I started writing when I was thirteen. My eighth grade teacher inspired me to work on “creative writing”. I wrote some very bad science fiction stories even though at the time I thought they were very good. Why did I write? What compelled me to sit before a typewriter or a blank piece of paper and put down some story that was trying to burst out of my skull?

Why do we as authors write? Is it for fame? Money? Self advancement? Therapy? Maybe some of you are like me, a person who “can’t NOT write”. I guess in those early days of writing, I was inspired by my science fiction icons such as Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Larry Niven, Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, Frederick Pohl, Richard Matheson, and I could go on and on. I wanted to see my name on the spine of one of those books. I wanted to know that somewhere in a cool, dark bedroom a boy or girl was hiding under the covers with a flashlight reading MY book! Maybe I was tapping into a need for fame and glory. Maybe I wanted my name to live on after me although at the age of 13, I was pretty certain I was immortal!

Years later, as I became a drama director, I began to write dramas for the purpose of reaching people for Christ. I felt it was a calling. I wanted to write for God and I certainly never imagined making money off of these dramas (they were never published) or becoming famous (how many famous Christian playwrights can you name?). I never imagined that getting involved in writing dramas and producing dramas would be a major contributor to my coming depression.

As I mentioned in my last post, writing a book on depression was never on my list. In fact, so much of what I have done in life was never on my list. But, it was on God’s! God uses people for His purposes. He uses our failures and our successes. He uses our pains and our triumphs. I recall the first day our book, “Conquering Depression: A 30 Day Plan to Finding Happiness” appeared at our local Barnes & Noble for our book signing. It was the first time I had held the actual book in my hands. It was the first time I had seen the cover. Mark Sutton and I sat behind a table and we signed books. Over and over and over. People were not there because of us. They were there because they needed help with depression. I was stunned. I was shocked. Something I suffered through could help others? Here are just a few of the testimonials to our book. I list them not because I want to promote the book. As I mentioned, Mark and I have made very little money off of our book. The payment for us has been to know what we suffered through has helped others overcome their depression. We get monthly emails from readers who make the claim our book “saved my life”. People who were contemplating suicide, who had given up, who had no hope. Now, that alone is reason enough to write a book. I will never see my name in lights or win any awards for my writing or know that somewhen a hundred years from now my books will be required reading, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that God has used my life experience to touch someone and give them hope. And, that is worth it all!

Here are some testimonials:

I’ve been reading Conquering Depression: A 30-Day Plan to Finding Happiness for just over two weeks now. I don’t know what exactly to say to both of you other than, “Thank You” for giving me my life back. I realize that God is Great Physician is all of this; however, you were His mouthpieces. I really appreciate that.

 ***

 Please excuse the first-name basis, but I feel like I know you both.  I first encountered your book back in 2002 when my daughter was a junior at Hope College in Michigan and she experienced yet another bout of depression — this one being her worst yet.  I received an e-mail from her that actually made me fear for her life.  I called work, told them I wouldn’t be there in the morning, threw some items in a bag and immediately made the 3-hour drive from our home to her college.  When she returned from class and found me in her dorm room, she crumbled in my arms and sobbed.  The lost and terrified look on her face said it all.  The depression had her cornered and she was fighting for her life.  

 I spent the next 2 days with her every minute except when she was in a class.  Then I brought her home for a few days.  My husband and I prayed with her and for her.  I quoted scriptures to her and insisted she speak them out loud.  I repeated the same truths over and over and over to her because the depression would steal the truth away from her mind almost as quickly as I could say it.  I read scripture to her.  I sat with her while she fell asleep and I made sure I was there speaking truth to her when she woke up.  I fought like a mother bear for my cub.  Depression (Satan) was not going to snatch my child.  

