The Devil in Pew Number Seven Part 16

As I pushed open the side sliding-gla.s.s door, a distinct hush fell on the room. All eyes were immediately fixed on me-which felt strange, as if I were some kind of endangered species being studied. Why was I suddenly the center of attention? I was just a kid. Since I hadn't done anything wrong, I knew I couldn't be in trouble. When I said, "Hi, everyone," with a wave of my hand, they responded with a somber "Hi" that seemed to fit the restrained mood.

Scanning the room for a clue as to what was happening, I noticed my pastor sitting on the sofa with a number of my extended family members. For some reason the sight of him heightened my fears. This gathering wasn't for a wedding, it wasn't a Bible study, and it wasn't for a meal. That left very few options as to why he was present. Besides, upon closer inspection I noticed several people clutching wads of crumpled tissue.

Not good.

I was directed down the hall to the last bedroom on the left. Iknew it was Aunt Dot's bedroom, which, at first, made me wonder if she had fallen ill. For a fleeting moment I was relieved to discover Aunt Dot was fine. After I settled on the edge of the bed, Iwas informed that Daddy had pa.s.sed away earlier that morning. The words knocked the wind out of me, striking me with the force of a jolt of electricity.

More words of explanation came . . . something about a blood clot lodged in his heart took his life . . . he was now at peace with Jesus ... Daddy was reunited with Momma . . . but I was too numb to care. Never in a thousand years would I have expected to hear that news. Daddy was just forty-six years old. He was way too young to die. Iturned on my heels and ran out of the house screaming "Noooooo!" at the top of my lungs.

Shaking uncontrollably as if standing on the epicenter of an earthquake, I collapsed. Still shrieking out my disbelief, I didn't care what anybody might have thought about the scene I was making. My heart was shattered into a million fragile pieces. The grief was beyond comprehension. I had no strength to cope with the finality of his death.

First Momma. Now Daddy.

Gone.

When Momma was gunned down, I didn't get to say good-bye to her. And now, without warning, Daddy died when I was at school. Once again I didn't get the chance to say a final good-bye. It just didn't seem fair. I would have given anything anything to have been at his side, to have hugged and kissed him one last time. to have been at his side, to have hugged and kissed him one last time.

I think his death hurt me at such a core level because after losing Momma, Daddy had made me a promise: He pledged he would never leave Daniel or me. Like a prizefighter before stepping into the ring, Daddy had a rock-solid focus in his eyes as he spoke. That look a.s.sured me that he meant every word of his commitment. His words provided the security I needed to face the world. Now the words ran through my mind as a reminder that the promise he had made had been broken.

At just fourteen, I was an orphan.

What was I going to do without Daddy? Who would teach me how to drive? Who would screen my dates? Who would walk me down the aisle on my wedding day? I can't say I had all of these thoughts immediately upon hearing the tragic news. And yet somehow, some part of me knew my world would never, ever be the same without Daddy.

A few minutes after I went back inside the house, Danny arrived. I was with him in the back bedroom when he was told that Daddy had died. He fell across the bed, sobbing his little heart out. Watching him fall apart intensified my pain. I was hurting for both of us now. How could two young hearts bear so much grief?

At nine, Danny had been getting into sports. Daddy had been so proud of his progress. But now my brother wouldn't have his father cheering him on. Who would take Danny hunting and fis.h.i.+ng? Who would mentor him into becoming a young man? Who would teach him how to love, respect, and court the hand of a woman? In a way, Danny needed Daddy even more than I did. Daddy was supposed to be Danny's compa.s.s on the road to manhood. Without him, that road would be a long and difficult journey.

I wanted him back.

Daddy's funeral was held on October 11, 1984, at the Belmany Mortuary in Mobile. Three ministers gathered together to officiate the celebration of Daddy's homecoming-Ernest Miller, Daddy's lifelong friend who knew him from the early days when Daddy got saved; Kenneth Draughon, Daddy's pastor at the time; and Mitch.e.l.l Smith, Daddy's a.s.sistant pastor from Sellerstown.

People traveled from across the country to honor the man they admired. In a way, I wasn't surprised. Daddy had led hundreds of people to the Lord. He had planted churches in several states. He had been driven to pursue the lost and feed his flock. He had preached faithfully under fire and had been willing to lay down his life, if necessary, to care for his congregation. No wonder when it was time to sing "Heaven's Sounding Sweeter All the Time," the packed service erupted in praise.

