Poems from a Broken Heart

By Nelson Riverdale

Nelson Riverdale, author of Across the Sands of Time, is back with his second book, Poems from a Broken Heart, a true story of his wife, Merlene Ann Martin, and his 30-year marriage to her. Nelson and Merlene knew of each other from Love Gospel Assembly, the Bronx church in NY they attended, but in a congregation of well over 350 people, the two never connected. It wasn't until he unexpectedly saw her at a Christian singles party that their relationship blossomed, and three years later, they were married. In his book, Poems of a Broken Heart, Nelson Riverdale recounts his life with Merlene, her many health issues, and her ultimate passing. In this intimately written story, the author shares his unending love for his wife through the dozens of poems he personally penned. He also opens up about the monstrous grief that brought him into a deep, dark valley of depression, which he called the “death zone.” Poems of a Broken Heart is the extraordinary story of a wonderful marriage that ended suddenly but continues on through the many heartfelt poems written by Nelson Riverdale.
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Advance Praise for Poem from a Broken Heart
“A journey through grief much like my own when I was hanging from a thread.”
—LGA Minister Larry Galloway, widower
“Nelson Riverdale’s up-close and deeply personal journey into the depth of grief is a must-read for pastors, medical professionals, educators, life coaches, and those who are grieving. A literary anointing oil for recovery.”
—Pastor Chelli Jackson, former Equity SAG-AFTRA professional performer, director of the audiovisual department & LGA Church Administrator

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663252135

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 Nelson Riverdale.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-5214-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5213-5 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:   05/18/2023

Contents

Acknowledgements

A Discrepancy Corrected

Introduction

One   The Rock

Two   A Pretty Violin

Three   Starlight Crystal Sea

Four   Best Friends

Five   Destination Boston

Six   Hannah’s Prayer

Seven   Incisions

Eight   Visions of the Night

Nine   Diagnosis and Prognosis

Ten   Wedding Day

Eleven   The Girl Who Had No Name

Twelve   A Second Opinion

Thirteen   A Prayer-Hearing God

Fourteen   A Broken Body

Fifteen   Over the Rainbow

Sixteen   Mourning Doves

Seventeen   A Plague in Egypt

Eighteen   Miracle in Washington Heights

Nineteen   The Empty Park on Mount Eden

Twenty   Love’s Last Act: Grief

Twenty-one   Death Zone

Twenty-two   Legacy

Twenty-three   A New Chapter

Afterword

What Merlene meant to You

Letters to my wife

Loosing The Colt

Author’s Note

About the Author

This book is dedicated to all those who have lost a close friend, a family member, a sweetheart, or a spouse. Included are the poems and the personal journey that led me to write them. My story is told in nonlinear frames of time, interspersed with flashbacks that lead back to the main story. For the sake of confidentiality, some of the characters' names and places in the accounts and descriptions in this book have been changed. The rest have been used honorably and with permission. All the poems in this work have come from my own pen.

—N. Riverdale

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To those who contributed to this work as well as those who were able to attend my wife’s memorial service, my deepest appreciation goes to you. Your valuable input about what my wife meant to you is what made this book complete and brought me one step closer to closure. Thank you for helping me carry this grief.

Carlton L. Jean

Chelli Jackson

Christine Martin Rivera

Deborah Davis

Diane Rodriguez

Donna Gaillard

Elisamuel Colón

Faith Ann Dominguez

Francine Lange

Iris Toribio

Jeffrey Williams

Karen Coy-Marin

Katherine Sanchez

Larry Galloway

Lizanne Espina

Madeline Bryant Redd

Merari Santiago

Milagros Mencía-Wells

Naomi O’Donohue

Nate Duverge

Ralph Perez

Rebecca Casale

Rosanne Rosado

Serena Freeman

Shamira Jones

Special thanks to Pastor Chelli Jackson, Katherine Sanchez, and Dwayne Evans for their technical support,

And the publishing staff of iUniverse

A DISCREPANCY CORRECTED

My wife was named after her aunt Merril Martin, a long-time Doctor of Psychology. Thus, she was little Merril or Merril-leen, spelled Merelene (with 4 E's). Throughout the years, many people, including some of her closest friends, called her Marlene, which was an incorrect pronunciation of her birth name. Marlene is a German given name derived from Maria and combined with Magdalene.

About ten years before she passed, my wife discovered a discrepancy between her name on some of her major documents and the name on her birth certificate. Her given name on her birth certificate was spelled Merlene (with 3 E's), but everywhere else it was spelled and signed Merelene (with 4 E's). Growing up, her mother had told her early on that her name was spelled with 4 E’s, and she stuck with it. But this caused my wife a number of problems throughout the years, especially when we purchased property. The name on her New York State ID and birth certificate did not match exactly (Merlene as compared to Merelene), and real estate lawyers scrutinized every document for the name that carried 3 E’s and had my wife resign them. To correct this discrepancy, the court wanted to charge my wife $1,000 to add a fourth letter E on her birth certificate, which she could not afford.

As a certified home attendant, my wife was regularly assigned to Spanish-speaking clients due to her Hispanic married name. But this caused trouble with communication between herself and her patients. The reason? My wife was not fluent in Spanish. This led her to want to return to her maiden name for personal and professional reasons, which I was not against. But that decision would involve court forms, hefty filing fees, hearings, and a lot of headaches and wasted time.

Sadly, my wife passed away without the means or support to do anything about the discrepancy. I have therefore given back my wife's given name and maiden name exactly as they appear on her birth certificate in honor of her.