Somewhere in that time, I ran across your book.  It was a God-send.  Although she didn’t have the strength or concentration to read it at the time, I read it to her and for her.  I used the Life Filters with her.  She learned to stand in front of the mirror and quote them as she looked herself in the eye.  Of course, somewhere in all this we got her to a counselor and on some medication.  In time she healed.  But she did more than that.  My daughter has become a champion for overcoming depression.  She was a favored speaker at the most recent depression support group I ran at our church.  Her testimony of God’s truth and power in her life is something really special.  She is an overcomer in the true sense of the word.  I’ve always loved the passage in Romans 8 that says we are “”more than overcomers.  I always thought, “Well, I know what an overcomer is, but what is ‘more than an overcomer’?”  I’ll tell you, it’s my daughter.  She didn’t just fight and persevere until she was no longer depressed; she fought and persevered until she had a testimony of God’s power, grace and healing in her life.  AND…your book was a big part of that.  

***

 I’m 24 years old and I have battled depression my whole life (as has my mom), but have not had this realization until about 2 months ago, when all broke loose and I was forced to face the reality, the battle, the heartache, and the beginning of healing. I have been visiting The Well at Brookwood for a few months, and have had the pleasure of experiencing refuge, community, joy, and most recently–the finding of “Conquering Depression”. I thought it was just another one of the coffeeshop books (at the time, I had no idea that you were the pastor there AND the author!) and was too afraid to browse through it for long, much less purchase it from one of the super-friendly baristas. So, I waited. I waited about another week, and then was searching again through Lifeway for SOME sort of help, release, direction out of the pit I’d found myself in. So, I searched through all the books and there on the bottom shelf screaming my name was your book again. So, I bought it. (Mind you, combined with a little journal, two cd’s and another book–I was too afraid to admit that’s all I needed…surely it was convincing that it was for a friend…right? 🙂 ) I cannot tell you the healing it has brought just within the first several pages. My eyes, heart, mind, no, my very soul have been opened up to the “blessing” that is depression–and that’s where I’ve come to turn to you. 

***

 As one who has suffered from clinical depression for many years I was skeptical about this “30 day plan” approach but after reading this book I am skeptical no more. Written by a medical doctor and a pastor, this is not a “pray it away” approach but rather a multidisciplinary approach that gives information from a medical and spiritual perspective as well as recommendations for treatment and tools to use on a day to day basis. I would highly recommend this book to anyone who lives with depression or even thinks they might have it.

***

 First I’d like to say that if I could give more than 5 stars, I would for this book. This book is a wonderful book on how to conquer depression, an illness that has plagued me for over 9 years. It is written by two professionals who both are strong Christians and both have suffered from depression which makes you know they understand what you are going through and there is hope. I also appreciated the fact that I didn’t have to sift through what I felt was Scriptural and what I felt wasn’t as this book is very Biblically based and glorifies God throughout the whole book. If you are suffering, have suffered, or know someone who is suffering from Depression please purchase this book for them. I only wish I had found it years ago when I went through my first major depression.

My counselor was a disturbingly chipper man with bright, blue eyes and a smile. I did not want a smile. I did not want chipper. I did not know what I wanted!

He led me up the stairs to a room on the second floor of the counseling center and invited me to sit in a chair. Then, he asked me why I was there. So, I told him. I was depressed. And, before I knew it, I was telling this total stranger everything. It just poured out of me, venom and pain and tears and all. Do you know how easy it is to just dump all of your emotions on a total stranger? Very easy! Poor guy! I started feeling sorry for him. Because as I dumped, I felt better! Maybe this thing could work. Problem was, as I was dumping, there was nothing filling up the ensuing emptiness!

He asked me a simple question, “What is the lie?”

I sat there floored. You mean I had been living a lie? No, not living a lie. I had been deceived by a lie. Not just one, but many of them. In the weeks that followed, we dissected each lie and replaced it with the truth. And, here is the most important point to take home. Who is the father of lies? Satan. Who wants to destroy me? Satan.

And so I began the long road to recovery. As I mentioned last post, I developed a tool called the LifeFilter. For me, the biggest problem was in saying “yes” to every oppotunity around me. I did not know how to say “no”. In fact, if I said “no” then someone would possible not LIKE me! I might DISAPPOINT them. And then, I might make them MAD and so on and so on. Not only that, they might not let me RESCUE them. Boy, was I screwed up! I had to learn how to say “no”.