I listened to the music while looking at Daddy's casket. I remembered something he once told me: "Rebecca, if anything ever happens to me, don't go to my grave. I'm not there." I knew he couldn't wait to shed his earthly sh.e.l.l and get a new body, one that was free from pain. He didn't want my brother and me to mourn over an empty grave.

During the family's private viewing, I noticed that Daddy's hair wasn't quite right. It didn't make sense to me why someone didn't comb his hair to the side. I wanted him to look his best, so I took my brush out of my purse to fix his hair as he lay in the casket. Tucking the brush back into my purse, I reached in to touch his hand the way I had with Momma just seven years earlier. I had to hold the hand that had held mine so many times before.

I tried to imagine the joy Daddy would receive in heaven after all he had sacrificed to bring his heavenly Father glory. I know his face had to have been beaming as bright as the sun when Momma walked up to him to say, "I've been waiting for you!" My parents were both gone, but they were together. They were safe forever in the presence of Jesus. Proverbs 10:25 says, "When the storms of life come, the wicked are whirled away, but the G.o.dly have a lasting foundation" (NLT). That was the good news.

However, I was old enough to really understand my personal loss. I knew what it felt like to live without Momma in my life for the last seven years. Admittedly, after Daddy's funeral I didn't experience the same sense of peace I had felt when Momma died. In fact, I had quite the opposite reaction.

When Momma died, I knew it was because a man shot her.

When Daddy died, I felt as if G.o.d took him from me.

I blamed G.o.d. Why couldn't He just heal my daddy?

Although I confess that my first reaction was to blame G.o.d, I'm grateful I was in church three times a week-Sunday morning and evening and Wednesday night in my youth group. I believe staying in fellows.h.i.+p with other believers, hearing about G.o.d's goodness, coupled with my personal journaling and Bible study, kept my anger at G.o.d from taking up a permanent home in my heart. And when the early signs of anger began to surface, Aunt Dot, my youth pastor, and his wife helped pray me through it.

I can see why I struggled with depression at times as a teenager. I was a prime candidate for medication, although I didn't take any. My depression was rooted in a combination of issues. There was the trauma I experienced at the hands of Mr. Watts during my childhood. There was the string of new schools, new friends, and the uncertainties that came with the transition whenever we relocated. But losing both both of my parents was so emotionally over-the-top, the weight of my feelings knocked me to the floor. of my parents was so emotionally over-the-top, the weight of my feelings knocked me to the floor.

I could tell Daniel was doing his best to cope too. He and I shared an unspoken sadness: the missing, the hurt, the loss, and, yes, the questioning why we had been asked to endure so much injustice and pain. I could see the haze of trauma lingering in his eyes even if he didn't say a word. I tried to be there for Daniel when I was home, and yet I was torn between supporting him and trying to stay busy with friends and activities, hoping that in some way, somehow, I might outrun the nagging feelings of grief that nipped at my heels.

For me, the first two years after Daddy died-when I was fourteen to sixteen-were the hardest. I literally sat in the corner of my room, staring at nothing for hours. I wondered how my life had come to such a place of emptiness. I couldn't imagine ever experiencing the "green pastures" promised in Psalm 23. I wanted to move forward with my life but felt as if I had been stuck on the pause b.u.t.ton. I didn't want to accept the fact that there were things in my life I couldn't change-forget about trying to deal with the nitty-gritty of living in the present.

And the future? That was too overwhelming to envision. I needed the steady hand of my father to keep my free spirit tethered to earth. His spiritual leaders.h.i.+p was essential to my understanding of who G.o.d is. I needed Momma's guidance to walk me through the changes that were happening to my body and my emotions. I had neither. Instead, I felt wrung out and hopelessly broken.

I even tried hanging out with friends from school who weren't Christians. I figured maybe they could provide some escape from the questions and pain that constantly taunted me. But the more time I spent with them, the more confused I became. I quickly noticed that these friends didn't exhibit any sense of inner peace. And regarding the choices they made, they trusted in their own ways rather than seeking G.o.d's wisdom. Grandpa Welch used to say, "Some children are trained-others just grow up!" I knew I had been trained in the ways of G.o.d; trying to live any other way would not bring me peace.

Yet I remained fractured.

Here's the best way I can describe those years. Imagine taking seven different one thousandpiece puzzles. Then, imagine doing the unthinkable-mixing them all together in one giant pile. Then, after you've created the mess, you look at the pictures on the various boxes and realize there are tons of pieces of nondescript sky and fields of gra.s.s. Your job is to re-create the seven puzzles. That's when it dawns on you it might take a lifetime to figure out which pieces fit into which puzzle.

