Rahab's Tears

By Tameka Price

What do you do when God forgives but the ones you love do not? Or when you're trying to escape your past to no avail? Rahab's Tears follows the journey of Angie, a single mother trying to piece her life back together after betrayal and disappointment. Tired of repeating the same cycle, Angie has finally made the choice to get her life back on track

• Language: English
• Publisher: SheGrown with Dr. Price
• Release date: May 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087962481

Book preview

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A Ratchet Hot Mess

All black or flowers, I thought to myself as I ran my fingers through the closet full of dresses. Today was my first day returning to the family church in only God knows how long, and if I’m to be honest, I’m not really feeling it this morning. I’m not feeling a church full of nosey, judgmental people- church folks as my grandmother would always call them. You know the hypocritical, self-righteous people who claim to know the Bible -although the devil does too- but will size you up the moment you walk through the doors of the church. But I needed this. I needed this moment of realization, and to be honest, I had no choice. Sadly, I would wait until somebody dies to return to the church. But I digress. As I continued rambling through my closet, there was a loud knock at the door. Is anybody going to get the door, I yelled as I waited for whoever it was to kick the door in. Black. No, flowers. Girl, just pick a damn dress so you can go, already, I murmured as I hurriedly put on my black dress and ran downstairs to open the door. Hello, I’m so sorry you’ve been waiting for someone to let you in, I said to Pastor Edwin and his wife. Pastor Edwin had been pastoring my family’s church since the seventies. He had witnessed my transition over the years- some good, some bad… mostly bad. But the great thing about Pastor Edwin was he never judged. As for his wife, now that was a different story. As she gave me a nice nasty smile, Pastor Edwin smiled and said, Oh, Angie, it’s no trouble at all. We are so sorry for your loss. How are you feeling? I smiled, not knowing whether to brush it off as if my life wasn’t falling apart or melt to the floor in discouragement. We are well, Pastor. Thank you for asking. Please, come in, was my response.

By now you must be wondering why the pastor’s wife gave me the death stare. Let’s just say my track record is not the best, so it’s going to take a while to tell this story. I’ve been branded with a scarlet letter because of the things I have done. No, I’m not proud of them, but it is the past, right? Sadly, not everyone will let you live it down. To some people, your past is a weapon to hold you hostage from trying to take hold of a better future. The nerve of some people. I have reached a point in my life where I am no longer going to allow others to use my past like a punching bag to keep them from dealing with their own pain points. After all, I had used my own punching bag to knock myself around from time to time for being so stupid and careless… that is, until the day came when I was no longer willing to be a victim of my past. And I was done being everyone else’s substitute victim too.

Moving in with my parents wasn't the ideal life I had imagined for myself, but sometimes, the vicissitudes of life cause us to acquiesce to decisions we often don’t want to make. And here I was, back in the middle of the neighborhood I grew up in. Everything still looked the same. Perhaps, the baby boomers were still around and all of their children were gone. So, what needed changing? According to them, nothing. Even my room still looked the same, smelled the same. It was like deja vu, but being there was surreal because, well, I’m grown now. I’m a grown woman with two children of my own. I should be on my own. I need to be on my own. I need to be alone- in my own lane doing my own thing. And at one point, I was. I had a two bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. With the past I had, it was probably where I deserved to be. I was an outcast. Yet, I needed to be away from society so that I could deal with my shame because my house was made of glass, and one more stone... would shatter it.

I noticed my brother, Anthony, talking to Pastor Edwin and his wife. Thank you God, I said under my breath. After that stare, who would want to stay and make conversation? I walked upstairs to the room the kids had been sharing. The one bright spot in my life was my two children, Tyrique and Unique. No, not twins, but so close in age, that they actually started school together. Tyrique was my oldest, my son, born in September, followed by my daughter Unique, born the following July. Raising teenagers as a single parent was not easy. Lord knows there were days I wanted to walk away from it all, but no matter how hard it was, they were my pride and joy? Their father was not the greatest, but that’s a conversation for another day. Slouched in the chair, Tyrique was nowhere near dressed. According to him, Unique was still in the bathroom. Well, have you at least taken a shower, I asked in disgust. Shaking his head as his face was buried deep in his cellphone, I snatched the phone out of his hands. No, mom, I have not, he retorted. Thinking to myself that two funerals in one would be a lot cheaper, I said, Let’s move, NOW! 

Ang, we’re getting ready to load up, Anthony said. Anthony was my baby brother. Actually, Anthony was my only brother. He was my mother’s favorite, and he knew it. He always had. As a little boy, Anthony was mischievous, always getting into something at school. But he wasn’t worried because he knew my mother would do whatever needed to be done to spare him from my father’s wrath. Like the time he stuck thumbtacks in his teacher’s chair. Or the time he got into a fight with his grade school nemesis. No matter what it was, my mother would march right up to the school and literally curse everybody out until Anthony was no longer in trouble. She had snatched Anthony out of so much mess that I was beginning to think he had something on her. Sad part? She would never tell my father and dared my sister and I not to either.