—N Riverdale

The deepest level of worship is:

Praising God despite the tears.

Thanking God during the trials.

Trusting Him when all appears hopeless.

Loving Him when He seems so far away.

At my lowest, God is my Hope.

At my darkest, God is my Light.

At my weakest, God is my Strength.

In times of grief, God is my Comforter.

—Spiritual Inspiration

I waited for a long time,

I met you at the right time,

We married in the springtime,

Forever me and you. ~

I had you for a short time,

I wish that we had more time,

And now I face a lifetime,

Forever without you 54679.png

In Loving Memory of my precious wife

Merlene Ann Martin

Insert%20picture%20%201%20Merlene%20Bible%20college.JPG

INTRODUCTION

The first time I met my future wife, Merlene Ann Martin, was at Love Gospel Assembly, a non-denominational church in the Bronx, New York that was once a synagogue in a thriving Jewish community on 183rd Street and Grand Concourse, which, when I began attending, was pastored by Gerald Julius Kaufman.

Merlene graduated from Arturo Toscanini Junior High School in 1972 and was accepted into Fiorello LaGuardia Music and Arts High School. It was while in her junior year there that she was chosen to play with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra’s summer concert series.

In 1978, she enrolled in the Zion Bible Institute, located in East Providence, Rhode Island, and received an undergraduate degree after three years of dedicated studying. It was in the summer of 1980, after she had completed her second year of studies, that I saw Merlene for the first time. She had returned home to see about her family, especially her ailing mother, Helen. The energetic young lady caught my attention right away, but it would not be for another year that I actually spoke with her.

The short summer months never gave me sufficient time to develop a comfortable friendship with Merlene. Every time she returned to her dormitory life on the college campus and returned the following year, our shallow friendship had to start anew. But all that changed on one amazing evening in March of 1986.

I never imagined that the slender young woman with the warm, dark skin would end up becoming the love of my life. Her charming smile, love of music, and ability to play the guitar, mandolin, piano, and violin, along with her extraordinary, God-given talent for singing and proficiency in American Sign Language, left a lasting impression on me that eventually won my heart and sparked the beginning of a warm, sincere friendship. The highs and lows, the joys and sorrows, of our life together are captured in these pages, taken from a collection of memories I've kept in my heart. It is in honor of this great woman, my dearly beloved wife of almost 31 years of marriage, that I dedicate Poems from a Broken Heart.

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On a Hallmark card with black musical notes and red hearts, I wrote my very first poem to Merlene in April of 1988 and mailed it to her. Four months later, I proposed. She said, Yes! The following year, we were married. The outside of the card read: Friendships are the notes of the heart that an instrument plays to make music. Our friendship is one of the most important things in my life.

To My Sweetheart Merlene,

Today’s a special moment,

I wish to make it known,

To tell you of my love for you,

And oh, how much it’s grown 54679.png

When you pass through deep waters, I will be

with you; the rivers shall not drown you.

Isaiah 43:2

One

THE ROCK

THE WALL OF WATER THAT suddenly loomed out of nowhere over the horizon roared like a hungry lion. It was tall and wide and mighty and was headed straight towards me. If I didn’t start running, the massive waves would take me out.

Where was I, and how did I get here?

My wife and I were standing on top of a high, lush-green ridge, holding hands, taking in the scenic beauty of the slope behind us, where evergreen trees were in full foliage, and a winding nature trail led us to where we were now. On the mountainous trail ahead of us, an army of white and yellow wildflowers carpeted a deep slope, leading all the way down to a dried-out canyon of earthen walls that looked like the ground had opened up. If anyone had fallen into it, there would not even be a slim chance of climbing out of the death trap.

A fleet of large cumulus clouds sat atop the distant mountains, and I stepped closer to the edge of the slope that faced the hungry canyon to take a shot of it on my cell phone.

Suddenly, my feet went out from under me, and down the slope I flew, grabbing fistfuls of wildflowers as I plummeted.

Honey! my wife screamed.

I flailed against the gravity that dragged me down, hoping that my feet would find an exposed tree root or a jutting sedimentary rock layer that would break the sudden plunge. But the only thing I found was that I continued to slide helplessly down the mountainous slope, letting out gasps of prayer.

My thigh hit hard against the canyon floor like I had fallen out of a plane without a parachute, and I let out a wounded cry that reverberated off the canyon walls. The sunbaked ground had kicked me in the butt, sending me rolling end on end on my shoulder, my head, my knees, and back on my butt again. My eyeglasses had flown off somewhere, and my cell phone was ripped out of my hand. I was well aware that the awful beating from the long fall would later produce massive bruises all over my body and maybe internal injuries as well.

A gnawing pain ate through me, and carefully, I climbed to one knee until I sat upright, swallowing shallow breaths of the dusty air that made my chest hurt when I coughed. If my lungs had collapsed, I was going to need immediate medical care. But perhaps the shortness of breath at that moment wasn’t anything worse than having the wind knocked out of me.

Honeybee!

My wife had cried out to me again. If I didn’t respond to her right away, she would become sick with worry.

I searched the high hills with the pitch and yaw that rolled in my skull but could not find her. Wherever she was, I shot her a thumbs-up, hoping she would see it.

As soon as the sky and the landscape around me stopped spinning, something that felt like death kicked in, and no wonder. I had tumbled down the face of a mountainous slope with such acceleration that my body convulsed in painful twists and turns of joints and ligaments until I hit rock bottom. I was grateful to be alive and began feeling my arms and legs. There were no broken bones; otherwise, the pain would have been monumental. I squeezed my left shoulder and winced. A gnawing ache invaded it that matched the pain I once had from rotator cuff surgery on the opposite side many years ago.

