After his father murders his mother, eight-year-old TIMOTHY "JUNIOR" VALENTINE spends the rest of his preadolescent years with his grandmother, who raises him as a Christian in her country home. But when his grandmother passes away, he's forced to live with distant relatives in an inner-city neighborhood, a poverty-stricken world beyond his youthful comprehension. Now growing up with urban struggle, Junior faces the reoccurring question of whether to stick to his faith to save his soul or adapt to his environment to save his life.
After his father murders his mother, eight-year-old TIMOTHY "JUNIOR" VALENTINE spends the rest of his preadolescent years with his grandmother, who raises him as a Christian in her country home. But when his grandmother passes away, he's forced to live with distant relatives in an inner-city neighborhood, a poverty-stricken world beyond his youthful comprehension. Now growing up with urban struggle, Junior faces the reoccurring question of whether to stick to his faith to save his soul or adapt to his environment to save his life.
Chapter 1
On the day of my mother’s funeral, seventeen years ago, my father told me why he had killed her. I was just a boy then, sitting alone on Grandma’s front porch, fiddling with the penny in my loafer while watching a loose thread in my sock sway in the mild morning air. I imagine it was a clear autumn day for most, but for me the day was just as confusing as the words my father used to tell me why he did it.
“Junior,” Grandma called me as I sat alone on the porch.
I remember closing my eyes, not wanting to be bothered. The penny and loose thread gave me plenty company to allow my mind to wander free.
“Junior,” Grandma called again as she reached the screen door.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, not even turning to look, not even opening my eyes to see.
“Come in here and get the phone, please,” she said. “Your father wants to speak with you.”
I opened my eyes at the thought of my father. I hadn’t seen him for a week, since the night I awoke in my bed to silverware crashing against our kitchen floor. Every bone in my body tried to run, run to the phone, but my wandering mind slowed me down; and though I tried to move quickly, I could only walk slowly into the house.
Everyone was inside and they all watched me as I entered. Aunt Claire, my mother’s younger sister, was standing near the front door with Uncle James and their three daughters. Dried tears had her eyes red and raw in her hazelnut-complexioned face. And although her lips still quivered as they had at the funeral, her jaw seemed to be clenched shut, and her sour expression revealed disgust at being in the house of the woman who birthed the man who killed her only sibling.
My mother’s best friend, Joanna, reached for me as I approached. She stood at the living room entrance, stick figured and every bit of six feet. She was bright as Big Bird, but her dark attire hid much of her glowing yellow skin tone. I wanted to avoid her because at the time I was eight and barely tall enough to turn on the kitchen faucet, and her hovering presence reminded me of a nightmare I once had. I never cared much for Joanna, but my mother taught me to be polite, so before I passed, I hugged her and then walked on into the living room.
The phone was on the far end, and the puffy-eyed crowd I navigated through did its best to slow me from reaching it. It appeared as though Pastor Clark, the choir, and the rest of the members of Mount Abel’s Baptist Church stood in my way.
“Excuse me,” I repeated as I inched my way through. With each well-mannered request, I received a squeeze on the shoulder, or a stroke on the head, or a kiss on the cheek, or a pat on the back. I never in my whole life wanted to be invisible as much as I did at that moment. I wondered why Grandma insisted that everyone come to her house for a prayer when we prayed before and after we put my mother in her grave. I just kept inching towards the phone in a stupor, saying “excuse me” before it was necessary, and bracing before I was touched.
When I finally reached the phone, Grandma stood holding it. I looked up at her and quickly turned away. Then, as a boy, I didn’t clearly understand why I did this. Now, as a man, I know that I was scared, for I believed that Grandma was God’s favorite earth angel, and I was shaken that she didn’t—not even in the slightest—appear as such.