Is it any wonder I was depressed?

Thankfully, Daniel and I had Aunt Dot. At age forty-six, single, living with and caring for her parents, Aunt Dot chose to love us with everything she had as if we were her own children. She made sure we had our homework finished, our lunches packed, and our breakfast eaten before getting us off to school on time-while getting ready for her own full-time job. That was no easy task.

For years Aunt Dot was bivocational, working as a paralegal while doing ministry as a missionary in India and Africa. She tripled her workload the moment she made the decision to become a single parent for her brother's children. I later learned that in her twenties, Aunt Dot felt that G.o.d had spoken to her in her heart not to marry. She wrestled with that for years. She wanted children. Her mothering instincts drove her to seek a mate, settle down, and raise children. Why, then, did G.o.d ask such a difficult thing of her? After Daddy died, G.o.d's leading made perfect sense.

She would have children, just not biologically.

Not only did Aunt Dot provide comfort and the security that blossoms from the rich soil of a loving home, she counseled me through this fragile time. She helped me realize that I could only take each day as it came. She encouraged me not to dwell on all that had happened nor fret over what the future might be like without my parents. She said the best thing I could do was to ask Jesus to reach down and pick me up. I had to be totally dependent on Him, to be okay without knowing all the answers to the questions echoing inside of me.

In time, I came to see that only G.o.d could take my impossible situation and make sense of it. As I leaned into Him, He looked at my upside-down world and said, "Becky, do you think that's hard or complicated for Me to sort out?" Before I could give all my justified reasons for wondering, fretting, and failing to exercise the faith that, indeed, the task wasn't impossible for Him, He snapped His fingers, and everything fell into place.

No, I didn't get my parents back. But I was able to rest in the knowledge that He knew where, and how, all the pieces of my life should fit together. I knew He said in the Bible that He's a father to the fatherless and to the brokenhearted. I was both, so we had a perfect fit. There was one more insight I came to embrace.

I needed G.o.d more than I needed to blame G.o.d.

One of Daddy's final wishes was for his sister, my aunt Dot, to adopt us if he were to die. In the summer of 1986, two years after his death, the adoption was complete. I was sixteen, and Danny was eleven. Aunt Dot did an incredible job filling in for my parents. She made sure we were able to partic.i.p.ate in school activities and sports, and since we were living with her at my grandparents' house, we saw our uncles, aunts, and cousins often. Her desire was to provide for us a sense of family unity while protecting us from any more harm, which is why she made a point of knowing who my friends were, what we were doing, where we were going, and who was calling for me at the house. She knew we had experienced a lifetime of hurt already. The last thing she wanted was for another crisis to rock our world. And, as G.o.d would have it, for the better part of a year things were calm.

That's when the phone rang.

There was nothing ominous or unusual about the ring.

I was in the family room watching television, too preoccupied with my show to break away from the action. I continued to watch as Aunt Dot answered the call and, for a few minutes, talked to the caller in muted tones. She asked the man to hold and, with her hand covering the receiver, called me to her side. She appeared guarded, as if contemplating the wisdom of handing me the phone.

"Becky . . ."

"Yes, Aunt Dot?"

"There's someone who wants to speak with you."

"Okay-" I reached for the phone. She hesitated. She didn't immediately hand it to me. I wondered what was driving her reluctance. She seemed to be studying me, searching my face for the answer to an unspoken question. As I learned later, she was weighing the decision whether to crack open a doorway to the past. She understood she couldn't shelter me forever. There would be a time to confront the events that took place on Sellerstown Road.

Evidently, she decided that time had come.

"Honey, it's Mr. Watts. He'd like to speak with you."

My heart exploded against my chest.

"Mr. Watts? From Sellerstown?" I felt my face flush.

"Yes . . . but Becky," she said, her voice dripping with caution, "you don't have to take the call if you don't want to, okay?"

I took the call. I placed the phone to the side of my head as my heart pounded out warning signals that pulsated around the edge of my ears.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Hi, Becky. This is Mr. Watts."

His voice was painfully familiar to me ten years after we'd left Sellerstown. The husky, gravelly tone triggered a rush of mental images of the man . . . pacing the street in front of our house, under a full moon, in his pajamas and brown fedora hat . . . shaking his fist at our car as we drove home . . . and cutting up in church, trying to distract Daddy from pew number seven.

"Hi, Mr. Watts."

It was about all I could think to say at the moment. The truth was, I hadn't spent any time rehearsing what I'd say to him if, by chance, I ever spoke with him again. I had no prior plans to read Mr. Watts the riot act for what he'd done to me and my family, and that didn't change with him on the other end of the line.