I climbed to my feet on wobbling legs, like a toddler searching for balance on his first attempt to walk, and my heart began to pound. I had gotten up too quickly.

My eyes scanned the rugged landscape of the canyon. There was no way I could climb back up from where I had fallen. I was stuck down here. My only way out was a grueling trek through the unforgiving ravine.

There was a noise that sounded like the roar of a hungry lion in the distance, and I gave a look. I broke into an unbalanced sprint away from the empty horizon and caught sight of my wife, running and pointing with an extended arm in the direction she wanted me to go.

Now the distant roar filled my ears, and then I saw it: a massive wall of water, tall and wide and mighty. It suddenly loomed out of nowhere and was rushing towards me. This was what the standing walls of the parted Red Sea must have looked like to Moses when an entire nation of Israelites made their desperate escape to freedom as a blood-thirsty army of Egyptian soldiers on galloping horses and thundering chariots rushed after their slaves in hot pursuit.

My wife shouted from high up on the brow of the hill. She was as tiny as one of the porcelain figurines she kept on her dresser. You're going to make it without me!

What did she mean by that? Was she going to get help?

This time I kept a sharp eye on her on the run while my heart kicked, and my lungs gasped for air. I turned to look back over my shoulder at the wall of water. It loomed over me like an angel of death. The incredible wave was not going to wipe me out; it was going to take me out, burying me alive under mud and debris where my body would never be found.

The rugged terrain was working against me, and panic kicked in. I tripped over nothing except fear and fell hard onto the uneven terrain. It was foolish to think I even had a wink of a chance to outrun this. I was not going to survive, even if I prayed. I picked myself up, knowing that death was just a heartbeat away.

A huge wave touched down about a hundred yards behind me and rushed at me with increasing speed. It lapped at my hiking boots as I ran, and before I knew it, I was irresistibly swept away through the canyon. The rushing watercourse quickly evolved into a waist-deep turbulent rapid, and I was dragged a significant distance before being shoved hard into the earthen wall of the canyon by the beating fists of the waves that punched and slammed me against it. The rolling current had become an angry river that had frighteningly risen from my waist to my chest, and a sudden death chill seized me. I had never learned to swim.

My trembling hands frantically searched for something I could grab onto that would serve as a lifeline. But the only thing I could find was what my fingers were offering me at that moment: grit and gravel and thick, dark mud.

Fat-bellied clouds pregnant with rain raced out of nowhere, and the sky became stormy dark. The sky rumbled, sending swords of lightning bolts over the majestic landscape, and I feared for the safety of my wife. I could no longer find her in the high hills, which alarmed me. She had suddenly disappeared when I needed her to guide me through this.

Panic turned to despair when the level of the rushing river shot up to my Adam's apple. Unless God intervened, I would drown, and my wife would be a weeping widow for the rest of her life.

A second angry wave came at me, and I was violently torn away from the canyon wall and carried farther downstream while its force pumped brine into my mouth and down my throat. I vomited through my nose, fighting the immense fear that surged through my bones. Unless I found a way to stay calm, my heart would leap into my windpipe and choke me.

Once more, I was wedged against the canyon wall by another angry wave, then shoved mercilessly against a flat boulder jutting out of the solid bedrock that jabbed into my rib cage. My feet began to dangle in the deep current, and I embraced the massive rock to keep from floating away. I discovered grooves on the surface of the rock, deep enough for my fingers to dig into. The neck-high water gave me some buoyancy against the strong undercurrent that threatened to pull me down into a watery grave, and I crawled on my belly onto the giant slab of rock like a sea turtle. I was relieved to find that I had made it.

Now that I was completely out of the water, I sat against the wall that the canyon offered me and searched for my wife on the mountainous ridge overlooking everything. How long would I be safe here, and how long would it take for someone to rescue me? The angry river gave no indication of when its strength would wane, and its level would fall. I was tired and scared and bruised to the bone, weighed down in my wet clothes. I coughed liquid out of my stomach, wondering what had become of my dear wife.

The roar of the river was more deafening now than before, and the water level instantly surged over the dry safety of my island rock, grabbing onto my ankles, my knees, and my thighs. I pushed away the thick hair that was plastered over my eyes and looked above me in search of higher ground, but I could go no higher. This was it.

A thick tree branch protruding through the rocky crags of the cliff wall above my head caught my eye, and I grabbed onto it with both hands. The exposed branch was shaped like the arm of a wrestler, and its spindly tip had formed into what looked like a giant hand reaching out to me. I closed my eyes and saw myself holding on to the arm of the Lord, who had created the tree and placed it there for me as a safety line.

I looked to see where my wife had been, but I could no longer see her.

She was gone.

Now, another kind of surge, mightier than the raging river, welled up inside of me. It was a sudden stab of pain from a grief unknown to me. What would my life be like without my darling wife, Merlene? Had I lost her? Did she fall down the slope of the hilly ridge like I had, only to be swept far and away in the deadly torrent? Immediately, I was subdued by the strongest foes I had ever grappled with—misery, emptiness, and despair.

A ray of brilliant sunlight sliced open the thick, turbulent sky, and a sunburst cloud exploded over the exact spot where my wife had been standing anxiously. A moment later, a stunning rainbow appeared. If there were colors in heaven not known on earth, I was seeing them now. God’s eyes had been intensely fixed on me the whole time. He was aware of what I was going through and had become involved in it, and now I was witnessing the manifestation of his presence.