Normally Grandma was full of life, decked out in a reddish-brown wig and big framed glasses that blended with her light-brown skin and the four black moles that sat atop her left cheek. Normally Grandma wore red lipstick, the color symbolizing women’s suffrage. And she always wore colorful dresses that were floral and long—I never knew if she had a run in her stockings. And in her hand, always in her hand, she carried a small black purse that had a latch instead of a zipper—attached to the purse by a thin gold chain was the King James Version, miniature in comparison to the one I took to Sunday school. Normally Grandma smiled with happy eyes, showing her pearly white dentures. But on this day in the living room, she stood without light with nothing but the phone in her hand, and on her face, she wore the most disheartening expression that frightened me to my core.
She handed me the receiver and then led me into the kitchen. The cord was long enough for me to sit on the wooden stool by the back door. As I put the phone to my ear, Grandma leaned on the stove beside me, looked away, and silently cried.
“Dad,” I said into the phone.
“Hey, Junior,” my father answered, voice cracking into my ear. “You know… you know…you know, you and your mom are the best things that ever happened to me. You know that don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I know,” I responded as a knot formed in my throat and began to sting with such intensity that tears settled in my eyes.
“People-people are going to say bad things about me, Junior. Before you hear-I wanted to tell you…” He whimpered as he fought to find words. “I did it, Junior," he forced out through snivels. “I took your mom away from you,” he said, bursting into tears.
“Why?” I asked, crying with him, feeling Grandma’s arms around me. I nestled my face against her belly and listened to my father say, “I did it because I love her.”
I stilled as his words echoed in my head. “I thought if you love someone, you don’t hurt them,” I finally responded.
“I’m so sorry, Junior,” he cried. “She was going to leave me,” he said. “I didn’t want her to go.”
He cried harder as I wondered, where was Mom going? And why didn’t he let her go? She always came back when she went to the store. She always came back when she went to the beauty salon. She always came back. Now she can never come back.
While nestled against Grandma’s belly, I remembered my mother. I remembered her smile, heard her voice, felt her hugs and her kisses, and I cried and cried and cried.
“When can you come home?” I whimpered, trying in vain to wipe tears from my face.
“Junior, you’re going to live with Grandma for a while. Okay?” my father said, calming his voice.
“When can you come home?”
“I can’t say right now, Junior. But in a couple weeks, Grandma is going to bring you to see me. Okay?”
“How long you gotta be in there?”
“For a while, Junior. It’s…” My father’s voice cracked again. “It’s okay for you to be upset at me, but… do you remember when I told you, that people sometimes make mistakes, and we can hate the mistakes, but not the people?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, Junior. Because I made a mistake, and I don’t want you to hate me.”
I didn’t want to hate my father, but he had killed my mother. And I knew the sixth commandment was thou shall not kill. I knew it to be a sin, a wicked sin, as when Cain killed Abel or when Joab killed Abner. I knew what I felt: loneliness, anger, pain. Then I remembered my mother—my mother kneeling with me beside my bed, my mother joining me in reciting my prayers, my mother kissing me goodnight, and my mother saying, just before she closed my bedroom door, “Our God is a forgiving God.”
“I don’t hate you,” I finally answered, feeling sleepy now, and at that moment I was too weak to continue to speak.
***
Grandma’s little house sat off a dirt road, back amongst the trees in Southern Pines in Dinwiddie County, Virginia. A fair amount of green grass encircled it. Pretty grass. Every summer it was neatly cut, and every fall it was sprinkled with acorns. The house had a porch swing that Grandma said was nearly sixty years old. And at the front door was a welcome mat, and mailbox that had our last name “Valentine” on it.
Inside the house was quiet and warm, and it always smelled like cinnamon bread, which Grandma routinely baked for members of her church. Throughout the house were pictures and paintings of Jesus or Dr. Martin Luther King. And in Grandma’s bedroom, next to the bed, was the King James Version atop her nightstand that was opened to Grandma’s favorite scripture: Colossians 2:5. Across from the nightstand was where I slept, curled up in my cot, covered by a quilt that Grandma knitted.
“Wake up, Junior, and come eat,” Grandma called for me Saturday morning, the week after I moved in.
