No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown)

  (Book II in the “Boaz Brown” Series)

  a novel by

  Michelle Stimpson

  Description: In this sequel to Michelle Stimpson’s beloved debut novel, Boaz Brown, LaShondra and her Boaz, Stelson, are living the ideal American lifestyle, except for the subtle and not-so-subtle ways society keeps reminding them that they aren’t the norm. She’s African-American, he’s Caucasian, and their oldest child is already tackling the question of identity. It’s bad enough when outsiders show their ignorance or disdain. But when the issues come from family, LaShondra finds herself wondering if Stelson can truly comprehend the challenges looming on the horizon.

  When a church picnic leads to a head-on clash between LaShondra’s fears and Stelson’s optimism, the truth prevails. But that’s just the beginning.

  LaShondra learns that the drama during the family outing was only a set-up for an even more rigorous spiritual battle to save her family. After turning her back to the pressures at work and yielding to Stelson’s leadership, LaShondra finds herself interceding for a husband she hardly even recognizes anymore.

  Is this the beginning of the end for the couple that truly endeavored to honor God’s ways, or will this season fortify their marriage for His glory?

  Copyright 2014 by Michelle Stimpson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in reviews, without written permission from the author.

  The characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.

  Published by Michelle Stimpson

  MichelleStimpson.com

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Possible Discussion Questions

  Join the Mailing List & Excerpt

  More Books from the Author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Thank You, God, for a wonderful ten years as an author. Writing for Your glory is the best life—the life of Christ in me. Thank You for the gift and for guiding me as You promised through Your Holy Spirit.

  Thank you to the dozens of people who have written to let me know how the first Boaz Brown touched lives. I’m amazed. People have actually gotten married to folks and accepted in-laws they would have otherwise overlooked and changed the floor plans for their homes based on LaShondra’s prayer closet experience! One woman, in her 80s, said she didn’t know you could pray anywhere until she read Boaz Brown. It changed her view of our God. I am humbled!

  God uses that book in particular to break down barriers. The struggle continues, and the body of Christ continues to be victorious in Him. Thanks to those who did everything possible to put Boaz Brown, a debut novel, front and center: Denise Stinson (we miss Walk Worthy Press, by the way), Carol Mackey (made it a Main Selection for Black Expressions), Maxine Thompson, Miss Till at JoKae’s Books, and so many more that loved and embraced me from that book forward. Thank you!

  Thank you to my family and friends who are so supportive. Whether it’s a prayer or a Facebook share, I appreciate you! And to my FB friends, my goodness – besides being wonderful people in the first place, you all ARE the grapevine when it comes to information about books. Thank you!

  Thanks to all the individual readers whom I don’t hear from but I know are on the lookout for books. I know there are plenty of folks supporting silently. I see you!

  Thanks to the book clubs who continue to support the work and spread the word over nachos and potlucks!

  Help for this sequel came in many forms through many people. Toyce – thanks for the Bible for Hope – it came in handy. Thanks to fellow authors April Barker, Lynne Gentry, and Rhonda McKnight for being sounding boards. Arquila Todd gave me info about aviation guidelines. Dormel Thompson and Dana Grieb filled me in on Nanny-world. Jayne Knight, Tia McCollors, Rochelle Moss, and Chrystal Hurst are or were awesome stay-at-home-moms with little ones. Thank you so much for your insight!

  To the ladies at my Life On Life Table, thanks for your sisterhood and wisdom.

  Johnetta J. Hochstetler advised me on current issues facing interracial marriages, and I’m go grateful!

  Thanks to my editors, Karen McCollum Rodgers and Vicki Prather. You make my work shine!

  Finally, to Serena Wells, thank you, thank you, thank you for sharing your experience and insight about chronic disease. I stand with you in claiming your complete, symptom-free healing in Jesus name!

  Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor:

  If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.

  But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.

  Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.

  But how can one keep warm alone?

  Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.

  A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

  Ecclesiastes 4:9-12, NIV

  Chapter 1

  Hwuuuuu. Sheeeee. Hwuuuuu. Sheeee.

  “Stelson. Turn over on your stomach.” I shoved my husband’s shoulder, attempting to wake him.

  No response.

  Hwuuuuu. Sheeeee. Hwuuuuu. Sheeee.

  “Stelson. Roll over.” A little louder, a little stronger push this time.

  The television illuminated his glare at me, displaying the kind of anger that only a Church of God in Christ usher gives a member chewing gum in the sanctuary. “What?”

  I demanded, “Roll over. You’re snoring.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I’m not even sleep,” he protested.

  “You think I woke you up so I could lie to you?”

  He crumpled up his face, flipped onto his stomach with a grumble and turned his head away.

  I didn’t care about him getting upset. He wasn’t the one who had to rise at 5:00 a.m. so he could work out, get himself dressed, and then get a 6 month old and a 4 year old up, fed, dressed and at the daycare before 7:15 a.m.—all the while hoping to make it to work by 7:45 a.m.

