Healing By His Spirit

By Geraldine D. Bryant

Healing by His Spirit is a compelling, true story which spans a period of more than forty years. It depicts the chain of events that befell a young woman faced with adversity, the one perpetrator she struggled to forgive, and the restlessness of her very soul as she came to grips with her innermost fears. It is a heartfelt and emotional story of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aspire Publishing Hub, LLC
• Release date: Mar 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958692844

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GERALDINE D. BRYANT

Healing By His Spirit

Copyright © 2023 by Geraldine D. Bryant

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 author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Unless otherwise indicated, Bible quotations are taken from the King James Bible- Psalm 35 and the New Living Translation of the Holy Bible, Copyright © 1996 by Tyndale House.

Neferka’s Journey

ISBN

978-1-958692-83-7 (Paperback)

978-1-958692-84-4 (eBook)

978-1-958692-82-0 (Hardcover)

Dedication

In loving memory of my mother

MARY FRANCES TATE

(1913 - 2005)

Whom I owe my deepest gratitude for believing in me;

That I can do anything I set my mind to do.

Friend and Mentor

REV. DR. GEORGE WALTER MURRAY THOMPSON, JR.

(1931 - 2022)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Special thanks to JoAnne Gee for her contribution in the preparation of this work.

FOREWORD

I must admit at the outset that this autobiography by Ms. Geraldine Bryant is one of the best I’ve read in recent years.

I strongly recommend this book to older youths to sharpen their sensitivity to certain evils at their respective age levels regardless of class, race or ethnic origin. I further recommend it to men and women to sharpen their awareness of how their attitudes and behaviors can throw innocent and well-meaning persons off course and to destruction.

You will note in reading this book how Ms. Bryant responded creatively to the challenges of life’s negativities that she encountered.

She experienced what the Danish philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard called three stages on life’s way (aesthetical or pleasure, the ethical or conventional morality and religion B – Christianity in particular). Though the religious stage eventually became predominant in her life, yet these stages were somewhat simultaneous.

It is also interesting to note how towards the end of the book the religious stage is the result of her own purpose driven life and concludes with making her body a living sacrifice to God, a monastery of the heart, in her horizontal reach to others and her vertical relation to God as revealed through Jesus Christ.

Finally, I recommend this book to Christians and non-Christians alike. Ms. Bryant has demonstrated in her own life the stubborn decision to opt for the courage to be amid negative influences in her life. She now encourages others to accept God’s acceptance for those who feel unacceptable. Her story is one of emergence from wounded victim to wounded healer.

George Thompson, Jr. Ph.D., D.D.

Pastor Emeritus and

Professor Emeritus

Chapter 1

I lived in a three story, semidetached house, shared with my mother, father, grandfather and an elderly woman, of no relation, who occupied the third floor, situated on a beautiful tree lined street in the West Mt. Airy section of Philadelphia. The neighborhood seemed quite quiet, unlike the former area I moved from. Beautiful red and pink rose bushes draped over the hedges, making it the most attractive front yard on the block.

We moved here because my grandfather lost his eyesight and needed help. My mother was only too willing to come and look after him. She was his only daughter, and his second wife had passed away a few years earlier. Moving to a new neighborhood was scary. I didn’t know anyone, and I felt isolated. I missed being around my friends whom I grew up with; therefore, I spent many lonely days in my room. Helping my mother with chores around the house filled in many hours of otherwise, pure boredom. My room was my safe haven, shut away from the rest of the world.

I glanced around my cluttered room. My eyes focused on the walls. They were painted olive green. How ugly, I thought. Most girls my age liked pastels and bright, pretty colors. I couldn’t believe I had chosen such a horrible green. What in the world was I thinking of? I shook my head in disgust. Despite the gloomy, dull color surrounding me, I loved the solitude my bedroom afforded me. This was where I found myself when I wanted to daydream, or just connect with my inner being.

