Pieces

By Patrice Wade Johnson

By the time she was eight, Lundyn knew that important things get broken. She spent years trying to forget the missing fragments until she realized that restoration, or just the attempt, is necessary. She learned that scattered pieces can take years to find and to be extra careful picking up the jagged edges. She also learned that shattered things are often more resilient than we imagine.

Pieces is Lundyn’s journey as she discovers that a stained-glass window is merely a collection of broken pieces that tells a new story and gives the illusion that the thick black lines holding it together is intentional.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636302614

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Pieces

Patrice Wade Johnson

ISBN 978-1-63630-260-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63630-261-4 (Digital)

Copyright © 2020 Patrice Wade Johnson

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Table of Contents

Broken Glass

So Many Pieces

Fractured

Glass Fragments

Shards of Glass

Shattered and Scattered

My Stained-Glass Window

For Ray and Candice.

All the pieces are important.

They make you whole.

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

—Jeremiah 29:11, NIV

Broken Glass

The love of my family has filled the empty spaces from my broken childhood. I’ve learned to appreciate the smiles and laughter and to glean from the tears and sorrow. I’m happy. I’ve been happy for a long time. My husband and I are still madly in love and the proud parents of Michelle Zora, eleven—named after Michelle Obama and my grandmother; Jamel Jarreau, Jr., eight—it was important for my husband to have a namesake; and six-year-old Janelle Kiera—named after his mother and my best friend. We recite Ecclesiastes 3:1–8 with our children at night because there is a time for everything on life’s journey. The life lesson Jamel and I instill in our children is that God always equips us for our journey and we just have to keep taking steps of faith. We may get tired, but the Lord renews the strength of the weary.

I spent too many years drenched in weariness, and there was a time when the reflection of my wounded spirit was evident in my eyes when I looked in the mirror. There was a time when I thought the fragmented pieces of my past were something to bury. Along my life’s journey, I discovered that when important things get broken, the process of restoration, or just the attempt, is essential. It was a painful but necessary process that taught me to be careful picking up the pieces that broke into shards because the jagged edges cut deep. Patience and tenacity were required because the scattered pieces took years to find. And I realized that the fractures in cracked glass would always be visible, but I didn’t have to focus on the flaw.

Sometimes broken things are indispensable and even the missing pieces have a story. It makes one curious about the memories which created the sentimental value. A unique stained glass window is a collection of broken pieces that tells a new story and gives the illusion that the thick black lines holding it together is intentional.

So Many Pieces

Life changed for all of us—me, my siblings, and Barbara, my birth mother—when Mr. Anthony started hanging out at our house during the summer before I started first grade. I never liked him—no matter how many times he took us to McDonald’s or how many pairs of Reeboks he bought me. My mother changed after she met him; she became indifferent, detached, and withdrawn. Mr. Anthony’s music was always blasting in his black Jeep that smelled like smoke. When he was at our house, he selfishly wanted Barbara in the bedroom with him with the door closed. She would play loud music, and there would be smoke coming from under the door.

I don’t remember when Barbara stopped taking care of us or when her smile faded. I only remember the stillness of that night in October when Barbara and Mr. Anthony had their last argument. We could hear them yelling at each other, and then the sound I had learned to hate: Mr. Anthony’s hand cracking against the side of my mother’s face. I watched from my bedroom doorway as Mr. Anthony spit on my mother while calling her a whore and many other names. Afrika sat on the floor in the corner with the twins singing just above a whisper; they were two months old. They focused on Afrika’s voice; it was beautiful. Romen, Afrika, and I had intervened to protect Barbara on many previous occasions, but in spite of her promises, she always let Mr. Anthony come back. Romen had tears in his eyes when he came into our room and closed the door. Romen sat silently on our bed, allowing his tears to fall while staring out the window. I couldn’t move from standing by the door even though Romen closed it. I still wanted to help Barbara.