  To be fair, Stelson would have helped with the kids if I’d asked him. But why should I have to ask? Shouldn’t it be instinctive to think, “Wow, my wife is really busting her behind with the kids. Since I have a morning off, I should use it to help her.”?

  Apparently this is not common sense.

  Within seconds, my husband was at it again. Only this time it wasn’t so much the sound as the annoying vibration of the rattle in his throat and nose. How have wives slept through snoring husbands for centuries?

  I sat up in bed, staring at the back of his clean-shaven head. In that instant I wanted to grab my goose-feather pillow, raise it high, and slam it down on his head like an amateur wrestler.

  My hand clenched the pil
low even as I reminded myself that it wouldn’t be godly to attack my husband in the middle of the night.

  Since the first time Stelson worked a 10-hour day after we married, I had become fully acquainted with his snoring ways.

  I actually used to think his snoring was “cute”. Endearing. Made me feel like a bona fide wife to complain about the sound of sawing logs in my bedroom.

  But that mess wasn’t cute at two in the morning after nine years of marriage.

  I had a choice to make. Stay in the bed and get no rest, which would ruin my entire day and throw off my week because I wouldn’t have a chance at making up the lost sleep-time until Saturday, or go to the guest room and savor the next few hours of peace.

  With every intent to disturb my husband, I threw back the sheet and comforter, exposing my legs to the cold air circulating in our bedroom, thanks to his hot-natured body.

  Though I knew exactly where I had placed my robe, I switched on the nightlight to create an extra disturbance. If I was going to have to leave my cozy bedroom, the least I could do was make sure Stelson knew how much I suffered so he could sleep well.

  He stirred. “Shondra.”

  “What?” I shot back. I grabbed my pink satin robe from its place on top of the other clothes littered across the ottoman near the foot of our king-sized bed.

  “Whereareyougoing?” his words slurred together.

  “To the guest room. I can’t get any sleep with you snoring like that.”

  He murmured, “No. Wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  He mumbled, “I’ll go.”

  I cinched the belt around my waist and stood, waiting for his body to comply with his mouth and his heart, but before he could put action to his words, sleep overcame him again.

  His gesture, albeit sweet, was empty.

  Not that I was any better. Work, exhaustion and life often caused me to fall short of my word, too.

  “God, help us.”

  I turned out the light and felt my way through to the door, pushing aside a pair of kitten-heeled shoes I’d worn to Sunday service earlier that day. My mother would have shaken her head at me if she’d seen the way I let my house go. I knew better. But when one child is hollering for milk and another one’s footsteps can be heard in rapid succession running through the house like a madman, taking the time to properly store a pair of shoes—even those few seconds—takes low priority.

  Once I’d cleared our bedroom, the smooth travertine floors in the kitchen and main hallway paved the way to the east wing. Since I did insist that those areas stay clear of debris, I walked swiftly, aided by the light of the moon. Too bad it wasn’t a full moon, because I failed to take note of the baby’s new high chair.

  Wham!

  My foot hit the side of that thing and I went down like Mike Tyson had just given me an uppercut. In an instant I was on the floor trying to catch my breath, holding my left foot.

  The pain in my pinky toe was so swift and severe, words wouldn’t do it justice. I slammed my hand against the cold floor, hoping to distract my nerve cells and possibly distribute the pain throughout my body. No help there.

  “Jesus,” I finally was able to whisper. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Help me.”

  I dragged my body over to the couch, pulling myself onto the puffy leather couch with my elbows. On a scale of one to ten, the throbbing had to be an eleven. If I could have bent over and gnawed off my foot, I would have. Alas, the baby fat lingering around my waist had reduced me to a sideways method of putting on shoes, so I knew the gnaw-off wasn’t gonna happen.

  With one hand nursing my foot, I used the other to shed some light from the living room lamp. If I’d seen a trail of blood from the kitchen to the couch, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

  The light-click revealed something far more ridiculous. My baby toe was off on a path of its own, sticking out as though it didn’t even belong to the rest of the foot. No doubt, it was broken. Or dislocated, if there was such a thing.

  No! No! No! I didn’t have time for a broken toe or a broken anything for that matter. The whole scenario flashed through my mind: I’d have to call the doctor, set up an appointment. I couldn’t take the kids with me, so I’d still need to get them to daycare. Go to the appointment, wait around for the X-rays and diagnosis of what I already knew to be true. Sit there and have him tell me, “There’s really nothing we can do except let it heal on its own.” (This I knew because my younger brother, Jonathan, broke his toe once.) After that non-helpful diagnosis, I’d pay a $30 co-pay, get a lame prescription which was probably equivalent to taking four Aleve, then go to the pharmacy to have it filled. By the time all that was finished, it would be time to go pick up the kids again.