One day, I was watching the pool guys clean out my pool filter. The filter had layers of material starting with large pebbles and decreasing in size. Each level of the filter was finer and more discriminating and caught smaller and smaller particles until the water was pure.

I came up with my own filters — questions I would ask myself beginning with the largest “pebble” and moving to the most “discriminating” level. If the request someone made of me passed through all five questions, then I would say “yes”. The first time my pastor asked me to do something, I pulled out a business card sized laminated piece of cardboard and starting reading the questions. I looked up at him and this is what I said, “Right now, I would have to say ‘no’. But, if you would allow me to pray about this for a few days and talk to my wife and family, I might change my mind.” Mark’s mouth fell open. His eyes widened. “You never tell me ‘no’!”

I shrugged. “From now on, I have no choice. If you want a quick answer it will always be no.”

And so, a few months later, we sat at lunch contemplating writing a book on depression. As I mentioned, we would emphasize the nature of depression as an ILLNESS, not a lack of faith.

After arriving at the 30 day format, we outlined the book and began working on a book proposal. We thought if we could nail down the first week, we could begin contacting a publisher. At this point, Mark had one book published and I had my collection of children’s plays. So, technically we were published authors. But, we did not have an agent. We did not have a working relationship with a good publisher. We were shooting in the dark!

By that summer, we had the outline for the book worked out and started writing on the first week. I remember sitting at my dining room table on Halloween working on my part of week one while handing out candy to trick or treaters. By the first week of November, we had our book proposal. Now what?

Mark had an inspiration. Five years before, we had both attended a writer’s conference in New Orleans. It was the third year in a row we had gone to this conference and we had met some editors. One editor, Len Goss, had almost accepted one of my manuscripts for a book. But, it had died in committee. See why I hate committees?

Mark had made a commitment to put on a marriage seminar in Nashville, Tennessee the third week in November. And, he had learned that Len Goss had become the chief acquisition editor for Broadman & Holman headquartered in Nashville. I was also off the week before the seminar so Mark contacted Len and asked if we could have lunch with him. No mention of the book, just lunch. Len agreed and so we flew up to Nashville.

I had insisted on putting the book proposal in a clear plastic folder so the title would be visible, a trick I had read about on the internet. We met Len for lunch and went to a restaurant with a buffet. Mark and I had worked out our strategy on presenting the book because Len was unaware of this real reason for our visit. Mostly, this meant for me to let Mark do the talking.

We got in line at the buffet and Len reached our table first. I had placed the book proposal on the table. I followed and sat down, keeping my mouth firmly closed awaiting Mark’s arrival from getting his food. Len picked up the folder. My heart raced and I almost threw up. He looked at the title through the clear plastic.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A book proposal. Mark and I want to write a book on depression. He’ll do the spiritual part and I’ll cover the medical.” I managed to say with a very dry mouth and thick tongue.

Len was quiet as he studied the folder. He gently placed it on the table and frowned. “Someone I care deeply about has been fighting depression. Did you know there are no good books out there on depression for Christians? They all just seem to say ‘have more faith’. I think we’ll take the book.” He started eating.

Mark arrived and sat down and started into his presentation and I kept trying to interrupt. Finally, Mark looked at me and I said, “Len said he wants the book.”

Now, it wasn’t that easy from that point on. We had to go before the committee. We had to fight for the inclusion of our LifeFilters as tear out cards in the back of the book and this was almost a deal breaker. But, finally, two years after that meeting, “Conquering Depression: A Thirty Day Plan to Finding Happiness” hit the bookshelves. And, although it has never been a best seller, it has been as “consistent back list seller”. Most importantly, although Mark and I have made very little off the book in the last ten years, it has been amazing how many lives the book has saved.

Yes, I said how many lives the book has saved!