I wanted to sleep until I awoke to my mother and father preparing breakfast in the big house that we lived in. Although my parents never prepared breakfast together, since I’d moved into Grandma’s, many nights and sometimes during the days, I dreamt they did. And I always awoke to find myself balled up in my cot. I thought, if I didn’t wake up too soon, I wouldn’t wake up disappointed.
“Junior, get up,” Grandma urged later that Saturday afternoon, shaking my leg.
I opened my eyes just enough to meet hers. Then I closed them for a few hours more.
The next morning was Sunday morning and I rose early to prepare for church. I went into the bathroom, and before I brushed my teeth and washed my face, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I remembered when my mother told me I have arms and legs as thin as rails, and I have dark and full lips, and I have the smoothest black skin and the gentlest brown eyes in the whole wide world, and I have the beadiest hair she had ever seen, and that I have to pick my beady hair every morning after waking.
I grabbed the hair pick from the shelf that hung on the wall. Then I buried its teeth in the entanglements of my cruel curls, and I did what my mother normally did because I never could—I picked my hair. I picked the front, the back, and the sides, grunting as I gripped the sink with my left hand and picked repeatedly with my right.
“Junior!” Grandma’s voice pierced through the bathroom door. “What are you doing in there?”
“I’m getting ready for church,” I answered, eyes watery and a bit short of breath.
After leaving the bathroom, I got dressed, ate breakfast, and then waited with Grandma on the porch swing. We waited for Sister Evelyn because Grandma never learned to drive, and Sister Evelyn always drove us to church.
“In two weeks, we’re going to see your father,” Grandma said as we sat close. “But… tomorrow, we’re going to get you transferred to your new school.” She patted my hand. “That means no more Mr. Sleepyhead, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She nudged my arm and smiled. “What were you doing in the bathroom this morning?”
My mind drifted to thoughts of my mother, of how I shouldn’t have run out of the house that day with my new stopwatch, of how I should’ve stopped and told her thank you. Grandma wiped a tear from my eye, brought me to her chest, and sighed deeply. I stayed in her hold until Sister Evelyn pulled up in a white Lincoln Continental with gospel music coming through its rolled-up windows. I went and opened the passenger seat door for Grandma, and then I sat in the back.
Ten minutes later we pulled into Mount Abel’s Baptist Church parking lot. It always appeared to be full, but Sister Evelyn always found a space to park. We went inside our large church, and Grandma kissed me on the cheek before an usher led me away to Sunday school.
After class Sister Evelyn stood at the door, wearing her big white hat, her fancy blue dress, and her loud heels that clicked in the halls. Although she was a couple pounds lighter and a couple of decades younger than Grandma, her caramel skin wasn’t free of stretch marks or wrinkles. She stood, lingering. And her thin lips, which always seemed to be pursed, pursed at me. And her angular nose, which always seemed to point to God, pointed at me. And her restless eyes, which always seemed to see everything, called for me.
“The choir is having a meeting soon,” she said as I approached, “and I’m gonna miss it. Come on. Your grandma is waiting for you.”
I followed behind her, quickening my steps to keep pace. We hustled up two flights of stairs to the top floor, shot around the corner, and then sped down the hall to Pastor Clark’s office.
“Sit right there.” Sister Evelyn pointed at a padded bench by the door. She went inside.
I sat holding my hands and tapping my feet. Because I had taken a test in class and received the highest grade, I thought my teacher told Grandma, and Grandma told Pastor Clark, and Pastor Clark wanted to reward me. Moments later Grandma and Sister Evelyn stepped out of the office. Grandma kissed me on the forehead and then told me to go inside and speak with Pastor Clark.
I walked inside the large office and saw Pastor Clark a fair distance away sitting behind an enormous desk. He was a gigantic man who appeared to eat from a pot and drink from a bucket because a plate and a cup were too small. His bald black head shone in the daylight, and his plump face held commanding eyes and a bullish tongue that always spoke the words of God.
