Who Holds the Future in the Palms of His Hands?

The foundation of my faith began in the small town where I was born, Elba, Alabama. During the 40’s and 50’s, times were often difficult for minorities in the South . Even though there was always love and those who shared in your pain, there was always faith and the belief in someone outside of one’s self who has ultimate power – God.

My parents worked very hard from can to can’t (from the time one could see in the morning until the time they could not see in the evening). I feel this is one of the most valuable memories. When I was young, I didn’t understand why my family spent s much time involved in church activities and prayer, and still had to work so hard to make ends meet. But I was never hungry and had clothes for school and church. Although there were problems in our home, we were taught how to work and to take responsibility for our own behavior.

My father was a good farmer. He raised cotton, peanuts, corn and plenty of vegetables. He only attended church on special occasions, but my mother kept us involved in the church. I know there as love in our family, buy because of the hard work required to support a family, there were limited displays of affection; perhaps, because it may have been difficult for my father to show these emotions.

I remember the time when my father said to me that it was my turn to go with him to the cotton gin to take a bale of cotton. I remember feeling special because not only had my father remembered that it was my turn to go, but I would be treated to a candy bar and pop.

As a child, I would often hear my grandmother praying for our entire family. She would especially ask God to protect all her children. She would even pray for her stove and refrigerator when they were broken. I believe today that my grandmother planted the seeds of hope which sprouted and grew into my total and undeniable faith in God.

I never realized the significance of my dreams until they predicted the deaths of my father and brother. I dreamt in 1975 that there was a death in my family. In this dream, my niece called me on the telephone and said, "He’s gone." I asked who?" Who?" When I woke up, I was still asking "Who?"

About a month later my niece did indeed telephone me and simply said, "He’s gone." When I asked, "Who? Who?" That is when she told me it was my father.

In 1979 I dreamt a man was shot through the middle of his head. Once again, I did not know who was that person. When I would talk to my family about my dreams, they would say, "Don’t dream about me." About three days later, my family received a call saying my brother had been shot in the head and was not expected to live. We began preparations to make the trip to Erie, Pennsylvania, but about three hours later we received a second call and was told he had died.

Both my father and my brother died violent deaths. My father was slain by a young man whom he had known well. In fact, the previous day this young man had been riding around with my father all day.

My father had been suspicious of others trying to steal from him, and seldom were locks used in his neighborhood. When the young man had entered my father’s house, he tried to take money from his pockets. My father, who ordinarily would have been so intoxicated that he would not have known anything, was more alert than the young man thought.

As a layperson, I feel that responsibility and faith go hand in hand. However, it seems that often we focus our attention more on hope than responsibility and faith. Don’t misunderstand me, hope is an important part of our life because without hope we lose our determination.