You see, as dark and constricting and suffocating and horrendously painful my depression was; as hard as it is to keep it at bay; as hard as it has been to fight to keep the book going; I never imagined God would use my pain and suffering to help others, much less save their lives. In my darkness, God showed His light! Now, I can truly praise God for my depression. For, it made me stronger and deepened my faith and brought me closer to my Savior. And, through my travails, God has used those pains and sufferings to help others.

In the third post, I’ll share some of the stories of those who were helped by this book. Check out our website at www.conqueringdepression.com .

Depression.

Deep, dark, constricting, suffocating depression.

I had just turned 40. No problem with mid life crisis. I had MLC at 35. Go figure. My wife had planned a special trip to Colorado Springs. We were getting ready to ride the train up Pike’s Peak and my eight year old daughter had a seizure right there in the hotel room. Out lives changed forever.

I had a dream. A multimedia company that would produce Christian drama, music, film, and published works. The Foundation of Inspirational Arts was born but by my 40th birthday, it was in shambles. My dream was dying.

I had been the drama leader for our church drama team for almost four years. During that time, we had gone from two major dramas a year to the following schedule:

• 4 Dinner Theaters
• 4 Sunday Evening Worship Service Full Length Dramas
• 1 Major Easter Pageant/Drama with cast of hundreds
• 1 Halloween themed “Eternity House” with huge special effects and multiple dramas.
• 2 “Saturday Night Alive!” young adult variety shows with live music, videos, and more drama
• A full time youth drama team with two “dinner theater” type productions per year
• A full time children’s drama team with an annual “SNACK at Night” variety program featuring children acting out dramas for other children
• 1 weekend drama festival
• And, of course, the FIA (noted above)

I am a doctor working full time in the field of radiology. I was the vice chairman of the Long Range Planning Committee charged with developing a plan to relocate our church from a neighborhood setting to a major intersection in town, a move that was opposed by 1/4 of the church in a bitter, contentious fight. I am the father of two children both growing at that time age 8 and 11.

Oh, and I was trying to get published. I was successful! A collection of children’s dramas was published by Contemporary Drama (Meriwether Publishing) entitled “Montana Holmes’ Adventures in the Bible”. I made all of $300 advance and was told I would get no royalties because the collection would not sell for long. It was still a best seller 10 years later!

Now, add all of that together. I was a little stressed. I was a little STRESSED!

It was late September. My daughter had her seizure in June and the neurologist said she may never have another seizure. I was walking and a car pulled up. It was the lady from across the street from our house. My daughter had another seizure.

That was a Saturday morning. Saturday night the FIA had a blow out and one of the actresses showed up on my front porch screaming and insanely offended she was not the “main” actress for all of our upcoming productions. Sunday, my best friend and music director chewed me out for putting together a quartet to sing in my place instead of a solo.

It was near midnight and I saw everything crumbling. My dreams were dying. The FIA was over before it started. My publishing career would be over because my days as drama director for my church was over. My daughter had epilepsy. I was a failure as a father, a doctor, a drama director, a writer, a singer, a best friend. You name it. I started pulling my hair out by the roots and sobbing uncontrollably. My wife sat there watching me descend into the deepest, darkest pit of despair I had ever felt in my life. Oh, and there was one other dream that died — a big dream — I cannot talk about.

I felt like a skier at the top of a mountain faced with a pristine slope of fresh snow only to watch it begin to crack and fissure and to feel the snow shifting under my skis and realizing I was at the top of an avalanche and if I didn’t ski fast enough and just right, I would be ground to bits by the churning snow and rock. I fell that night and the avalanche took me and tumbled me and ground me and tore me asunder and left me broken and frozen at the base of the mountain I had been climbing for four years.

