happened, they didn’t need to fight to maintain their credibility on the street. The tall boy picked himself up and limped over to the McDonald’s boy. Together they walked away, periodically looking back to make sure they weren’t being followed.

They knew this boy who lived at 1316 Lauren. They had dealt with him before. They once demanded his lunch money one morning just before school. Since he was a church boy, they reasoned he would not resist them. But the boy at 1316 Lauren Street had a father who had trained him to fight and not to be intimidated. The father, Bruce Whitaker, believed in Jesus and believed in peace. But Bruce Whitaker also recognized that he, his wife, and his son lived just a block away from one of the roughest areas in town, where one could be simply walking along the street and get beat up for no reason. So Bruce Whitaker felt it was his duty as a caring father to teach his son how to defend himself and, if necessary, to defend others.

When they discovered that the boy at 1316 Lauren would not readily give up his money, they tried to pummel him, but discovered that their prey was more than able with his dukes. Instead of walking home with bullies’ pride and a few extra dollars, they scampered away with bruises on both body and ego, having been beaten cross-eyed by a church boy.

The boy at 1316 Lauren walked over to Kendall’s bike and picked it up. He held the bike until Kendall was able to make his way down the block to where his bike and his savior stood.

Thanks, man, Kendall said, holding the bike as he examined it. Unlike his hands, the bike had no scratches or scrapes.

You all right? the boy said as Kendall examined his hands.

Yeah, I’m cool, Kendall said.

You live around here?

Yeah. On Oates Street.

You want me to walk you back home? Those guys might be hangin’ around the corner waitin’ for you.

Naw, Kendall said, already embarrassed that someone else had to fight for him.

You know what? I got a bike just like yours, the boy said. Want me to go get it?

Yeah, Kendall said. Did you get it for Christmas?

Naw. For my birthday. The boy ran into his house, got the bike, and brought it out. The two bikes were virtually identical, even down to the color.

Wanna go to the playground and race? Kendall offered.

Yeah, the boy said, but I gotta ask my parents.

So do I. Why don’t you ask yours first, then I’ll ask mine?

Okay.

What’s your name?

James.

I’m Kendall. I’ll wait out here for you.

Okay. Try not to get your bike stolen again, James said, heading back into his house.

After getting permission from their parents, the two boys rode three blocks over to Trinidad Playground and played racing games with their bikes until well after 11 a.m. Their noses runny and their bodies tired, they returned to 1316 Lauren Street, where they played video games and got more acquainted with each other. They found out they both went to Wheatley Elementary School. They both liked the same TV shows such as Saved by the Bell and Spiderman: The Animated Series. They both spent most of their Sundays in worship, as both James’ and Kendall’s parents were avid churchgoers and attended the 11 a.m. service and any other service scheduled on any given Sunday.

By the time the sky darkened on Christmas Day 1990, Kendall felt that he had gotten the best Christmas gift of all: a friend whom he could relate to and identify with. He eventually started to observe and envy James’ reputation in the neighborhood. Though James was called a church boy and often considered not street enough to hang around with many of the kids in the neighborhood, nobody messed with him because they knew he could fight. One of the first things Kendall asked of their newfound friendship was for James to teach him to fight.

It was a theme that would become familiar in their friendship, with James being a role model of sorts to Kendall. It didn’t bother Kendall’s parents because they knew James was raised in a good Christian home and hoped he was being a good influence. Kendall never came home with any questionable behaviors that would indicate otherwise.

There was one incident that further heightened the Morrisons’ impression of James. The Whitakers had invited the Morrisons to attend a Thursday night revival meeting at the Whitakers’ church. It was summer 1992, and the modest Prince George’s County church was standing room only. At the meeting, after he had finished preaching, a visiting preacher called James up to the front. James was understandably nervous, having never been called to the front in church before, especially with so many people in attendance.

The preacher, still under the anointing of the Holy Spirit, spoke to the young James what he saw through the eyes of the Spirit. Young man, I hear the Lord saying to you that He is preparing your heart for the downcast. He is placing in you compassion for the criminal and concern for the oppressed. He will make you into a living testimony that will capture the hearts of many, and He is giving you a voice and an anointing that will captivate even the hardest of souls. Your road will be hard and long, but God will be preparing you for Himself, if you do not faint. God is placing on you the mantle of an evangelist. You will be a warrior in the body of Christ that will cause the enemy to shudder and falter.