I was fourteen years old, a ninth grader and three years from senior high graduation. My interests bordered on writing and journalism. Like many girls, I dreamed of having a great career, falling in love, getting married and having children, but in that order.

The prospect of attending college eluded me. My parents couldn’t afford it. Anything short of a fully paid scholarship was out of the question. I sensed early on that money, or the lack thereof, was an issue within my family. Often, I would hear my mom and dad arguing over money matters. My mother sacrificed much to get me things comparable to what other children had. More importantly though, I was a very grateful child, and anything my parents did for me, I deeply appreciated.

I had two brothers. They were much older than I, twenty-six and twenty-four years respectively. Jimmy and Skeeter, as they were affectionately known, were in the military around the time I was born. I was a change of life baby entering the world when my mother was forty-one years old. My brothers didn’t live at home; therefore, I felt like an only child.

Whenever the family gathered for holiday celebrations, my brothers would share with me what their lives were like when they were young. My oldest brother, in particular, would speak of the times during the depression era when food was scarce. He would relate how they were always fed first, and how mom and grandmother would eat the leftover scraps from their plates. I never had the opportunity to meet this loving grandmother they spoke so fondly of. She passed away ten years before my birth. How I wished I could have known her.

I sat on my vanity stool, staring at my reflection in the mirror, my hair in disarray, as I contemplated my agenda for today. I sat lost in thought for several minutes, which was quickly interrupted by the sound of a lawn mower whirring in the distance.

My attention shifted to my clothes strewn around the room. I rose from the stool and picked them up piece by piece, neatly folding them in a pile on a nearby chair. As the noise from the mower grew louder, I realized it was coming from my own backyard. I remembered my mother telling me a few days earlier that she had hired a neighborhood boy to cut the grass. I walked over to the window and drew the curtain aside to get a better view of the boy I longed to see up close. This was my opportunity to really focus in on his physical features. From the window, the only thing visible was the top of his head.

I descended the stairs and walked toward the back of the house. The kitchen inside door was ajar, allowing me to approach the screen door, undetected. I slowly eased the door open and watched for several minutes as he pushed the mower forward, oblivious of my presence.

Finally Sidney glanced up and noticed me staring at him.

Hello, he muttered, nodding his head.

I waved my hand with a smile. Hi Sidney, I responded.

Sidney had a nice medium brown skin tone and a well groomed afro. He was of medium weight with good, muscular arms. He was considered to be the most popular boy in the neighborhood and probably already had a girlfriend.

When Sidney had finished his work, he shut the mower off, sat down on the steps to rest, and invited me to join him. I offered him a glass of water which he gladly accepted. We talked for several minutes. Finally Sidney rose to his feet and indicated he had to leave, but before he left, we exchanged phone numbers.

Thanks for the drink, he said handing me the empty glass.

You’re welcome, I replied." He waved goodbye and promised to call me.

I watched Sidney as he grasped the handle of the mower and rolled it carefully out of the gate. I slowly closed the back door, excited that I had finally gotten the chance to see Sidney up close and to talk with him. I don’t really know why I had such an overwhelming attraction for him, but I had this strong urge to find out more about him. I returned to my room, anticipating on hearing from him soon.

Two days later, my phone rang. I picked up the receiver. Sidney was on the other end of the line. I was excited to hear his voice. After conversing a few minutes, we agreed to meet on my front steps. I hurried down the stairs, and anxiously awaited his arrival. Several minutes later, I saw Sidney emerge from his doorway. I glanced up as he approached. I was very inquisitive, and I asked Sidney many questions about himself. He proceeded to tell me that his uncle had taken him under his wing and was teaching him the mortician business.

Ugh! I replied. You handle dead people. Do you really like that kind of work? I asked.

Yeah, Sidney replied.

He began to tell me all the ins and outs of the business. He was so excited about it. I listened intently. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around that particular profession, but it was great to hear the enthusiasm in his voice when he talked about it.