I woke up the next morning and I still had my family and my job. But, all of my dreams were gone; dead; stripped away never to return. I was paralyzed with fear and anxiety. I was off from work that week and I stood at the door to my bedroom with my heart racing. My wife had taken the kids to school and gone on to one of her appointments and I was totally alone in the house. I would have to cross the living room to get to the kitchen to get breakfast. And, the foyer was off the living room and there were two tall, slim windows on either side of the front door. What if someone was standing there? They would see me like this! I was so scared and frightened. I ran across the living room and that was the beginning of a week of total panic and fear. My pastor and best friend came by that Monday night and I locked myself in the bedroom. I wouldn’t come out. I couldn’t come out.

I left the house early each morning and drove to a nearby town and wandered the mall all day to avoid seeing anyone I might know. I didn’t know what to do! My life was over!

I talked to my sister that week and she told me I had a problem. Church was my problem and I had developed some bad “Habits” at church. She said, anyone can break a bad habit in 30 days. So, I talked to one of my good friends and made a pact with him that I would take a break from church for six weeks and would return on the first Sunday in November. I left town every weekend and went to visit friends in other cities and went to their churches.

Finally, I sat outside Samaritan Counseling on a cool November evening watching ordinary people walk through the front door of a Victorian era style two story house. I didn’t need this! I could get over this depression! But, I realized something very profound. God had been trying to get my attention and I had been ignoring His voice. I had been holding up all these wonderful things I was doing for God and telling God to go ahead and bless them. But, God had something planned for me and the only way He could get me to do those things was to break me, strip me of all I wanted to do, leave me broken and crushed so that I had no choice but to look up to Him. It was in this realization that my healing began when I surrendered everything I held dear: dreams, hopes, aspirations to God.

And so, I stepped out of my car, walked up those wooden steps and entered that house of healing. Two years later, I was coping and handling life far better than I could ever have imagined. God showed me three things that helped me begin to heal. First, I developed my LifeFilters. I discuss these at length in the book I co-authored with Mark Sutton, “Conquering Depression: A Thirty Plan to Finding Happiness”. Second, I began a daily regimen of Bible reading, prayer, and devotions. Third, I kept a journal. I used “My Utmost for His Highest” devotion journal. Each day, I would read the Bible passage and read the devotion, AFTER I had written down what had happened in my life that day. By “bleeding” all over the page, I was able to confess so much to God and learn to rely on His word. It was amazing how whatever it was I had been through that day was reflected in the Bible passage and the devotion.

Mark Sutton, my pastor at that time, came to me after hearing about LifeFilters and confessed he also suffered from depression. At a lunch at our favorite restaurant, Oxford Street, he asked if I wanted to help him write a book on depression. He would handle the spiritual/counseling portion of the book if I would handle the medical part of the book. We talked about the 30 days it took to break bad habits and decided to break the book down into 30 small steps, one for each day. We also developed more LifeFilters for each day.

I was excited to be a part of this book project because I truly wanted to help anyone suffering from the horrible depression I had been through.

So, that is my story up to that point. Later in the week, I’ll tell the story of getting the book published. It is amazing!!!!

I posted this way back in September, 2010 and to launch my new website, I was asked by some of my readers to repeat it. This is a simple story of the first time I saw a dead person. It is also a powerful exploration of the relationship between a father and a son.

Tessie – Of Death and Roses

My father was 41 years old on the very day I was born. My two sisters and one brother were almost grown by then and my mother thought she was going through “the change”! Neither of my parents was prepared for the arrival of a new baby so late in their lives. Perhaps my father had forgotten how to play with a child or perhaps he was following in his father’s footsteps to be stoic and unemotional around your child. Whatever the reason, my mother’s instruction to me each and every day was not to “bother” your father when he “gets home from work.” I looked up to the thin, balding man in black rimmed glasses with some trepidation. In fact, there were times I feared him. And so it was on one particular day at the age of eight I had an odd connection with my father.

We were spending the weekend in the countryside of central Louisiana. There, the rolling hills of red clay were carpeted with towering pine trees and kudzu vines. The journey from Blanchard in the northwestern corner of the state to Saline near the center of the state took two lifetimes it seemed. At age eight, one and half hours easily passed for such an epoch. The winding roads always left me carsick and I had to avoid my cherished M&M’s and Pepsi cola until we arrived. But, when we turned right at the stop sign in Lucky just five miles from Saline and I gazed out the rearview window into the distance and saw the towering peak of Mount Driskill, I knew snack time was near.