Surely the rock I was standing on, the thick tree branch I was holding onto, and the rainbow in the sky all meant something.

The water level continued to rise. It was halfway up my chest when a Bible verse came to me: When you pass through deep waters, I will be with you; the rivers shall not overwhelm you.

I felt the strength of the mighty river push against my weak legs, but my feet stood immovable, fixed to the rock God had placed me on.

Now the murky river was up to my collarbones.

A moment later, it was up to my neck, then my chin.

I craned my neck as high as it would go to give me a fraction of an inch more time. The raging water went past me, beneath me, but not over me.

Nothing could weaken the grip I had on the arm-like branch of the tree, not even the gnawing pain in my left shoulder that shot through the back of my head. I was determined not to let go until I was rescued.

There I hung, with my arms raised high over my head, holding on to that gnarly branch that stuck out from the cliff wall. I began to tire and realized I was in desperate need of medical attention, but there was none to be had. If sheer exhaustion weakened the grip in my hands, I would fall headlong into the water and this time be swept away.

I held on tighter, and through the assailing grief, I prayed!

Poem

I haven't laughed in so, so long,

It pains me now to see,

A sad reflection of myself,

Just staring back at me. ~

Was yesterday, or so it seems,

When I would smile all day.

But then a sickness came along,

And took my wife away. ~

It hurts so much to love alone,

With no love in return.

But life is filled with ups and downs,

And lessons I must learn. ~

So now at home I live alone,

A place that’s cold and still.

I haven’t laughed in so, so long,

Perhaps I never will 54679.png

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I

am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you; I

will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Isaiah 41:10

Two

A PRETTY VIOLIN

THE ANGRY PAIN IN MY left shoulder cracked my eyes wide open, and I flipped over onto my stomach, knocking a chubby pillow to the floor. Everything about the canyon I was lost in was tucked away in the back of my mind now, where I was certain it would come back to haunt me later, and the slab of rock I had climbed onto for safety against a raging river was replaced by my mattress. What remained of the dream was the severe shoulder pain that awakened me and many unanswerable questions.

The bedroom was darker than it had ever been before and extremely cool, even though my skin was wrapped in a thin, warm layer of nervous sweat. A gust of winter wind punched the window frames, and the wooden tassels at the end of the cords of the venetian blinds tap danced. A pale glow from the arms of the bedroom clock silently kept time on my nightstand, and I began to see that sleeping with strange dreams produced insomnia. I kicked off the blankets and reached for the opposite side of the bed. The wide empty space felt strangely cold, as though no one had ever slept there before. I knew where my wife was, of course. She was in the living room, either knitting, reading the Bible, or praying. Merlene had struggled with a severe case of insomnia for more than twenty years, and the condition showed no signs of letting up. I had read a medical report on the internet that said, in some cases, insomnia was the result of a serious health issue, and I found that to be true. Merlene's battle with cancer began seven years into our marriage, and every round of chemo always left her feeling weaker than the previous treatment.

I swung my feet over the edge of the mattress and sat up. There would be no sleeping soundly tonight, for bashing winds, rattling blinds, and unusual dreams were cutting my sleep shorter week by week, and tonight, they were doing it again.

My tired mind dragged me back to the flooded canyon where I had found refuge on an island rock as I clung to the arm of an old oak tree that protruded through the cracks of a cliff wall. I was alone and in desperate need of help, anxiously scanning the high hills in search of my wife, hoping she was still there praying for me or calling for help, but she was gone. The sudden appearance of a rainbow was all that was left where she had been standing, and that frightened me. Lately, my dreams had been of majestic rainbows and of butterflies flying free after slipping out of their cocoons. But it was always those unexplainable nightmares of falling into raging rapids and angry rivers that terrified me the most.

The stabbing pain in my left shoulder was getting worse by the minute and cried out for Tylenol PM to help me return to sleep. But that would only work for a few hours until the pain returned to chew me up. Lord, I hope this isn’t another rotator cuff tear. I hated to think I would need a second surgical procedure to repair this one.

I debated as to what I should do. If I took the Tylenol, the diphenhydramine in them would guarantee I would fall asleep, but did I really want that tonight, knowing strange dreams I could not make sense of could follow? I was tired and groggy and was beginning to fear sleep itself and all its mysterious stages. In the normal stages of sleep, the heart rate slows down and the body temperature drops slightly. But my sleep patterns were doing the exact opposite to me, and that was because my mind was creating dangerous scenarios that made my heart race, my temperature rise, and caused my skin to break out in cold sheets of sweat. I was afraid my next dream would plunge me into the raging waterfall of the Niagara and kill me if I didn’t wake up in time.

My wife’s pillows felt cold to the touch, and the empty side of her bed was the same. Out of nowhere, a well of tears filled my head; a stormy surge of emotions took over, and I began to weep.

The emotional disruption was more than just a passing moment of sadness. This night would require a box of facial tissues from the lampstand and preparation for something worse. In my dream, I found myself in a canyon of grief with a wall of water sweeping me away. Was it a tidal wave made of my tears? The next question was: What was I grieving about?

All my dreams were leaving me clueless.

After a long while, the winter winds outside my window subsided, and a verse from the Bible popped into my head:

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you; I will help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Was God speaking to me, or was it just my diligent mind reciting a verse I had memorized a long time ago?

The phosphorescent glow of the clock on my nightstand read 4:30 A.M. Then the bedroom door opened and a dark figure slowly shuffled in. It was my wife. This was the usual time where her stack of fluffy pillows, piled six-high, and a thick blanket would beckon her back to bed. She would sleep for five or six hours, and then the whole vicious cycle of insomnia would begin again the following night.