"Becky, I know talking with me might be difficult for you. I don't mean to make you feel uncomfortable-"

"Don't worry, Mr. Watts. I'm fine."

"Well, then, what I have to say won't take but a minute." He paused. At first I thought the line went dead. Then I got the impression that someone-Mr. Watts?-was fighting back tears on the other end of the connection. He continued. "Becky, I'm out of prison . . . but I'm not the man you used to know. Believe me when I tell you I'm different now."

I listened. In the back of my mind something didn't make sense about the fact that Mr. Watts was out of jail so soon. We knew two of his four 5-year sentences were to be served concurrently, but that still meant he should be in jail for fifteen years. We'd later learn that Judge Britt had cut Mr. Watts's sentence to four years and then granted him parole after serving just one year.

"I . . . I was wrong for what I did to you and your family," he said, his voice catching on several of the words as he spoke. "Your parents didn't deserve any of the things I put them through. I'm sorry about what I did."

I wasn't sure where this conversation was headed, but my impression was that this couldn't be the same man who had hara.s.sed us for so long. The Mr. Watts I had known never never apologized to anyone for any reason. But here he was clearly fighting back the tears, offering me an apology. There was more. apologized to anyone for any reason. But here he was clearly fighting back the tears, offering me an apology. There was more.

"Becky, when I was in prison, I got right with G.o.d," he said, and then he broke down and sobbed.

The floodgate of repentance had opened, and Mr. Watts no longer attempted to choke back the years of regret. "I need to know that you'll forgive me for all I've done to you and your family. I can't live the rest of my life without knowing you've forgiven me. Can you?"

Mr. Watts never sounded more human.

I'm sure what I said next surprised him. I told him my brother and I did did forgive him. I told him, in fact, we had forgiven him long before he had asked for forgiveness. I explained that my parents not only taught us these words of Jesus, but they modeled them for us as well. Jesus said, "But I tell you who hear me: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you" (Luke 6:27-28, forgive him. I told him, in fact, we had forgiven him long before he had asked for forgiveness. I explained that my parents not only taught us these words of Jesus, but they modeled them for us as well. Jesus said, "But I tell you who hear me: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you" (Luke 6:27-28, NIV NIV). Mr. Watts had given me plenty of years to live out those words in my life.

And while I didn't go into many more details with him, my parents had taught me quite a number of things about forgiveness. If I found myself questioning why they didn't fight back after one of Mr. Watts's attacks, Daddy would say, "Becky, the Bible says we are to 'bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse'" (Romans 12:14, NIV NIV). To be sure, the seeds they planted in my heart took root and allowed me the freedom to forgive Mr. Watts rather than to become a prisoner of anger and resentment.

Daddy knew that Mr. Watts had been tormenting us because he, in spite of his power, money, and political connections, was a tormented man. And as I spoke with Mr. Watts that afternoon, Isensed that while he had been physically released from prison, he wouldn't be completely free until he had called me. As difficult as this might be to believe, it made me happy to see Mr. Watts set free from the guilt that he had unnecessarily carried for so long.

As I finished speaking, I could hear Mr. Watts struggling to regain his composure, fighting the tears as he expressed gratefulness for our forgiveness. While I don't remember all that he said during that first phone call, it was clear that Mr. Watts experienced the heavy burden of guilt lifting from his heart.

Before we said our good-byes, Mr. Watts told me he wanted to make some sort of rest.i.tution. He had set up trust funds for Daniel and for me to receive when we graduated from college. He made it official by putting this in his will. I was stunned and grateful. Iaccepted his kindness.

Through the next several years, we kept in touch with letters. His written words often echoed the heart of a repentant man. The hardness in his speech that frightened me as a child had melted away into a graciousness and an understanding of second chances. He truly came to the realization that we are all sinners, saved by grace. The grace exhibited by my parents was now something he knew firsthand.

Speaking of the old Mr. Watts, the last time he mailed my parents a letter, it was an unsigned threat promising we'd leave Sellerstown "crawling or walking . . . dead or alive." About a year after my first phone conversation with the new Mr. Watts, I received the following letter. His words reflected the love and care of a changed man. The contrast between these two pieces of correspondence was as polar opposite as the North is from the South.