I often daydreamed of what lived on Mount Driskill. It was the highest point in the state of Louisiana and the state’s only mountain. To my mind, it was Mount Doom with marching hordes of goblins and trolls and the tentacled sea monsters that populated my favorite television show, Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. I would crane my neck around and rise up on my bare knees in the back seat of our Rambler to watch the mountain disappear in the pine trees behind us. I vowed that one day, I would climb that mountain. One day, I would beat the beasts of hell to the pinnacle and save the world from certain doom! But for now, I had to settle for gingerly turning around in my seat to avoid getting sick and breathing in the fresh air that came in through the open window.

We often stayed with my grandparents in a towering and crumbling ruin of a house filled with darkness and shadows and the smell of ancient sweat. The eaves sagged and sloped down from the huge tin roof. The stairs swayed in the middle as if beaten down by a thousand footsteps. The ceilings inside the house stretched a half a mile into the darkness and one bare bulb hung from this distant roof by a black wire in each room. If you bumped it, the light and stumbling shadows would fill the air with dizzying, swooping stuff of nightmares. I would run out of the room when these creatures descended and hide in my grandfather’s outhouse.

To this day, I have no idea what possessed my father to ask me to accompany him. He never invited me to go with him anywhere unless it was a family affair. But this Saturday morning was different. I was playing in my grandfather’s front yard avoiding the shifting shadow monsters in the house when my daddy came down the stairs and stopped to stare at me. He seldom stared at me. I was only a chance distraction from his piddling and guitar playing and jogging from one end of the house to the other or his jury-rigging of a broken air conditioner or a henhouse wall. Don’t get me wrong. I knew my father loved me. He sang to me and laughed at me and always kissed me once in the middle of my forehead every morning before he walked out the door. But, he never really looked at me. It was not until I was twenty years old at his brother’s funeral that he told me he loved me. But, I knew he loved me as well as I knew the sun would wallow up from its covers each morning and Sootie, my dog, would slobber all over my face when I sat on the back steps and werewolves were real just kept away from our house by my mother’s prayers and her bush of switches that could leave red welts on the skin of dinosaurs.

But, to look at me deep in thought? This was new. I stopped in my tracks and let the three headed monster I was chasing escape somewhere in the distant bluriness of my imagination and stared back. We stood like that in the stillness and the sound of cicadas buzzing and the trees creaking in the wind. A pine cone bounced beside me and I jumped.

“What is it, Daddy?” I whispered.

“Do you remember Mrs. Tessie?” He said.

I blinked. Mrs. Tessie was unforgettable. When we ventured to Saline, my parents always went to church on Sunday. The church was right behind me, across the street from my grandparents’ house. It was white washed and made of clapboard with a short steeple and a bell tower. It was not air conditioned and when we went to church, mother always made sure we sat next to a window to catch the breeze. Mrs. Tessie would appear out of nowhere. She was a short, thin woman with wild yellow hair and bright blue eyes. She always wore a purple hat with netting. But, she never pulled down the netting around her face and it flew up over her head like Peter casting his net for the fish Jesus brought to the Sea of Galilee. Mrs. Tessie would hurry over to our pew and descend on me like one of those funny birds that bends at the waist and dips its beak in a glass of water then bobs back up and tilts back and forth. Mrs. Tessie was like that only her nose wasn’t covered in felt.

“You are too pretty to be a boy! Isn’t he, Lena?” Tessie said to my mother. She would pat me on the head and then reach into her purse. I knew what was coming. It was the only reason I did not hide behind my mother. She pulled out two pieces of Juicy Fruit gum.

“Here you go, young man. You are a miracle from God. Don’t you forget it.” She would pat me on the head again and then bob up and down and hurry away to her favorite pew.

