Innocence: The Eye of the Water

By Patricia A. King

What defines a wave? A tidal or any wave is the disturbance of a medium (water in this case) caused by the movement of energy from a source, etc. wind, tsunami, hurricane or a Deity (God), Transferring Energy moving through the Medium (Water).

My conclusion is that God created the heaven and the earth and made the firmaments and created the waters. In reference to the scripture found in Genesis 1:6-9.

Patricia A. King is an avid writer and artist who was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan in 1938. Having a speech impediment, she won first place in a city-wide speech contest by sheer determination at the age of seven. She was diagnosed with cancer in 1973 at the age of thirty-five and was given two years to live. But God healed her of cancer forty-six years ago. She is a mother of five children, a grandmother to twenty-five, and a great grandmother to twenty-eight. She was a Sunday school teacher for over thirty-five years. She worked as a social worker in Geriatrics and owned a successful bridal business, until retirement. Her youngest son's death prompted her to write about her struggles and family hurts. Miraculously, God was always there in those troubled waters. "And he showed me a pure river of waters of life, clear as crystal proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb" (Revelation 22: 1).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781646702640

Book preview

Chapter 2

His Plans

I think that I was born with a speech impediment. I say think because it could have well developed in my toddler years. However, it came with a vengeance—stammering or, as some call it, stuttering. A heartfelt, chest-pounding pressure straining just to get the first word caught in my chest out. One word at a time.

Today, if I ran into someone with this same challenge, I couldn’t help to show some concern with patience, something that was not shown to me by my family, including my two siblings at that time. The two younger ones came ten and seventeen years later. I’m sure they were later filled in on Pat’s stuttering.

I was the daily laugh in my household and among my playmates too. I can still hear the laughter and taunts. Mom and Dad, Deddy as we called him made it no better. They never failed to tell me to shut up and start over whenever I tried to speak. This was flustering and so cruel to me.

I would go to my room and cry, but I would never let them see me cry. I would lose myself in my books, fairy tales, schoolbooks, all kinds of reading material, even books on how to stop the stuttering by putting weights on your tongue; it didn’t help. My room was my safe place to be, but God who is long-suffering and an ever-present comfort in a time of need was there all along. Little did I know at that time that I would soon have my aha moment.

My maternal grandma, Callie Caine, was a bright light for me; we would often take the train ride to Monroe where my Aunt Ada lived and would go fishing. First, we would stop at the market where Gramma always bought me my favorite green grapes. Back then, they tasted like grapes and only ten cents a pound.

My memories of my granny and the love and strength she gave me carried me through those difficult times. I still held onto the seashells I collected on our fishing trips. It was always a delight when I stayed over at granny’s home; those pungent smells of coconut and fruitcakes and that unmistakable aroma of apples under my gramma’s bed made it almost impossible to go to sleep and stay asleep.

My paternal grandmother, Momma Hilson, was a very elegant lady. She would call me Patricia instead of Pat; that made me feel elegant and special, like her. I also had special memories of spending days with her too. My grandfather, Reverend Nathaniel Hilson, had died when I was seven years old. He was a giant of a man, tall and handsome with blue eyes, and a charming man he was. My youngest brother, Bruce, inherited his eyes, only his were grey. My uncle Larry possessed that same charm, and he never forgot to tell me I was beautiful even in his final days, when I last visited him in the hospital.

I had plenty of cousins when I was growing up, and some of my favorites were Joyce, Jerome, and Doug. I, being older, often babied them. Ronny, as we called Jerome and his wife Renata—to this day, I can always depend on them for our large family matters. And Douglas, who we affectionately call Butch, never ceased to change; he loved his family, all of them. And how can I forget my cousin Shirley who married my cousin Jim when I was fifteen, and she was in her twenties. Well, today we are both about the same age now, and she’s still there for me, showing me age has never made a difference when you really care and love each other.

I grew up in a neighborhood of mixed races on Lafayette Street. There was a large number of Italians, Polish, and blacks in that area. I don’t remember any racial differences back then, but I’m sure there were some. We all played together and went to school together; as a matter of fact, one classmate thought that I was a boy after school and a girl in school. Because back in those days, we wore hand-me-downs. I wore my older brother’s coat set, leggings, and matching cap; so they thought I was a boy, probably why I didn’t get picked on. Because on the way home from school, the boys would horse play and fight each other and picked on the girls. I just happened to be the girl that could fight with the best of them. I was the typical tomboy back then! I had to have been a tomboy. I grew up with three brothers and didn’t have a sister until I was almost eighteen. Our street was so much fun; we all would run to the Italian homes when the mothers in their language called for their kids to come in and eat or just to give to us all cookies and treats. It didn’t make any difference if they were old or stale; we ate them up. Guess who my favorite and best friend was? A seven-year-old Italian boy named Salvatore whom I fought with every day until we got in class.

One day, while attending Duffield Elementary School after leaving my catholic school, I was threatened by some classmates who said they would see me after school. I knew what that meant, and when school let out, I was the first one to hit the door running. I looked back and saw what I thought was the whole school coming after me. I ran through the playground, across lots, streets, and even jumped on slow-moving train headed toward Joseph Campau Street. When I jumped off the train and was finally home, I found out that day that I was a fast runner too. We kids were warned to never get close to the moving trains, but the thrill of