I heard the sirens before I saw the reflection of the lights on the wall. Then the police were opening our bedroom door and questioning if we were all right, and Mr. Anthony left silently with the officers. Barbara sat on the couch and cried. Afrika and I put the twins back in the crib before joining Barbara on the couch. She told us she was sorry. I held her hand. Afrika hugged her. Romen never came out of the room.

When I came home from school the next day, Barbara was still in bed. The twins were in bed with her. Soiled pampers were piled on the floor with several empty baby bottles. It was soon after that when Barbara started staying out all night and that’s when Romen began taking care of us.

On a bitter cold night in March of 1988, Barbara was arrested for prostitution to support her drug habit. I didn’t completely understand prostitution or addiction and was accustomed to Barbara’s absences, but the intervention by the police and the other strangers in the middle of the night was new and frightening. The twins, Hustin and Brooklin, were nineteen months old and too young to understand or question where they were going. They each held Romen’s hand, and he told them everything would be all right. Romen was thirteen and had been taking care of us for almost two years. He made sure we ate dinner and took baths, even when my mom didn’t come home for days. Afrika said when Barbara first started leaving at night, she used to cry. Tonight, at ten, she wasn’t crying; so I didn’t either. I sat on the couch holding Afrika’s hand like Romen told me.

The police and the other strangers left the door open while they spoke to Romen. I heard the officer tell Romen to sit down, but Romen stood holding hands with Hustin and Brooklin. It seemed like they asked Romen a million questions, and I sat close to Afrika to keep my teeth from chattering. I was cold and afraid. After what seemed like an hour, a lady in jeans, sneakers, and a purple leather jacket came in the door. She spoke to one of the officers and then told Romen the twins had to go with her. Afrika volunteered to dress them, but the lady said they could go in their pajamas. Romen didn’t want to let go of their hands, and when the police officer made him, he began to cry. The lady quickly put their coats on over their pajamas, and one of the officers helped her carry them out the door. We could hear Brooklin and Hustin screaming. Afrika and I went over to Romen and hugged him, then we cried together. We had no idea what was going to happen, and no one gave us any information except that Barbara would be in jail for a while.

That night was the first time Afrika, Romen, and I went to the Children’s Shelter. We didn’t see the twins until we were reunited with Barbara six months later. She said she was sorry and we wanted to believe her. We clung to her promises because we didn’t know it would be temporary. Barbara’s promises were like a rock hitting the windshield of my life. First the shock of it startles you, then you notice a chip before the crack spiders, and then the glass shatters.

When I was a little girl, I heard that God answered prayers, so I did my best at praying for my mother. Those prayers resulted in the inaudible words and tears of a brokenhearted child who felt unwanted and unloved. I begged God to make Barbara stop loving drugs, and it seemed the more I prayed, the more she used. For most of my childhood, I didn’t think God liked me since He never seemed to answer. I was eight years old when my family shattered into pieces.

After Barbara was released from jail, we were relocated to the Hill District. The school year had already begun, and moving to a new neighborhood meant transferring to a new school. Barbara welcomed a fresh start and seemed resolute to rely on Jesus for everything. She read scriptures from the Bible the chaplain at the jail gave her. We began going to church on Sunday and to Bible study on Wednesday, and Barbara even began to look for a job. Barbara baked cookies and helped us with our homework. Sometimes I would hear her singing at night after we went to bed. Our lives seemed normal, for a few weeks.

Thanksgiving should have been a happy time, but my mother’s tears during dinner were evidence that it wasn’t. After she blessed the food, she apologized for serving chicken wings and for us not having a grandmother and family to eat with. She rarely spoke of her mother or her sister, except to say it was her fault we didn’t know them. She never explained any details. Having never known my grandmother, I didn’t miss not knowing her and thought the barbeque wings and greens were really good.

My mother’s sadness magnified as November ended and December began. The begging in my prayers became specific too. Please, God, give my mom a job and make her happy. Sometimes I cried, sometimes I whined, and sometimes I shouted in anger with a clenched fist. I was desperate and felt deflated every time my mother came in with the bad news that no store would hire her. As Christmas approached, my mother became sullen because she didn’t have a job. The first lesson I learned about addiction was that if things didn’t get better, my mother would return to the drugs and leaving us alone for days at a time.