The mattress squeaked beneath her weight, and she settled into bed. I felt her hand reaching out to me and I took it.

I’m sorry, honeybee, she said. Did I wake you?

Can’t wake a person who’s already up. My dreams of drowning in an angry river had made me anxious for the break of day. I scooped my pillow from the floor and settled next to her.

I thought I had woken you, she said. I try so hard every night not to disturb you, but every time I climb into bed the mattress makes that noise.

We could always buy another one, I said. It’s no big deal.

Okay, she said quietly.

Goodnight, baby. Gotta get some kind of sleep.

Honey, I’ll be so glad when you retire. I don’t like your hours. Coming home so late makes me worry. My wife wasn’t just worried because I got home late; she was concerned because I had developed night blindness.

Truth be told, I didn't like my work schedule either. But it was the only thing that Delta Staffing Job Placement Services had to offer, and what they had offered me was a job at SABS, so I took it. SABS was a Site-and-Buy Showcase warehouse factory in Westchester County that made tons of marketing material, cosmetic trays, and aisle fixtures for retail stores. Every day, Monday through Friday, I would head off to work at 12:00 noon to start work at 3:00 and return home the following day, well after midnight.

It was good that my wife was worried about me getting home when most people were already asleep, because worrying brought an anxious soul to prayer. Though I wasn’t worried, I was concerned that one day I would never return to her, and one night in particular almost turned out that way…

The BX17 bus squealed to a stop at the corner of Crotona Avenue and 182nd Street, two blocks up from Prospect, and I stepped off. The air was hot and still, and the street lights at that intersection were completely out, making the dark night dangerously darker. Across the street, shadowy figures of youths, seven or eight, maybe more, were all leaning against the brick wall of a school building, and as soon as they laid eyes on me, they began to stir. On the opposite side of that corner block, another group of young men approached and settled quietly in front of a bodega that had closed for the night. I crossed the street in the middle of the quiet intersection to avoid any friction among them, only to find myself being stared down by two rival gangs.

Then a darkened vehicle crept up behind me. I was being followed.

Immediately, everyone dispersed wildly through the streets when the vehicle let out a sharp whooping sound and the night lit up with flashing red and blue lights.

A police cruiser!

I sucked in the hot summer air, blew out the tension that had built up in me, and hurried down the block to my building on Clinton Avenue. Someone must have tipped off the police that gang activity would be brewing that night, and the cops showed up just in time.

Merlene came to the door as soon as I walked in after climbing up four flights. The building did not have an elevator, but with the adrenaline rushing through my legs, I didn’t need one. I told her what had happened, and we prayed. She was so glad no harm had come to me. But as we lay in bed, holding hands and seeking sleep, the words, "gunshot wound," echoed in my brain, and the entire scene played again like a dreadful movie I did not want to watch. I was certain God had spared my life that night, for if the police had not shown up when they did, I would have been caught in the crossfire between two groups of angry young men…

My wife drew closer to me and yanked the blankets over both of us. Her bare feet touched mine, and she wrapped an arm around my waist, looking for warmth.

Is it cold in here? she said. Or is it just me?

I’m fine. I took her hand again. Her fingers were like ice, and puffy, like the small Brown & Serve beef sausages she had every morning with grits and hard-boiled eggs.

I began massaging the raised area of skin beneath her right wrist with my fingertips. The surgical scar would be a permanent reminder of that awful day when I left her at the laundromat and, a short time later, she ended up in the hospital.

Pop, she said. Please help me lose weight.

I rolled toward her. I have—for the longest.

When?

Don’t you notice I don’t eat junk food? I said. And how about all the times I bring home a bag of fruit that you won’t even touch? You know, it would do you well to come with me on long walks. Maybe even jog a little again.

Babe, I’m not as healthy as you, she said. I can’t even keep up with you when you’re walking. I’m just too heavy.

I started to feel bad in the sudden silence that filled the room. How I missed those early days of our relationship, when Merlene was healthy and slim and could run. She was a twig of a girl when I first met her, weighing in at ninety-nine pounds with her church shoes on. She and I used to go out on jogging dates once a week on Saturdays. There was never any handholding, hugging, or kissing involved. We were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company. Now, thinking of how Merlene and I had gotten together, I saw right away that she was not at all like the first two girlfriends I had, who threw themselves on me with reckless abandon, only to trash me several months later. The Merlene I came to know was a decent young lady who, in a short time, gained my respect. Then, as I gradually got to know her, a passion began to well up, which drove me to hide my secret love. I was certain that if I revealed my true feelings to her at that time, I would have lost her friendship.

Babe, I said to her. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.

Now she wouldn’t talk to me, and the room was quieter than before. But my wife wasn’t angry at me. Not really. She was just silently lamenting the shape she was in. I was lying next to a woman who was carrying fifty more pounds than I would ever weigh, and it slipped my mind that it wasn’t all her fault. My wife ran a pharmacy of steroid laced medications, which she needed to combat her various ailments for the sake of her health. But despite the 220-pounds of weight she carried on her small frame, it didn’t matter to me. I loved her just the way she was.

Suddenly, Merlene let out a hearty laugh.

What’s so funny?

You, babe. I just remembered a joke you played on me one day with a piece of fruit.

The joke came back to me. Our first apartment.

On the Grand Concourse. You went to the kitchen to bring me a bag of chips. But when I opened it, there was a banana inside.

Now I laughed.

Suddenly, she kicked off the blankets and let out an angry huff.

