The Devil in Pew Number Seven by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo Read Free Book Online Page B

in the wind. And, although I was suddenly cold, my lungs burned with each breath.
    In vain, I cried out.
    My legs, kicking without regard for the hands that attempted to hold me down, were no match for the masked faces surrounding me. I could not make sense of their muffled voices. Out of control, powerless to hold my head up, I was carried away against my will. With fingers curled into a ball of fury, face as red as Mars, I howled so loudly the wail could be heard down the hall.
    Like all of humanity before me, I entered the world staging a protest.
    On April 26, 1970, precisely at the stroke of midnight, I was born Rebecca Lorraine Nichols at the Southeastern General Hospital in Lumberton. After the nurses cleaned off my body, weighed, measured, and then wrapped me in a pink blanket, I was presented to my mother. I cannot pretend to imagine the feelings soaring through her heart like an eagle caught in an updraft as she cradled all 8 pounds, 9 1/2 ounces of me for the first time.
    Drawing me to herself, inhaling the fresh scent of my newborn skin, Momma whispered a prayer of gratitude. Her arms were embracing a living miracle, and she, more than any of the nurses and visitors doting on me in the crowded hospital room, could fully appreciate the depth of that fact.
    I was an answer to her countless prayers.
    A dream fulfilled.
    A hope granted.
    Now that I had arrived, Momma would be my provider, my protector, my friend. And she, no doubt, had big plans to teach me how to sing and play an instrument when I was of age. In due time, she’d teach me about purity, modesty, conversational etiquette, boys, and especially the God who loved her baby. Throughout my life, she wouldn’t permit a day to go by without saying, “I love you, Becky.”
    Even before I was born, she took the time to communicate her love for me, crafting a tender note placed inside my baby book. Putting pen to paper, she captured these reflections:
    A Letter to Our Little Darling
    Your mommy is writing a letter because you haven’t arrived yet. Your Daddy and I are looking forward to seeing you for the first time just two weeks from today. Daddy is like a little boy at Christmas waiting for Santa Claus to bring him a big present. Only Santa won’t bring you because you are being sent from Heaven. We prayed for you and Jesus heard us and is sending you to add more happiness to our lives.
    We have wanted you so much for a little over six years now. But, God has a timetable and we had to wait until He was ready to send you. Our Heavenly Father always knows what’s best for us. Your Daddy prays that you will be a good-spirited baby, and your mommy prays that you will be healthy.
    You are coming from Heaven and I pray too that after your life is fulfilled on this earth that you will return from whence you came. Our greatest desire is that your name won’t only be written in this book, but that it will be written down in the Lamb’s Book of Life, the great record book in Heaven.
    May God Bless Our Little Angel
    The joy Momma and Daddy experienced over my birth was shared by the entire church family. I was welcomed into the world as if I were one of their own kin. These dear friends showered gifts and homemade meals, like a heavy downpour, upon our home. A steady stream of visitors flowed in and out of the parsonage, seeking a peek at the miracle baby or dropping by to lend a hand as needed.
    My parents couldn’t have been happier.
    Life was good. Very good.
    At least for the first eighteen months of my life.
    And then the telephone rang.
    * * *
    A jarring clang ripped through the night air. An unseen hammer in the belly of the phone beat against a metal bell with repeated blows as if prodded by a hot poker. Unlike modern phones, this one didn’t have a selection of personalized ringer tones to customize the sound of an incoming call. No playful rendition of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture , Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony , or Für Elise . Not even a few bars of