His cold, anonymous letter had been typed to obscure any trace of the sender; this message exuded the warmth and crafting of a personally handwritten note. He had been trying for some time without success to come see me. Barring that, he wrote, August 29, 1988To: Miss Becky Nichols, Daniel, Dorothy, and Mr. and Mrs. Nichols,Greetings to all of you,Looks like it does not work out for me to go see you all. I have talked to several [drivers], none seems to want to go with me but I have not given up hopes. I do want to see you all. As you know, I am 82 years last February 16, not quite as spry as I was once. But the good Lord is helping me. I am enclosing a check for $100. Hope this will help a little. My best wishes and prayers goes with it. And if we never meet here on earth I do hope and pray we will all meet in Heaven when this life is over. May I have your prayers with mine. May G.o.d bless you all.Becky, I am treating you as good or better than any one else except my own family. I would like to see you have a new car when you graduate from college. That [is] what I have done for my 5 children who graduated. Will certainly be glad to help.Daniel, I plan to do for you the same as for Becky. Be good children. Don't smoke, drink, or do dope. It can ruin you. Please take this with love and grat.i.tude. Give my love and bestwishes to all and please pray for me.Your sincere friend,H. J. WattsP.S. My dear wife expired one year ago today. I miss her so much. Living by myself [is] so sad and lonesome. Again, remember me Becky and Daniel. I have given your names to my lawyer. You will be in my write up. We are still working on my Trust and Will. Let me hear from you when you get to college.Best wishes, H. J. W.

As difficult as it may be to believe, I accepted his apology. I don't remember hearing from Mr. Watts again after I received this letter. However, I did learn that he died from cancer in 1991.

I have no doubt that G.o.d used the sacrificial love exhibited by my parents to bring Mr. Watts to a saving faith. Although none of us saw that back when the bullets were flying through my window and the bombs were exploding outside in the yard, I can see that now. And you know what? If that's what it took to bring a lost sheep into the fold, then I'm thankful our Shepherd knew that the hards.h.i.+ps we would endure would be used for His purposes. Genesis 50:20 says, "You intended to harm me, but G.o.d intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives" (NIV).

Yes, life is hard, but G.o.d is good.

Chapter 15

No Apologies in Heaven.

"I forgive you."

Those just might be the three most difficult words in the world to say to someone who has wronged you-especially if you mean what you're saying. Come to think of it, it's even more difficult to forgive the offender before before he or she has asked for forgiveness-and virtually impossible to extend forgiveness to a person who, by all appearances, may never apologize for his or her actions. he or she has asked for forgiveness-and virtually impossible to extend forgiveness to a person who, by all appearances, may never apologize for his or her actions.

A friend of mine had a near meltdown when I told her about my first phone conversation with Mr. Watts. I had been reaching out to her for some time. One day while we were dining at a favorite lunch spot, I thought it might be a good idea to tell her the whole account. She knew I was a Christian and was peripherally aware of my early childhood trauma. While I had talked with her about G.o.d's love and His gift of forgiveness over the years, I hadn't gone into the details of my early life.

From the time I began telling her about the anonymous threatening letters from Mr. Watts, through the sniper shots and bombings he orchestrated, and then to the day when my parents were gunned down, she listened on the proverbial edge of her seat. When I told her Mr. Watts called to say he was sorry-a twist in the story she never saw coming-I could tell she was starting to get feisty.

But when I got to the part where I told Mr. Watts that my brother and I had forgiven him even before he had asked for our forgiveness, my friend became indignant. To say she was visibly angry would be an understatement. Livid might be a more appropriate word. Having attracted stares from the adjacent tables, I actually had to calm her down. I explained that I had no strength within myself to forgive Mr. Watts. Rather, it was the love and power of Jesus that enabled me to extend love to the man who was responsible for the persecution of my family.

Her reaction isn't uncommon.

In fact, the one question I'm most often asked after sharing my story is, "Becky, how in the world could you possibly possibly forgive Mr. Watts for all the horrible things he did to you and your family?" I'm not surprised that people wrestle with that reality. Humanly speaking, it's natural to think that anyone in my shoes should have the right to seek revenge. Just listen to how we talk when we're wronged on a much smaller scale than, say, someone bombing your house. We say things like . . . forgive Mr. Watts for all the horrible things he did to you and your family?" I'm not surprised that people wrestle with that reality. Humanly speaking, it's natural to think that anyone in my shoes should have the right to seek revenge. Just listen to how we talk when we're wronged on a much smaller scale than, say, someone bombing your house. We say things like . . .

"It's payback time!"

"So when are you going to get even with her?"

"Watch me turn the tables on him for messing with me."

"You're gonna get what's coming to you, pal!"