After that day, Sidney and I started seeing each other. Our dates consisted of sitting on the porch and walking around the neighborhood. We never went to a party or a movie.

A few weeks later, I was walking home. I had just stepped off the trolley car. As I neared the corner of my street, I noticed a group of girls gathered around the steps of a corner house. I had seen them many times before. They weren’t friendly, and they didn’t welcome me to the neighborhood. I felt as if I were invading their turf. They constantly poked fun at me and made snide remarks as I passed by.

Here comes Miss Holy they remarked.

I pretended not to hear them as I clutched my bible in my hand, totally ignoring them. I passed them like they weren’t even there, careful not to make eye contact with them. I had a purpose and goal for my life and it certainly wasn’t about hanging out on street corners, doing nothing.

Later that evening, I met up with Sidney. I questioned him about the group of girls in the neighborhood. I told him that they didn’t like me, and made nasty remarks.

Don’t worry about those girls, they’re just jealous, he said.

They’re jealous of what…me? They don’t even know me, I replied.

Just don’t pay any attention to them, he added. Sidney seemed unconcerned, to say the least.

A few minutes later, we changed the subject and moved on to something else. An hour later, I was headed up the steps to my porch. After bidding farewell to Sidney, I swung the door open and entered the foyer. Sidney was looking back at me as I slowly closed the door.

I attached myself to people who led church centered lives. I was active in my church since age six, attending Sunday school on a regular basis. At age eleven, I accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior, and was baptized on May 1, 1966. My church life is what sustained me during the puberty years. It kept me out of trouble. Church had so much to offer. I enjoyed the many religious activities, such as singing on the choir, attending the BTU (Baptist Training Union) classes, performing in drama skits, attending Vacation Bible School, caroling in the streets at Christmastime and going to parties hosted by our choir director and sometimes other adults in charge of the youth groups.

The following week, I received a call from one of my friends, that a teenage boy was killed in a gang related incident. The young adult choir was asked to sing for the funeral service. My heart skipped a beat. I had never been to anyone’s funeral before, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to this one. My heart was heavy because the decedent was a friend of one of the choir members. At that point I realized that I had to make an honest effort to be there for her support.

The next time I saw Sidney, I was telling him that I had to sing for the funeral.

I know who you’re talking about. My uncle has the body.

He noticed the uneasiness I felt as we talked about it. He assured me everything would be all right.

You will be coming home with me after the service.

I looked at him perplexed. You will be in the funeral car with your uncle, I said.

That’s okay. You can get in the car with us, and we will take you home. Don’t worry so much about everything.

I smiled at Sidney’s reassurance. He was very attentive when he wanted to be.

The night of the funeral was upon me. I hurriedly got dressed in my black and white attire. When I arrived at the church, there were several people lined up to view the body. I stood inside the vestibule to prepare for the procession of the choir. No one wanted to lead the line in. Finally someone pushed me to the front of the line. I stood there, trying to gather my wits. I was shaking like a leaf. I focused my eyes to the front center of the sanctuary where the casket rested. Sidney stood at the foot of the coffin, while his uncle stood on the opposite end. Once he noticed me, he came up the aisle towards me, leaned forward and whispered in my ear.

Relax. Everything is going to be all right.

He touched my arm lightly and returned to his post.

A few minutes later, the choir walked down the aisle in single file and entered the choir loft. Once seated in place, the service began. The minister led the family members down the aisle, reciting the 23rd Psalm. As I sat throughout the service, the tension began to ease. When the service was over, I waited for Sidney in the vestibule.

The church was nearly empty when he approached me. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led me out of the church to the waiting limo. I got in the front seat, and Sidney slid in next to me. He formally introduced me to his uncle, even though I already knew of him. He glanced over at me.

Are you okay? Sidney asked.

Yes, I’m fine, I replied.

The limo slowly pulled away from the curb and headed towards Germantown Avenue. The