Oh, man, she griped. Now I’m burning up!

I was always so grateful that God had created me to be a man. Now I was doubly grateful. Menopause was always the reason that men would pause to wonder about the internal mechanics of women after they reached a certain age and the suffering that constantly ensued.

You should be glad you’re not a woman, Merlene said.

I was just thinking that.

My wife was done cuddling up to me now. It would only make her skin hotter and keep her awake and moody.

My wrist hurts, she whined softly.

It’s those screws and everything you do to aggravate your wrist.

I think so, too, she answered.

Those screws were the worst part of the distal radius surgery; far worse than the titanium plates they held in place.

That awful pain in her wrist, she often described, only returned with unforgiving vengeance when she overworked her chubby little fingers. It meant she had been at it for hours without taking a break to rest her tired wrist, sitting in the living room rocking chair by the window, working her magic on a knitting outfit she would give to someone as a gift to make good on a promise she had made. She would knit for a moment, then look through the window at the dark sky. Then, she would continue knitting and pause again, staring at the midnight clouds, as though Jesus was coming for her at any moment.

I miss daddy, she said quietly.

The horrible scream she let out that day came back to me as soon as she mentioned Daddy.

Daddy was Nathan McDow, Merlene’s father. His name, along with his wife’s name, Hattie, was etched on a thin, gold-colored plate, secured just below the turning hands of the grandfather clock in the dining area. Every time I changed the time on the clock, one hour forward, to prepare for daylight saving time, or one hour back, to prepare for the fall and eastern daylight time, Merlene would ask me if we had enough life insurance in case something happened to her.

Why do you have to knit without taking a break? I asked. That’s the reason your wrist hurts so much.

I wanted to finish the baby sweater and hat for Rosanne’s daughter, she confessed. You know she’s having a baby, right?

Roseanne Rosado was one of Merlene’s closest friends, having met each other in their late teens at the English department of John 3:16 before the church moved to the synagogue on Grand Concourse. There was absolutely nothing those two would not do for each other. They had been friends for over forty years and knitted together often.

My wife was all wound up now and couldn’t sleep. But I needed sleep. I felt for her hand and massaged the surgical scar beneath her right wrist again.

That feels good, she said. It reminds me of our first date when we went ice skating.

I thought our first date was at Seasons.

No, she said. It was ice skating. You were so shy about holding my hand to dance around the rink with me. But that’s what attracted me to you—that boyish shyness of yours.

I continued the massage treatment for a long while until the bedroom grew quiet and she began to gently snore. Her pain was gone now—but not mine. Something gnawed in my spirit that I couldn’t shake; something that made me very much afraid.

I held on to my wife’s thick fingers, swollen from over-knitting, and a memory returned. It happened two months after the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster, which claimed the lives of seven astronauts, when I first touched her hands…

The Christian Condominium was located between Wallace and Barnes Avenues on Pelham Parkway South, a short drive from the 250-acre New York Botanical Garden on Fordham Road. In reality, the apartments weren’t condos, they were rental units, and the building didn’t carry the name Christian over the bricked archway garden entrance. The Christian condominium was simply a six-story prewar tenement building off the number 5 El train where more than twelve families from the congregation of Love Gospel Assembly resided back in the 1980s. So many members of our church lived there that the building was nicknamed The Christian Condominium, and the name stuck.

I entered the ceramic-tiled lobby, rode the elevator, and got off on the fourth floor. The apartment number struck me when I first saw it on the invitation: 4-F. That was a classification in the Selective Service System identifying a person as unfit for military duty.

The invitation card read: Singles Fellowship, 7:00 o’clock. It was now 7:35. This was going to be a challenge. I had been attending Love Gospel for six years since becoming a Christian, and this was the very first time I had gone someplace other than the actual church building to socialize. Thinking of that now, I wish I had arrived before anything had begun. That way, I wouldn’t have to look into a bunch of eyes staring at me as I walked in.

I received the invitation from a church greeter named Fabia, a Hispanic, cheerful girl with a small, thin nose and long, wavy hair. She handed me a sealed card one Sunday morning as I entered the church’s foyer to attend service, and when I took a pew and opened the small envelope, I was surprised. But what surprised me more was that I had actually shown up at the door in the first place. Six years was a long time for anyone not to socialize with believers outside of a regular church service. Six years for me was a given.

I rapped on the door gently, and someone answered it right away. It was Fabia, the cheerful Hispanic girl with the small, thin nose. Her wavy hair was pinned back so tightly it made her face appear thinner than it was.

There was music and noise and plenty of talking going on inside.

Nelson! Her small pretty eyes widened, and her mouth dropped a fraction. What’re you doing here?

You invited me.

Yeah, I remember, but I didn’t think you would actually come.

I’m just as surprised as you are. Fabia still couldn’t believe I was standing there. Do I need a password to come in? I only used silly wordplay when I was unsure of myself.

She pulled me in, and there I was, in a spacious apartment with high ceilings and hardwood floors. Fabia took my jacket, draped it over her arm, and ushered me into a main room of occupied chairs, snack tables, and plenty of standing people, along with an energetic DJ in the corner of the room and a stack of LPs at his disposal. This was going to be a high-energy party, full of handsome guys and pretty gals.

In the back of the room, a non-functioning fireplace had been converted into a pretty, little book nook. Modern-day living had not allowed the original fireplace to work as planned, and it was made into something practical.

I looked around at the familiar faces and recognized most of them. The rest were from other fellowships and friends of friends.

You should know most of the people here, Fabia said to me. So don’t be shy. Make yourself comfortable, enjoy the party, and make new friends.