“Close the door and come sit down,” he said in a thick, powerful voice. He gestured towards a chair in front of his desk.
I did as I was told.
“Timothy Valentine the second,” he said as I sat down.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, scooting up in my seat to level my shoulders with the top of the desk.
He watched me for a moment. “I hear you’ve been sleeping a lot. Is this true?”
I nodded yes.
“Why?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“Have you been thinking about your mother?”
I nodded yes.
“Do you know where she’s at?” he asked.
“She’s in heaven.”
“That’s right,” he said. “And heaven is a wonderful place. There, no one is sad. Everybody is happy. And we’ll get there one day. And when we do, you’ll see your mom again. You understand, son?”
“I get to see Mom again when I get to heaven?”
“That’s right. When you get to heaven, you’ll see her again.”
“Do I get to talk to her? ‘Cause the day she died, she gave me the stopwatch I’d been asking for. And as soon as she gave it to me, I ran out of the house to show my friends. But I heard her say, ‘No thank you?’ before I went out the door. And over my shoulder as I ran down the porch steps, I said, ‘Thank you.’ But she didn’t hear me. I know she didn’t hear me. But I kept running with my stopwatch, ‘cause I was going to thank her when I came home. But when I got back, it was time for dinner. Then it was time for bed. And I forgot to thank her. Then I didn’t walk down the steps and tell her thank you. I went back to bed. The next morning she was gone,” I said, tears sliding down my face.
Pastor Clark came and put a hand on my shoulder. “Your mother knows that you were grateful, son.”
“But I didn’t tell her,” I said, wiping my face with my hands. “I need to get to heaven so I can tell her ‘thank you.’
“You will,” Pastor Clark said, gently squeezing my shoulder. “I just want you to know that your mom is in a good place. And though you miss her, she’s okay. And she wants you to be okay. You and your grandma. We don’t want your grandma to worry, do we?”
I shook my head no.
“You’re the man of the house now. You have to look after your grandma, so you have to be up and alert. How old are you now?”
“Eight.”
“Eight!” he said in an elevated voice. “You were born in ’82. That’s the year I started this church. Look how time flies,” he said as he returned to his seat. “It’s 1990 already.” He found my eyes. “This year is a good year to be reborn, right?”
I nodded yes.
“This evening I’m doing baptisms. What do you think about that?” he said, resting his arms on his desk.
“Baptisms,” I thought.
“Do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”
His question made me think back to when I first met Sister Evelyn. I was five years old and had come to church with Grandma. During service, Sister Evelyn caught me twice eating a piece of chocolate. Afterwards she pulled me to the side and told me that, in the end times, a beast with seven heads, ten horns, and a mouth like a lion would come out of the sea and torment the sinners whose names were not written in the Book of Life. Then the sinners would be thrown into the lake of fire to burn forever and ever. And the only way for me to get my name in the Book of Life was to be reborn. But I had to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior, and I had to be baptized. But she said I wouldn’t be able to do either if I didn’t listen to my elders while in church. Since that day, I lost my taste for chocolate.
“Son, do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” Pastor Clark repeated.
“Yes, sir, I do,” I answered.
“Good.” He sighed. “Your grandma thinks it’s a good idea to baptize you this evening. Would you like to be reborn?”
I quickly nodded yes.
“After you get baptized, you’re going to be an energized child of God, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re not going to sleep too much?”
“No, sir.”
“And you’re going to look after your grandma?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pastor Clark leaned forward on his desk and looked warmly into my eyes. “You have to remember, son, the Devil is a liar, and like every child of God, you too will be tested.”
He hugged me before I walked out of his office. For the rest of that day, all I could think about was putting myname in the Book of Life.