Wednesday, December 16, 1988 was the last night we spent on Burrows Street. In spite of the frigid temperature, my mother was determined that we go to Bible study. We complied because we were just as desperate to find the miracle that would make our lives better. Romen and Afrika bundled up the twins and put socks on their hands. I wrapped my scarf around Brooklin’s face, and Afrika wrapped hers around Hustin. When my mother opened the door, the piercing chill made me shiver before I went outside. It was snowing, and the street lights glistened on the freshly fallen snow.

We walked silently down the hill to Lincoln Avenue with Romen carrying Brooklin and Hustin holding hands with Afrika and me. My coat was missing two buttons, and the wind seemed to blow directly into the openings. I tried counting by nine to focus on something else but it didn’t work; I was freezing. I knew Afrika had to be cold too. Her zipper was broken and kept unzipping from the bottom. She had to unzip and rezip her coat several times, and then I noticed her trying to walk stiffly so it would stay closed. Romen’s coat had been given to him by his coach; even though he wore two sweatshirts under it, it was still too big. He wore both hoods because he didn’t have a hat and alternated the arm which held Brooklin so he could warm his hand in his pocket. My mother didn’t have gloves, scarf, or a hat. Her eyes watered and her nose ran because the tattered brown bomber jacket didn’t keep her warm.

We waited twenty minutes for the bus to get to Bible study. I dreaded the thought of having to walk back up the hill after church but knew I would do it if it meant my mother would be happy. My mother had been sad for weeks, and I hoped going to church would bring her the joy she was seeking. Instead of following along during the lesson, I closed my eyes to pray, God, please help my mother be happy. God, please give her a job.

After the youth lesson, we were ushered upstairs with all the other kids for family pictures in the library. The Sunday school teachers were putting them on a Christmas card, and we smiled, as if oblivious to our pain. I smiled for my mother, hoping with everything in me the captured moment would make her happy, even if temporarily. I didn’t care if I got toys for Christmas; I wanted my mother to stay off drugs.

As I sat across the table from my mother during dinner, I noticed her sad eyes. Another prayer not answered. I couldn’t eat my food. I wasn’t thankful, and there was nothing to celebrate.

Romen and Afrika began to dress the twins, and I threw our plates away. My mother hurried us and told us to have a seat on the steps while she talked to a lady I didn’t know. The lady seemed nice but I wanted her to give my mother a job, not her prayers. This fueled my anger with God. I felt my mother was trying, but she needed His help.

I don’t want to be depressed, my mother confided to the woman. You know with Christmas coming and all, and I still don’t have no job. I want my kids to have a nice Christmas.

I wish I had a job for you at the community center, the woman responded. I will keep you in prayer. And if something opens up, I’ll let you know.

My mother’s voice was just above a whisper. Her eyes were cast down, and she never looked up at the lady she was speaking with. My brothers, sisters, and I sat quietly on the steps in the vestibule. It was cold and still snowing, and we were hoping the lady would offer us a ride home.

I’ve been praying the best I know how, my mother said, shaking her head. It’s not working. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

You must have faith. God will answer, the woman replied, placing her hand on my mother’s shoulder. Waiting is hard when it seems impossible.

My mother said nothing.

The woman handed my mother a ten-dollar bill from her purse. It’s cold outside, and I don’t want you and your kids to have to wait on the bus. I hate to put you in a jitney, but my car is full.

My mother thanked the lady and motioned for us to remain seated while she went downstairs to use the church phone to call the jitney. Before she disappeared down the steps, the woman called her.

Barbara, the woman said, walking toward the steps. The Christmas party is next week. There will be toys and clothes for the kids. I can pick you up and take you back home. Can I reach you at the number on your résumé?

My mother nodded with a faint smile before proceeding