Making friends when shyness got in the way was difficult for someone like me. In the movies, it all worked out in the end. But this was real life, and I had no idea why I decided to come.

I stood there looking for a seat I would not find.

A friend of mine named Dillon, the lead guitarist from Glad Tidings Church, approached with the first official greeting. Dillon was well into his thirties but still had a boyish face. I first met him in LGA in a discipleship class, and we hit it off right away. He was outgoing, musically talented, and had the height of a high school basketball player. When I heard him play the guitar for the first time, I knew that God would lead him to a different fellowship where he could grow comfortably in the Lord without having to compete for a chance to play in LGA’s band.

Hey, Nelson. Good to see you. Been a while. Surprised you’re here.

It’s Fabia’s doing, I said. She really knows how to trick a person into coming to an overcrowded party disguised as a small affair. The music played in my eardrums, but at least I could hear myself think. Here by yourself?

I’m with my girlfriend. Her name is Dolly. You gotta meet her. She’s great.

Sounds like she’s the one.

I hope so, Dillon said. But I want to make sure. Marriage is supposed to last a lifetime.

He sounded like he wasn’t in a rush. Didn’t know you were seeing someone.

Five years now, he said. What about you?

I’m waiting on the Lord. I really had a better answer than that, but I didn’t want to say it.

Well, don’t wait too long, Dillon said. They’re plenty of nice-looking ladies here this evening. You never know.

Unfortunately, I’ve fallen into the habit of judging a book by its cover, I said. True beauty is skin deep. I learned that the hard way.

You’re either playing it cautious or you’ve been burned, he said. And I can’t say being cautious is a bad thing. More people started arriving at the party, and I gave a look. This was getting too crowded for me. If you’re feeling out of place, Dillon said, join me in the back. Hector and the guys are there. You know Hector, right?

I know him well enough. Catch up with you later.

Sure thing, he said, moving away. Just don’t stand there all night.

Did he have to say that so loud?

A voice called out from the tables across the room.

Nelson! It was Hector: a short guy with plenty of curly hair and a mouth full of prickly humor. You finally crawled out of your turtle shell.

One of his buddies put in a clipped laugh, and I ignored it.

Be nice, Fabia said as she came my way. A fast-beat pop song by Amy Grant, Walking Away with You, played loudly over the stereo speakers, and Fabia did a risqué dance, moving through the party crowd.

The melody was catchy, but Fabia’s dance moves were unnecessary.

Someone clapped me on the back, and I gave a look. It was the captain of the church’s street ministry, a tall Puerto-Rican Italian guy named Joe Zanetti. He reminded me a bit of Johnny Depp. He pushed back a lock of handsome hair away from his forehead and offered me a Coke.

Immediately, the ice cold from the can’s surface went through the bones of my fingers.

I’m glad you came, he said. Have you given any thought to joining the tract team?

I remembered when I first met Joe Zanetti. He was like an eager Marine at a recruiting station. We need a few good men, he said with urgency that day. Think I would do okay?

If you’re one of those who never knows what to say, I could team you up with one of the girls.

The Coke can made a hissing sound when I popped it open. What girl? I took a quick, nervous gulp and the carbonation fizzed suddenly in my nostrils, causing me to cough until the rest of the carbon dioxide gas trapped in my throat was released.

You okay?

Now I really felt self-conscious. Yeah, fine.

Know Blanquita? Zanetti asked.

Blanca Diaz, aka, Blanquita, was a friendly, smiley girl, the thinnest girl I had ever seen. She wore shoe-length dresses to church and always kept her black hair hanging loose, straight down the length of her back. We’ve spoken, I answered.

"Well, she’s just as quiet as you. She gives out tracts to people as they walk by and says, God bless you. What's so hard about that?"

What was hard about it was that it didn't sound like good evangelism. That one-liner just wouldn’t do. God bless you; did you get one of these? sounded better.

I finished the rest of my drink with several fast gulps but kept the can in my hand, just to have something to hold on to.

Someone called out to Joe Zanetti, and he stepped away.

A pleasant-looking girl from the back of the room, wearing a church-style hair bun, recognized me and came through the chattering crowd.

I always see you in church, she said, her slim hand waiting for a handshake. I’m Yvette.

I returned her greeting, taking her hand in mine.

Her smooth limp hand felt like a dead fish.

She took a stab at my name. Nestor?

Nelson, I said, trying to guess her age. She looked older than her hands suggested. My thought was that she was still waiting for a love relationship that had probably passed her by. Maybe if she dropped the grandma bun for something more stylish, she would attract a guy.

Yvette had two younger sisters she always kept company with, Corazón and Paloma. Every Sunday, the three ladies sat close together in the back of the church, like pretty little doves on a tree branch. They all wore long, decent skirts, and they all wore their hair the exact same way, in a perfectly formed traditional church bun. Every time the Spirit got to moving in the service, the gals would quiver at the same time, and every time they quivered, their perfect Pentecostal buns would come loose, and their dark hair would cascade down to their hips. Such a holy moment was hard not to notice.

You’ve been in Love Gospel for a long time, right? she said.

A number of years now. Same as you.

Why didn’t you ever talk to me?

Her question silenced me for a quick moment. Waiting for the right time, I guess. It wasn’t a completely honest answer, but it sounded that way.

I think the real reason is you’re shy, she said. I like shy men.

I gave her a smile, wondering if she was hitting on me. I knew she didn’t have a boyfriend. None of her sisters did. It was simply church knowledge. Perhaps she was just being friendly to ease me out of my comfort zone.