Later that evening, I waited on Grandma’s porch for Sister Evelyn, fiddling with my red stopwatch. The sun began to fall while the moon began to rise—nighttime slowly approached. I looked to the skies for what seemed like hours, thinking about my mother, thinking about being reborn, and thinking that Sister Evelyn needed to hurry up.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived and drove Grandma and me back to church. The baptisms were already taking place, so an usher met us at the door and rushed me behind the pulpit curtain. She dressed me in a white gown and put me at the end of a line of four. Then four eventually became three. Three became two. Two finally became one.
I stepped out to the thunderous cheers of Mount Abel’s three-hundred-plus congregation. I immediately froze as my heart pounded against my chest. I wanted to walk farther onto the platform to rebel against my fear, but my fear was far from faint, so I remained frozen in front of the curtain. Then I flinched as Pastor Clark’s voice shot through the speakers above me, “Come hither, child of God.”
I looked to the middle of the platform and saw Pastor Clark standing waist-deep in a pool of water. His arms were opened, prepared to receive me. I didn’t move an inch, so the usher took me by the arm and led me to my rebirth.
My first step inside the chilly water surprised me so much that I yanked my foot out. I almost turned around, but I felt the usher’s hand on my back, guiding me forward.
I moved on, stepping inside the cold water until I was trembling underneath the presence of Pastor Clark. He took my bitty arms and folded them across my chest. Then he covered my head with his massive hand and spoke so loudly that I could hardly hear.
“In accordance with thee divine command and the confession of thy faith, I hereby baptize you young man in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
Whoosh! He dipped me backwards into the water, and for a split second, I knew the finality of death. When he raised me up, my body shivered as the hallelujahs! and praise Jesuses! shook the walls of the church. And I was no longer afraid. I felt new. I felt reborn. And I believed as Pastor Clark believed that the Devil is a liar, and like every child of God, I too would be tested. But I was just a boy then, so I never imagined what those tests would have in store.
A series of tragic events deposits Timothy “Junior” Valentine at the doorstep of his aunt’s apartment in the roughest neighborhood he’s ever seen. The young boy from the country grew up in a safe place under the care of his loving grandmother, who shared her faith and taught him to forgive. But as life takes him through one unfortunate mishap after another, Junior must fight to keep his hope alive. As his light begins to fade, one final tragedy may be the key to turning his life around. Will Junior find the faith to forgive in time to save his life?
A Walk Through the Neighborhood by Nathan D. Boyd provides readers with a front-row seat to the harsh realities of living in a low-income neighborhood. It was fascinating to watch a young man who dreamed of becoming a pastor slowly but surely fading into the darkness that surrounded him. From selling drugs, participating in armed robbery, and a nieve slip into underage drinking, Junior allows his circumstances to direct his life. Without realizing it, his unwillingness to forgive his father fills his heart with bitterness that prevents him from fighting to keep his spirits up and his faith alive. Even when his cousin Joelle starts attending church and turning her life around, Junior continues to fight his inner battles on his own.
At times, it was difficult to watch the young man make terrible decisions. It was equally painful to see how those choices and his naivete caused heart-wrenching consequences to follow. This story easily pulls the reader through the roughest waters, cheering Junior on, hoping he’ll finally turn his life around and escape the neighborhood. The conclusion of the book was more open-ended than I expected. The author writes from the heart of his personal experiences, and I was ready to keep following Junior’s story and see how things turned out for him. Still, I was happy to see the author left him in a place where it looked like the fire in his soul had been reignited, and he was ready to change his ways.
I loved the author’s storytelling ability and the way he captured the emotions of each scene, especially since some of the topics were a little more gritty than what you typically find in Christian fiction. Still, despite the darker nature of some scenes and the inclusion of swearing, the content remained at a PG-13 level. The story is raw and real--easily pulling the reader into an engaging, hard-to-put-down narrative.
I recommend this book to mature teen readers, adults, and those seeking a story of hope despite life’s sometimes tragic nature. Junior’s story will both challenge and inspire readers to never give up on God and to find forgiveness even in the darkest places. There is always hope when you stop running, surrender to Him, and find new life in the loving arms of the Heavenly Father.