Anthony was often in between jobs. I mean, why work when you can live at home- rent free- and let your mother wash your drawers, right? Anthony and my father did not see eye to eye, which is sad because my father is a pretty reasonable person. But I couldn’t blame him. Anthony was in between legs just as much as he was jobs. How he only ended up with one child is beyond me. But thank God. There’s no need for more children to experience a bum for a father. I’ll be right down, I replied. As Anthony walked out the room, I asked, Hey, is Brooklyn coming? Anthony shrugged his shoulders. Well, did you at least call her to see, I continued. Anthony sighed and responded, I tried, but her mother said she didn’t think that was a good idea, so I left it at that. I knew Anthony had not pressed the issue, so I said, Here’s Tyrique’s phone. Call her. Reluctantly, he grabbed the phone. One ring. Two rings. Three. Four. Voicemail box...full. See, I told you, Anthony said. Maybe she didn’t answer because she didn’t recognize the number, so try again from your phone, I replied. With a squeamish look, he nodded and walked away. Like I said..."bum." 

As I finished getting dressed, there was a faint knock at my bedroom door. Ang, everyone’s waiting for you, Aniya said. I strapped up my last heel and said, I’m right behind you. Aniya was my younger sister, the middle child. She was as snobbish as it came. We all have at least one family member that makes us vomit in our mouths. You know that one person that grew up poor right alongside you but has suddenly distanced themselves because their social and financial status has changed. Aniya was a "suburban girl now. She graduated with an MBA from an ivy league. Her husband graduated from a prestigious law school, and they were happily married with one daughter and a poodle. Yes, chile, a damn poodle. She lived three hours away, so of course she had the perfect excuse as to why she couldn’t help care for our aging parents. Don’t worry…I’ll do it, as usual," I always thought to myself every time she made an excuse for why she couldn’t come.

Being the oldest was no fun. I was responsible for everything and everybody. It has always been this way. Even as a teenager. My father started having health problems my senior year of high school, so my mother went to work while I forewent college and stayed at home to care for him. A year later when Aniya graduated, she skipped her little happy ass right off to college and never looked back. Now, she looks down on me and whoever else will let her. My grandmother never compared me to my sister, Aniya. She was the college graduate making six figures, married, and seemingly had it all together. I was the college dropout working dead end jobs as a single mother with two kids. To the world, I was nowhere near Aniya’s level, and she made it known every chance she got. Unlike everyone else, my grandmother was never a big fan of Aniya. I think she saw right through her facade. She would always tell me that Aniya was an envious spirit that even I, as her sister, should be watchful of. Aniya- jealous of me, grandma, I asked one day. All people ever did was ridicule me and for good reasons too. Who would be jealous? What did I have? Not a damn thing. What did I have going for myself? Absolutely nothing. But my grandmother never explained why. So eventually, I stopped asking and started watching. 

My grandmother was my safe haven. She was my go to for everything. Wisdom, cooking, parenting. My grandmother was a walking whiz in my eyes. But what I loved about her most was the fact that she never judged me about anything. When my family would criticize me, she would smile and say, That’s life, baby. Sometimes, she would pull a you on you and remind them of all their mishaps. That would buy me a little time until the rumor mill started turning again. As I told you, my track record wasn’t pretty, and to make matters worse, my life was an open book. Where I’m from, everybody knew everything about you whether you liked it or not. There were no secrets, only lies, flies, and spies. Everyday after school, I would go to my grandmother’s house and sit on the front porch with her as she filled my mind with wisdom beyond my years. She lived two houses down from us, so my parents knew exactly where to find me if I hadn’t made it home by the time the street light came on. Anja, she always called me, Don’t let anyone cover their problems up with yours. As a child, I never understood what that meant. Oh, but I understand it perfectly well now because adulthood has taught me that people will use your misfortunes as a distraction from their own.

As I walked downstairs, I gazed at the pictures hanging on the wall. My favorite picture was the one of my parents when they were fresh out of high school. I loved this picture because their love seemed just as fresh now as it was back then. I always longed for a love like that. One day, maybe one day, I’d get to feel that kind of love. The pictures always took me back to the good ole days. I was young, no worries, just living. We were poor, but my mother fed us so well who could tell? My father worked two jobs so my mother could stay home. She kept the house in order and the kids in line. That was all my father wanted her to do, and she did it well. Every morning, she made breakfast- even on weekends. Every evening, we were all gathered around the dinner table as a family. Besides sitting on my grandmother’s front porch, it was the next best thing. My mother was spiritual, so she always talked to us about God. We went to church every Sunday and Bible study every Wednesday night. My father rarely made Wednesday night Bible study because of work, but every Sunday, Deacon Don,