James was only seven years old and never gave the prophecy much thought. But his mother, Bernice Whitaker, wrote down the prophecy and kept it in her Bible. His father also kept the words of the prophecy burnished on his heart. Even Kendall’s father Lance, an aspiring preacher, and Kendall’s mother Janet acknowledged the quiet power of the prophet’s words and knew that James was destined for great things in the Lord. Lance Morrison wrote down the prophecy and vowed never to forget it.

It was for that reason that another power—the evil, malevolent, and unseen prince of the power of the air—also made a concerted and determined effort not to forget.

Chapter ONE

Fifteen years later...

Samuel Barnes stood, staring out the window of his room in a D.C. rooming house. It was his 45th birthday, and all he could think about was her.

He barely noticed the dark and overcast August morning, the phalanx of pedestrians heading to work, the seemingly eternal clog of vehicles on the nearby freeway. During this moment, a rerun of several such past moments, his mind was overrun with images of blissful times, long since passed. The images were vivid to him, almost as if he were experiencing them and living them at that moment.

Mavis greeting him on birthday mornings, with a wide smile and breakfast in bed.

Mavis calling him during the day at work just to say I love you and perhaps to utter some sensual words that would help him through his day.

His mind focused on the day of his 37th birthday, eight years ago. It was one of the best days of his life; second only to the day that he married Mavis on a sunny April day twenty-three years ago. Mavis had greeted him after work with a big kiss and a smile. Afterwards, she had led him to the dining room, where his favorite meal of lightly seasoned prime rib, collard greens seasoned with smoked turkey, and macaroni and cheese sat on the table next to a homemade birthday cake and an unopened bottle of Pinot Grigio. She had then coyly announced that she had conveniently arranged for their kids, Erica and Michael, to spend the day and night at Samuel’s mother’s home. She would then flash a sly smile and lift her eyebrows to let Samuel know that it would be a memorable evening.

Then one year later, suddenly, she was gone. To the media, she was just another statistic, the 257th murder victim of the year in D.C.

It comforted him to remember the good times they shared together. Gracious, how he loved that woman and everything about her, especially her sweet personality and easy-going manner. She had a face that glowed with joy and promise, and a body that was just perfect. He was certain he would never find another woman like her, and to respect her memory, he never tried. He had to focus on being a single father to his son Michael, to try to assure a promising future for his boy, despite the fact that the tike missed his mom and would occasionally act out in school because of it.

As much as it comforted him to think about the good times, the thoughts also occasionally fueled his lingering anger and engaged his residual guilt. He wished he had more strongly urged her not to walk alone to the store after dark, and he wished he had not been working late that night so he could have been with her. But when his headstrong wife wanted something done, she had to do it immediately. She figured it would take just ten minutes to walk to the store; dash in and grab some bread, milk, and cereal for the kids; and then head home.

That fateful day, Mavis was on her way home, crossing the street at the corner of Oates and Lauren Streets, when someone struck her from behind with the butt of his pistol. He snatched her purse and fired two bullets in the back of her head, without a care in the world of who was looking. He retreated with her purse and a few dollars, leaving Mavis splayed dead at the intersection, her blood mixing with the spilled milk and cereal on the sidewalk.

Samuel didn’t understand why someone would shoot his wife dead just to rob her of a few dollars. He didn’t understand why the police seemed so disinterested in solving the crime and why seven years later, despite sufficient forensic evidence at the scene, the murderer has yet to be caught. All he knew was that out there was an evil, heartless man who deprived him of his heart and joy, just to get a quick high. And that man was probably still walking the streets, probably laughing about the lives he destroyed.

It was the moment that a spirit of bitterness had begun to take root in Samuel.

Samuel shook his head and turned away from the window. He glanced at his 10-year-old son, who was still sleeping in the rollaway bed on the other side of the room. His son’s cherubic face, lying on the pillow seemingly at rest, only reminded him of the next tragedy in his life.