What you need is a special friend—and lots of socializing, she said. And not just with guys.

What I really needed was to end a secret pain in my aching chest from the last girlfriend I had twelve years earlier. But I doubted that being an introvert at a Christian singles party would solve that. "Is that the reason you think I’m here—to find a special friend?"

You’re here because Fabia likes to matchmake. She notices those who are quiet in church and throws parties like this, hoping to bring them together.

Playing a church version of the Dating Game Show didn’t sound biblical. What if it backfired and two people got together who didn’t belong together? There was such a thing as being unequally yoked, even between two Christians. I just hoped that didn’t happen to me tonight, tomorrow night, or any other night.

Does the pastor know about this? The pastor I was referring to was Rosalie Hernandez of the singles department in LGA. I was certain she would hotly disapprove of parties with an underlying agenda, even if it was labeled as a Christian fellowship.

Does she need to know? Yvette said with a wink.

The conversation began to flatten out, and I was ready to move to another part of the big room instead of just standing there.

Yvette rested her hand on my arm. I’m glad you came out tonight, she said with a beseeching smile. I enjoyed talking to you. We should do this more often.

I should, but not to one of Fabia’s dating-game parties.

Well, next time we meet in church, I’ll introduce you to my younger sisters. You really do need friends.

A fast-beat Benny Hester song from the album Legacy blared through the stereo speakers, and the talkative crowd came alive.

Fabia danced her way through the crowd and grabbed Yvette, taking her across the room to break up a small clique of guys by introducing a woman into the mix. Fabia was truly in her element, busy at work, but matchmaking was not one of the gifts of the Spirit. I knew nothing at all about women, but I did know it would take much more than matchmaking or natural chemistry to bring a guy and a girl together. Physical attraction was not enough. God had to be in it. This time I knew.

Benny Hester’s song, Closer, was followed by Sensitive Heart. The background vocals sounded exactly like the Beach Boys, and the music of the bass drum and electric guitar was pure magnetism in a party filled with searching men and hopeful women.

A friendly debate broke out by the snack table where Dillon had gone, and I sauntered over. The group of guys were either talking politics, movies, or sports.

Here comes a smart-looking man right now, Hector said. Let’s ask him.

The guys let me join their circle, and I warmed up to them right away.

Who’s your pick for the World Series winner this year? Hector fired. And be honest.

Well, I said, If the Mets don’t do it, then the Yankees will.

One of the guys patted me on the back. It was Dillon.

That’s a safe answer, buddy, Hector said. But it’s straddling the fence. You gotta pick one—Yankees or Mets.

The Mets, I said boldly."

How do you figure? Hector shot.

I realized I had just ruffled the feathers of a die-hard Yankee fan.

The statistics, I answered. The Mets have more momentum from last year than the Yankees do. It was time for me to get a refill on the soda—from the opposite side of the room.

Go back to your turtle shell, brother, I heard Hector say across the crowded room.

I replaced the empty can of soda with another Coke and found an empty seat by the book-nook fireplace.

Smooth dancing Fabia came out from the kitchen in the back and saw me sitting alone.

Enjoying yourself? she said.

Only on this side of the room.

She looked over her shoulder at Hector and the guys still debating back there. Sit tight, Fabia said. Let me get someone you’ll be more comfortable with.

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned hand in hand with a young, thin black girl. Her sweetheart blouse highlighted her apple-shaped face, and suddenly my chest swelled.

You’re done working in the kitchen for this evening, Fabia said to her. Sit here with Nelson—and thank you for helping out.

The girl laid her quiet eyes on me, and then she sat. I was so relieved it was someone I knew; someone I could spend the evening with without an anxious thought that this was a matchmaking attempt by Fabia. But two quiet people sitting together could be just as uncomfortable as a shy person sitting alone.

She gave me a distant smile, and right away I knew there was something wrong. She was the kind of girl who went straight home after a crowded church service. From what I had observed over the years since I first laid eyes on her, she was not a big talker, and that was okay.

When did you get here? I said to Merlene.

Very early. I just like staying out of sight.

Don’t care for party crowds? I said.

She wrinkled her nose at me. You?

The party scene isn’t my thing either, I said.

Why are you here then?

That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I would rack my tired brain all night attempting to solve that question. How I had managed to come through the front door with dozens of eyes pressed on me and loud music kicking against my ribcage would always remain a mystery.

Merlene took a moment to scan the active crowd before laying eyes on me again. She and I had flirted with a mild friendship over the past five years, but the friendship stayed shallow and never deepened. That was because three months over the course of summer was not enough time for a solid friendship to bloom. At the end of each May, she would return home from Providence, Rhode Island, where she attended Zion Bible Institute, and the first week in September she would pack her bags and head right back. Dorm life was probably like living in a suitcase, and I knew that one day she would want to put down roots somewhere and perhaps settle down. But now that she had graduated and gotten a degree, maybe things would go smoother for her. I sincerely hoped that one day God would bring a nice guy into her life.

Been here long? she asked.

Long enough for me to realize I wish I’d stayed home to read.

Oh, don’t say that, she said, looking like she felt sorry for me. I’m glad you’re here. I was hoping to find someone to talk to tonight.

Did something happen? I asked.

She sighed before answering. My mother died today of cancer.

The news shortened my breath for a split second. I’m so sorry to hear that. I placed my hands gently over hers, but quickly withdrew them. Her skin felt incredibly soft. If that were my mom, I would’ve been too sad to go anywhere. Why are you here instead of being home?

Merlene said, "Because I’m