“Yes, Daddy. I remember Mrs. Tessie. She gives me gum.” I said.

My daddy just looked at me some more and nodded. “Well, she has died.”

I knew what it meant when something died. I lived on a farm. Animals died all the time. I didn’t like it. When my parakeet Cappy died, I cried for two days. When my horned toad died, I didn’t know it until it started stinking up the aquarium. When I picked him up he practically crumbled like one of those old mummies.

I didn’t know what to say to my daddy. It was sad that Mrs. Tessie had died. I would miss the gum. But, she was just one of the many people in my life. Back home, we had 45 cats and 26 dogs and it was sad when one of them died, but there was another one to take its place. Someone else would give me gum.

My daddy looked away then and wiped his face. He seemed to be coming to some kind of decision. He was sweating in the summer heat and beads of water dripped down his bare head into his eyebrows. At home, he would wear a cap with a handkerchief rolled up in the front to catch the sweat. “I’ve got to go see her family. You should go with me.”

I drew in a deep breath. “Go where, daddy?”

“To her house. To console her family.” He looked at me. “To tell them how sorry we are Mrs. Tessie has died. It would mean a lot to them if you came. Mrs. Tessie always loved you so much.”

“Okay.” I said. “I’ll go.”

Daddy nodded and led the way across the yard to the car. I started to open the back door and he shook his head. “You can sit up front with me.”

Sit up front? My face burned with excitement. I never got to sit Up Front. I ran around to the passenger door and hopped up onto the seat. In those days, seat belts were accessories and not required by law. So, I ended up tucking my knees under me with my hands on the dashboard so I could see. It was so different Up Front. As my daddy pulled out of the driveway and into the street, I almost got dizzy! I could see the gray road piling toward us and growing wider as the car ran over it and shoved it behind us. The dashed lines in the center of the road hurtled toward us and each time the car passed over one, I cringed waiting for the crash or the sound of laser fire as if they were energy beams shot at us by aliens.

Daddy was silent as we headed out away from the small town of Saline into the rolling hills covered by the pale green heads of thousands of watermelons. Saline was famous for its watermelons and they were everywhere covering every bare piece of land. They seemed kind of sad to me. It was as if the hills had a million green eyes all gazing to heaven pleading with God to rescue them from the hot, sandy earth; to spare them from being split open with their red meat exposed to the hungry mouths of people.

Daddy pulled the car off the road and down a dirt driveway to a small, dark gray house. The exterior had never been painted and the wood was gray streaked with green lichen and the dead husks of cicadas. The small front porch was dotted with men and women in their Sunday best. As we climbed out of the car, I began to feel a tremble of fear and anxiety. The people fell silent and their heads turned toward us with terrible swiftness. Some of the women’s faces were marred with dark streaks of tears. Some of the men wore frowns and blew smoke into the air. I froze in terror. I didn’t know why. These were the same men and women that sat around us in church. But, here on this gray porch in this hot, fetid afternoon they seemed like the very demons of the devil filled with a terrible knowledge, too terrible to share, too terrible to bear.

Then, the moment passed and as one, the people began to move again and speak in hushed whispers and their eyes drew away from me and I was no longer important to them. My daddy spoke to a young woman who glanced at me frequently and nodded as she whispered. Daddy took my hand and led me up the rickety stairs onto the porch. That is the first time I recall my Daddy taking my hand. His hand was dry and rough from working his garden and scaly with dead skin. But, his grip was intense as if he wanted to hold on to me to keep me from being swept away by the people who milled and swayed around us; as if some dark current from some rising river would wash me away.

We stepped into the living room of the small house. The air was thick with the fragrance of roses and six women sat in chairs and on a couch. Their faces glowed with an unearthly sheen. Their eyes bore a deep sorrow and hurt I had only seen in the face of my Sootie the day he climbed up under the house to die. I tried to reach him. But, the timbers that held up the floor of my house were too close to the ground. I could see Sootie’s black eyes glittering far in the darkness. He had gone there to die. Alone. Why had he done this? Why would he have to die in the first place? And, why did he have to die away from me? I lay there in the dirt and dust under the house and cried until my sister found me and coaxed back out into the light. Two days later, my Daddy retrieved Sootie’s body and we buried him in an old basket out by the pond.