His daughter Erica was only 17 years old when she left home to go to a party one night five years ago. She never returned. Police had yet to find any trace of her. Some D.C. detectives investigating the case bluntly told Samuel that they suspected that his daughter was dead. After all, that’s how these missing persons cases usually end up, they had said. Samuel accepted that conclusion without much difficulty. After the murder of his wife, it was easy for him to believe that he was God’s personal latrine. And Samuel knew how smart and tenacious his daughter was. If she were still alive, she would have found a way to communicate with him, to let her know where she was. No, she was dead.

And he knew exactly who had killed her.

Samuel logged on to his laptop computer and pulled up the Federal Bureau of Prisons web site he had been accessing at least once a week for the past five years. He typed in the name James Whitaker and finally found the best birthday present he could have imagined.

James Whitaker had been released from a Florida federal correctional facility to a District of Columbia halfway house. Samuel Barnes smiled for the first time that day, his moment of retribution fast approaching. He knew where James Whitaker’s mother lived—he used to live right across the street from her—and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before James was released from the halfway house and would pay a visit to his mother.

Samuel picked up the telephone in his room and dialed.

Hello? a raspy, sleepy female voice said on the other end.

Hi, Ma, Samuel said. Did I wake you?

No, no, Martha Barnes replied. I’m still in bed, but I woke up about fifteen minutes ago.

I was wondering if Michael could stay over there for a couple of days.

Why? Mrs. Barnes asked. What’s going on?

It’s my job, Ma, Samuel lied. I gotta go out of town for a couple of days.

You do landscaping for the city, Sam. What you gotta go out of town for?

Some type of training, Ma. I’ll be back in two days.

That’s fine, long as you gimme some money to help feed him. I’m on a fixed income, and that boy eats like a horse.

Can I bring him over now? Samuel asked.

When are you leaving to go out of town?

In about two hours.

Mrs. Barnes sat up in bed. You mean you are going out of town in two hours, and you’re just now asking me to watch that boy? What would you have done if I had said no?

I-I-I’d have brought him with me, Samuel said. I can do that, but he would be in the way, so I thought it would be better for you to watch him.

Sam, you knew about this trip before today. How come you didn’t ask me ‘fore today?

Samuel exhaled slowly. His mother knew when he was lying. She was sixty-five years old and still sharp as a whip. But it didn’t matter. As long as she agreed to watch Michael, everything would be under control. I didn’t want to burden you, Ma, so I tried not to ask you.

Sam, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like you lying to me. Is it some woman you’re trying to see? Is that it?

Samuel smiled. His mother had given him a better lie to rely on. Yeah, Ma. You found me out. I got this lady friend, and we want to spend some time together here.

Well, that’s all you had to say, Mrs. Barnes replied. ’Stead of lying. Ain’t nothing wrong with you keepin’ company with a lady friend. Mavis been gone for seven years now. You need to find yourself a good woman, and stop grieving over Mavis. I know you loved her, son, but it’s time to move on.

You’re right, Ma. I’m trying to do that.

Okay, then. You can bring him on over. Make sure he got his swimming things, 'cause I might let him go to the pool today.

Thanks, Ma. We’ll be right over.

No sooner had Samuel hung up the phone when Michael arose from his sleep, yawning, writhing, and stretching.

Wake up, Mike, Samuel said to him. Get dressed. I’m going to take you over to Grandma’s house.

Where you going, Dad? Michael rose from the bed, wearing only a pair of boxing shorts. He walked a few steps to a dresser.

I got a few people I need to see, Samuel answered. You’re going to be at Grandma’s house for a couple of days.

Okay.

Michael pulled out some shorts and a T-shirt from a dresser drawer. The whole arrangement was fine with him. Besides, he would rather be at Grandma’s house, with its spacious basement, modern computer, wide-screen cable TV, and recreation center across the street, than in his Dad’s tiny room, with not much more than two beds, a dresser, and a thirteen-inch TV that could pick up three channels on a good day. He loved his Dad, but staying in this room was getting old. He would be glad when his Dad got a decent job so they could afford a better place of their own.