  Forget that. Clearly, the toe was broken. It needed ice. I had Aleve already, and plenty of it. No need to involve Dr. Wheeler and mess up my routine with a whole bunch of extra running all over town.

  With my left foot balanced on the heel, I hobbled over to the pantry and fished through the shelves for a plastic Ziploc bag. Careful not to swing the door near my foot, I slowly backed out of the area. The marble countertops sustained me as I maneuvered to the refrigerator, where I pushed the dispenser button with my hand instead of a glass and caught the falling ice with the baggie. I swiped a bottled water while I was standing there, then cautiously continued my trek to the guest bed, leaving the light on in the living room. I could not risk tapping that toe against anything on my way to bed.

  The remaining few steps were taken with every precaution because my four-year-old, Seth, was notorious for leaving his kids’ meal toys all over the house. “They’re playing hide and seek,” he would claim whenever I found one cleverly placed between the sofa cushions or standing next to a toilet seat.

  His imagination amazed me sometimes.

  After sliding into bed, I quickly realized that my foot would not tolerate even the weight of a sheet on top, let alone an ice pack. All I could do was rig up the ice beside my toe with a pillow and hope for the best while I tried to catch the remaining Z’s available.

  And then my ears caught the sound. The sound of discontent, angst and perhaps fear. Zoe was crying. She must have heard me rambling around in the kitchen. If she cried long enough, she’d wake Seth. And if he got up, that would squash all hopes of any rest because he only had two speeds: On and Off. Nothing in between.

  I used the walls to help me get to Zoe in record time, for a person with a broken toe. I turned the light on just long enough to pull her from the crib and secure her in my arms. She stopped crying.

  Despite what all the professionals recommend, this child was sleeping in the bed with me tonight.

  She laid her head in the crook of my neck and threw one of her plump arms over my shoulder and began patting my back, a gesture of comfort she’d already learned from me.

  I kissed her chunky cheek. “Momma sure needs that right now.”

  She wiped her eyes and yawned.

  We made it to the guest room without incident. She squiggled up next to me and quickly fell asleep.

  In the seconds before I followed Zoe to dreamland, it occurred to me that I hadn’t grabbed my cell phone before I left the master bedroom, thus I had no alarm clock.

  But at that point, I didn’t even care anymore.

  If somebody reported me for being late tomorrow, that would be too bad. They’d just have to write me up. Shoot, my middle name is not Superwoman.

  Chapter 2

  Good morning, God. Jesus. Holy Spirit. I prayed silently in the moments before getting out of bed. I miss You. I miss how we used to spend time together in the mornings before I had to face the world. That 10-second prayer was the only time available to commune with the Lover of my soul.

  Of all the changes in my life since becoming a mother, the lack of quiet time with God was the one that discouraged me most. Going to church on Sunday and most Wednesdays was inspiring, yet I felt like I was running on spiritual fumes most of the week. My relationship with God seeme
d like a series of snippets whispered throughout the day. Text messages. No conversation. No intimacy.

  When I was single, living in my own house, I had an entire bedroom to call my prayer closet. My journal, my Bible, my music—everything that ushered me into our sweet, daily communion—greeted me each morning. We curled up together in His Word, He taught me, loved on me, filled me with fresh grace and mercy each sunrise. Sometimes we disagreed. Sometimes I got mad or ignored Him because I didn’t like what He’d showed me in His Word or in prayer. But I couldn’t stay away from Him because everything fell apart when I tried to go my own way.

  The fact that I was still functioning without a personal prayer life was a testament to His grace. I’m tired, Father. So tired. I hope You understand. I still love You. I know You still love me. Thank You for being faithful even when I’m not.

  As much as I wanted—needed—to curl up in His presence, my life awaited me on the other side of the bedspread.

  Painfully aware of each step, I showered, dressed, and groomed myself before waking the baby and Seth. Breakfast. Veggie Tales cartoons to hold one’s attention while I took care of the other.

  Stelson moseyed out of the bedroom only minutes before it was time for the kids and me to leave. “Babe, what happened to your foot?”

  “I stubbed my toe.” With both arms at a ninety-degree angle, shuffling around the house on one foot and a heel to get ready could have been counted as my workout. It would have to count, seeing as I’d missed my usual wake-up time.

  “Come here. Let me look at it,” he coaxed while sitting on the counter stool.

  “I can’t lift my leg up there.”

  “Well, let’s go to the couch.”

  The thought of having my husband examine my foot and make a big fuss over my injury was quite romantic, actually, but I didn’t have time. “I’m already running behind.”

  Stelson’s blue eyes sank in defeat as he sat one elbow on the kitchen island and parked his chin in his palm. He raised both eyebrows, summoning the wrinkles in his slightly-tanned forehead, the result of his three-day-long business trip to LA.