Oh Death, Where Was Thou Sting

By Ruben Bowens

This book deals with the tragedies, triumphs, and miracles pertaining to five near-death experiences and finding victory in life through unexpected circumstances. This book delves into the life of a sighted teenager who suddenly loses his sight and having to adjust to the world and navigating life as a blind person and the obstacles one must overcome--the enormous challenges of competing with the sighted world through business and employment and the social aspects of life.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887519920

Book preview

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Oh Death, Where Was Thou Sting

Ruben Bowens

ISBN 979-8-88751-991-3 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88751-993-7 (hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-88751-992-0 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Ruben Bowens

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.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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Finding Victory in Life—The Remix

About the Author

1

Life's Unexpected Interruptions

Being nearly shot to death is something that I never saw coming. I grew up in the days of small-town life and of Michael Jackson and his four brothers. My life is an anomaly that you will find as you read on.

There wasn't a transistor radio in our southern town of Wilson, North Carolina, not grooving to their new sound. ABC, Rockin' Robin, Never Can Say Goodbye—the world had never heard anything like it. The brothers from Gary, Indiana, transformed young black boys my age, making us want to be cool and impress the girls. Perfectly blown out Afros like Michael wore became the coveted style. Guys with the big 'fros got the pretty girls.

I remember to this day the girl I was trying to impress. Her name was Izet. She worked at her grandmother's neighborhood store during the summer. Every time I'd get a nickel or dime, I would run around the corner to buy cookies, gum, or anything else, hoping that she would lay her beautiful eyes on me. I knew she'd turn her head if I had an awesome 'fro. Like all young men my age, we knew exactly what to do: suffer through applying a jar of blowout cream on our tender scalps. It would burn a little, but it would be worth it. I took an Afro pick and began to pick the hell out of my hair, and it was fluffy, soft, and round, just like Michael's.

I quickly gathered the change I had on the dresser and ran as fast as I could to the store so that Izet could glance at my superb hair that looked just like the magazine ads. Though it wasn't as massive as the Jackson 5's hair, it did rate on the 'fro scale as a TWA (Teeny Weeny Afro). Hopefully, she'd give me a chance.

I felt so confident. I was on top of the world. No one had ever told me that perspiration would make your 'fro shrink. I had run so fast that I was a sweating mess by the time I got to the store, and so was my hair. The glory was gone, replaced by tight naps rolled up all over my head. Izet and I never happened. Unexpected sweat had interrupted my perfect plan. Embarrassed, not even looking up at her, I quickly made my purchase and left the store.

I learned a lesson that day. Life could change in unexpected moments and deflate your confidence. I didn't get what I wanted that day. Yet I needed to stay on track, make my purchase, and move on. Little did I know that three years later, I would need that lesson more than ever.

It was an ordinary day in 1974 when an unexpected storm blew into my life, just like the day had been when I'd gone to see Izet. Matter of fact, it was on Friday, February 13, a day when boys my age would normally be preparing to connect with some girl for Valentine's Day.

My mind was on Deborah Thorp. She was my current girl of interest. I do remember having a slight crush on my English teacher, Miss Sanders. She had the prettiest and biggest eyes that I'd ever seen. I couldn't stop focusing on them. This woman had all my young hormones tied up in a big knot. I surely hoped that she'd never suspected that I was into her. But this particular day, she seemed to treat me differently. Had she noticed? Had she heard about my crush, overhearing a conversation from one of my friends?

I came to class and didn't have my English book because someone had broken into my locker and stolen it. I explained to her what happened and asked if I could share a book with someone. She snapped, Absolutely not! No one is going to sit in my class without his or her book!

I was surprised because I was a good student, and she had always treated me well. She looked at me differently as if my very presence irritated her. Could she have caught one of my glances? Surely, all teachers know that young boys crush on them if they are beautiful; it's a hormone thing. Worse, she sent me to the principal's office. His sentence was unjust, swift, and sure. It made me wonder, had she been talking to him about it as well? All of this was probably my imagination, but I was grasping at straws to understand the huge shift in their attitudes. Perhaps this was even ominous as the day was the superstitiously held Friday the thirteenth.

Mr. Foxwell, the principal, paid no attention to the fact that I had never been in any trouble at school or suspended for any reason. In his eyes, I was a troublesome black male. Go home until you get the money to pay for a new book.

I was pissed. I had been betrayed by my teacher and ousted by the man in authority at my school. A thief, a betrayer, and an insensitive man wielding unjust power had interrupted my ordinary day. I handled the situation just as I had handled it that day that I was embarrassed with Izet in the store—I moved on.

Life is strange. It twists and bends in both the best and most bizarre ways. You never know how it will spin nor the impact that it will leave behind. Life can be kind and it can be cruel. I've experienced both. No one could ever have predicted that I would be in the back of a howling ambulance, desperately clinging onto my very life in less than an hour of obeying the command of the principal, heaving to pull in my next breath. Blood was pouring from my head as if a damn had burst. At fifteen years old, I lay dying all because of a stolen English textbook.

*****

Excruciating could not even describe the searing pain my body was in. Had I been nailed to a cross? Church sermons I'd heard as a child vividly expounded upon the tortuous, merciless hands of the Romans during crucifixion. The crushing spike-sized thorns in Jesus's head had to feel like the gunshot in mine. I was weaving in and out of consciousness as the paramedics scrambled to save my life. Jesus—I knew he was there, had to be because I wasn't dead. This would be the first of many times he'd snatched me from death's menacing fate.

If the pain had not been so real, I would have sworn that I'd overslept and never went to school that day. I must have only been lying in my bed, having an absolute nightmare. Yet, when they strapped the oxygen mask over my face, I knew that this was life in real time. Something inside of me clung to life's frail thread. I wasn't ready to walk into the light, even though I knew that heaven would offer me a much better existence than I'd had down here.

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you are staring death in the face. I was glad to be spared of those flashes. I was suspended somewhere between heaven and earth. I'd lost too much blood to think. But had I been able to think, I wouldn't have wanted to reflect on this part of my upbringing. I was living with an aunt and uncle to bring relief to that drama I was experiencing at home with my step-grandmother. I was a good child in a dysfunctional life.

In my fifteen years of existence, I'd barely known my mother and never knew my father. I knew my mother's name—Queene Ester Bowens. I'd heard bits and pieces about her life. We were separated when I was two years old and were reunited twenty years later. My father was a man named Abraham Mosley. My mother once told me that I looked just like him. I would love to have met that handsome man.

The stories that I heard from my family concerning my mother weren't things that you'd want to talk about. She'd run away from home before graduating from high school and was considered fast, meaning that she loved boys. My grandfather couldn't control his daughter because according to them, she was not prone to listen to him, especially when it concerned matters about staying in school. Adding to that, she didn't get along with my grandfather's second wife.

It wasn't until