Hot water in the shower today, Dad? Michael asked.

Yeah, son, Samuel replied. I think they got hot water today.

He watched as his son plodded into the bathroom, dragging his clothes. Samuel waited until he heard the water running in the shower, then hurried to the closet and reached into the pocket of a winter coat, pulling out a .25 caliber semi-automatic handgun with a wooden handle. Quickly popping out the six-round magazine, he put it in his left pants pocket and stuffed the gun in his right. This was his first gun, and he didn’t want to take any chances of the thing accidentally firing while it was in his pocket. He was walking to work one day and saw a guy getting pistol-whipped and robbed in broad daylight. Samuel bought the gun two days later. There once was a time where he could walk the streets of downtown D.C. and not worry about getting his head cracked open. Not anymore.

He returned to the window, looking out, noticing across the street a police officer urging some homeless man to stop begging for change and move on. That scene alone renewed his sense of outrage at what passed for justice in this city. Cops picking on homeless people, but they can’t find the men that murdered my wife and daughter. He was determined to exact his own justice. His grief over the course of seven years had taken his sense of morality and wrung it like a dishrag.

Samuel’s icy, diabolical smile demonstrated the truth of that ancient proverb: revenge is a dish best served cold.

Chapter TWO

The administrative assistant at the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority told her caller to hold and, without moving the phone from her ear, called to the plus-sized woman, with the shoulder-length braids and light-ginger skin tone, walking by.

"Enjoy your time off, Goodie."

Bernice Whitaker smiled back at the administrative assistant. I will, she said, walking out the door of the bus barn at Metro after having just completed a 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift.

A slight mist had settled on the parking lot and gave it the sheen of a freshly mopped floor. Heading to her car, she removed her shopping list from her purse and scanned  the items once again to make sure there was nothing she had forgotten to include. Ham. Check. Macaroni. Check. Velveeta. Check. Flour, sugar, eggs, sweet potatoes. Check. Satisfied that the list was complete, she stuffed it back into her purse, grabbed her car remote, and chirped the vehicle unlocked. She climbed in, started the car, and headed out of the parking lot toward the Giant grocery store.

Bernice’s coworkers at Metro dubbed her Goodie because of her staunch Christian beliefs, her spirit of giving, and her strong work ethic. Not once in ten years had she ever missed a day of driving her bus, and rarely did she take vacations. For that reason, every one of her coworkers was shocked when she asked another bus driver to cover her for two days so she could take some time off. Speculations about her impromptu vacation ran the gamut from a cancer scare to a scandalous clandestine affair with a new boyfriend. But Bernice didn’t bother to refute the gossip. She was a private person; and, frankly, her vacation and the reasons behind it were none of their business.

She started working for Metro shortly after her thirty-fifth birthday. It was a job she would like to have obtained under better circumstances. Her husband Bruce, a 20-year career employee of Metro, suffered a stroke while on the job, fell into a coma, and died twelve days later. He was only forty years old.

Bruce’s supervisor, knowing that Bernice had no income other than Bruce’s pension, hired her as his replacement. She never had a job other than a homemaker, and going to work full-time seemed a great inconvenience to her. James was fourteen years old and was very distraught over his father’s death. She needed to be available to him, to minister him through the grief of losing his father. But she also needed to bring more money into the house, and her husband’s survivor pension just wasn’t going to pay the bills.

Reluctantly, she took the job and trained to become a bus driver, which frequently required her to work odd hours and spend more time away from her son. Over the next two years, she watched as James gradually eschewed his Christian values and found an alternative fellowship among the neighborhood’s thugs and drug dealers. Bernice blamed herself, believing that her job siphoned valuable time that could have been spent with him.

Three years later, James called her from Pinellas County, Florida, and told her he had been arrested on federal charges of possession of crack cocaine. He was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment with ten years’ supervised release, sending Bernice into a guilt-ridden, depressive funk. Despite her challenges, she never missed a day of work, mostly because it became a retreat from the loneliness of her life.