“You must be the little boy Tessie loved so much.” One of the women said. It broke the spell of quiet and I swallowed.

“She gives me Juicy Fruit.” I said.

“Do you know why she loved you so?” The lady’s eyes glittered with tears.

I shook my head.

“She had a dream that your mother’s life was not over and that she would have a child. God told her you would be born. You’re a miracle. You were born so late in your parents’ lives. She always said you were a gift from God.” The woman wiped at her tear streaked face with a lace handkerchief.

Daddy’s grip tightened on my hand and I tried to breath. I was a gift from God? Me? This fat little clumsy boy who got sick riding in the back of a car? I looked up at Daddy and tried to loosen his grip. His teeth were gritted so tightly I thought they would shatter. He looked down at me and sighed. His hand relaxed. He squatted down in front of me and studied me from behind his dark rimmed glasses. “A gift? Yes, a gift.” He mumbled and then his clear eyes fixed on mine. “Do you want to see Mrs. Tessie?”

I raised an eyebrow in confusion. “You said she was dead.”

My daddy nodded. “She is. She’s right over there.”

I turned and for the first time saw the roses. They were in vases and on stands and on shelves at the other side of the living room around a long, black box sitting on a table. The box was long and shallow and my heart raced. I knew what the black box was. I had seen the same box on television when Dracula had opened the lid to his coffin and climbed out to bring death and destruction to mankind. I took a step back and felt my daddy’s hand on my back.

“You don’t have to see her, if you don’t want to.” Daddy said.

I will forever be transfixed in that moment. Eight years old and caught between the world of fantasy and reality, on the cusp of the great opening of my mind to the true world around me, poised on the knife edge of childhood. I could turn and run back out to the car. I could climb back into the back seat and turn my face through the rear window and long to see Mount Driskill. But, a growing sense of inevitability gripped me as if a tight rope was threaded through my navel and slowly, oh so slowly growing taut with anticipation pulling my mind, my soul, my body, my childishness out of the thing it was into the thing it had to become. I took my first step away from childish things, away from the mirror darkly, away from the rain streaked window where Mount Driskill became nothing more than a big hill and the three headed monsters disappeared into simple shadows and the smell of roses became the aroma of death.

I shook my daddy’s hand off my back and walked across the room to the box. I was just tall enough to look over the edge. Tessie was asleep in the dark box. Her hair was perfectly combed beneath the purple hat and the netting. Her lips were red with lipstick and rouge burst forth in crimson from her cheeks and her boney hands were crossed over her stomach. I wanted to feel sad. I wanted to cry like I had when I had seen Sootie. But, instead I was fascinated. So, this is what death looks like? Not some dark phantom of the creaking night with taloned hands and foul breath. It looked like sleep. Like a nap.

I reached out and before anyone could stop me, I touched her hand. These fingers had dug through her purse for the gum. This hand had patted my head. But, the flesh was as cold as an iced watermelon rind. And, I knew there was no life here. Tessie was not here in this room with doting friends and crumbling roses. She was in heaven. She was with God. He would warm her flesh and open her eyes and He would hold her hand as he led her down the streets of gold that we sang about in church.

My daddy took my hand then and pulled me gently away from Tessie. I studied her still features until the edge of the black box eclipsed her from my view and the hot sun greeted my backturned gaze and my father lifted me bodily and put me in the front seat of the car. I do not remember the drive back to the house. I do not remember the road rising up to meet us or the monster emerging from the bushes in the front yard of my granddaddy’s house to play with me.

I only remember one thing. The door to my side of the car opened. And, my father reached in with open arms and gathered my stunned body into his grasp and held me close to his warm chest and his beating heart and his firm shoulder as he carried me, crying, up the stairs into the house.