Life for her had not always been so lonely. Gloria and Ronald Mitchell raised her in Georgetown, South Carolina, along with a brother who was a year older and a sister who was two years younger. The Mitchell family attended the local AME Church every Sunday, and they spent most Tuesday evenings studying the Word of God together. Bernice did not remember a time when she was not rooted and grounded in the things of the Lord. Her mom and dad prayed more than they argued, and they did everything they could to keep their children away from evil influences. Bernice and her sister had their share of boys, from both high school and church, interested in them. But as far as the Mitchells were concerned, boys—especially those who were interested in courting their daughters—were to be treated like the lepers of old.

All of that changed when Bernice turned eighteen years old. By then, her father had saved enough money working at the paper mill, and he was able to send all three of his children to college. Bernice chose to attend Howard University in Washington, D.C., mostly because her best friend from high school had chosen to go there. While at Howard, Bernice found it difficult at first to adjust to the fast-paced environment of D.C. She missed her laid-back hometown, with its beautiful plantation homes and sprawling beaches only a stone’s throw from her home.

Naturally, it was a man that helped mitigate her homesick feelings. Nationally, Howard University enjoyed a reputation of being a stellar educational institution, but to the boys who lived in the neighborhoods surrounding Howard, it was just a convenient place to check out cute girls. One Thursday evening after class, Bernice had walked to the Blimpie sandwich shop to grab a hoagie, having no clue that the sandwich shop was often the meeting place for these boys. As she walked into the restaurant, Bruce Whitaker, who was sitting at a table with a couple of his friends, turned to look at her. Normally she would glance at boys on campus and then quickly look away, but when she and Bruce met eyes, something about him caused her to lock her gaze onto him. She stared at him so long she almost knocked a chair over on her way to the ordering counter.

They went on their first date—to that same Blimpie—three days later.

Bernice felt that God had sent her a strong, handsome man  who had all of the qualities that her father had told her should be in any man she was considering dating. Bruce was gainfully employed, had his own apartment, and was not a womanizer, an alcoholic or a drug addict. Nonetheless, her father quickly disapproved of their relationship, noticing how it was distracting Bernice from her studies. Bruce’s job as a Metrobus driver required him to work night shifts, and the only time he could see Bernice was during the day when she was supposed to be in class. Bernice was more excited about her new man than she was about attending classes, and her class work quickly suffered.

She dropped out altogether in her junior year, much to the chagrin of her parents. The next year, when she announced to them that she was pregnant, they became so angry that they estranged themselves from her. They put up appearances at both Bernice and Bruce’s wedding and James’ birth, even though they silently disapproved. When they were not in public, her parents had nothing to say to her. They focused their attention on Bernice’s siblings: her sister, who had just started her freshman year at Clemson University majoring in early childhood education, and her brother, who had capitalized on his undergraduate degree in management by becoming the manager of a resort hotel near Myrtle Beach. Gloria and Ronald Mitchell could not accept that Bernice had rejected what she was taught, dropped out of school, and had a child out of wedlock. They wanted nothing to do with their daughter, who they felt was living in sin and had squandered her life away.

What goes around, comes around, Bernice thought, considering her son.

Bernice had prayed almost constantly for James during the years he was incarcerated. When she wrote him letters, she would anoint them by sprinkling a little olive oil on the paper, placing her hand on them, and praying. She anointed everything she sent him in the prison, even money. Her late husband’s car had since broken down, and she didn’t have the means to travel to Florida to visit him. Occasionally a local ministry would offer a video link to the prison, allowing her to enjoy images of her son beyond the occasional photograph he would send her. But other than that, the US Postal Service and the Verizon phone company were the only ties she had to her son.

However, those days were over. James had called her at work to tell her that he had been transferred to a SE Washington halfway house and would be able to come out to see her soon. For five years she had been waiting for this news, and she was determined not to let work keep her from her son again. Her parents may have rejected her, but Bernice was determined to always be there for her son.

She quickly dropped her scheduled shifts over the next two days and focused on preparing her son a welcome-home meal to rival Thanksgiving. James had one more day in the halfway house before he could sign out each day to look for employment and connect with community resources. She would have just enough time to shop and prepare the food in time for his visit tomorrow, then call to remind her pastor and his wife of their invitations to stop by for dinner.

She pulled