I am so not listening to this sermon. If Pastor Murphy could read my thoughts, he would probably, ask me to get my things, my four fidgety kids and get to stepping. I wouldn’t blame him. Aside from shouting an occasional amen and hallelujah, I’m just sitting here taking up space because I haven’t heard a word Pastor has preached all morning. All I can think about is how I’m going to tell my husband Marcus that I’m leaving him this weekend.

My best friend Patrice tells me I spend too much time complaining and not enough time praying and fasting for my husband’s salvation. I mean, that’s easy for her to say especially when her husband comes in here every Sunday jumping up and down and shouting about to rip his blazer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad everything has worked out between Patrice and Melvin. I remember the days when she was hoping right along with me for her man to get his stuff together. Now Melvin, excuse me, Deacon Melvin is now saved, Holy Ghost filled and fire baptized. Praise ye the Lord. But Lord knows my concerns are beyond just wanting Marcus to get saved. I’m a minister. My husband is a drug dealer.

Things haven’t been the same between us since those masked men came into the apartment and nearly killed me and the children. It’s been about seven years ago, but I remember it as if it happened yesterday. I was pregnant with the twins at the time and Tiffany was about eight or nine. I was asleep when I heard this loud boom. I jumped up in bed to gather my thoughts, trying to determine if the noise I heard was part of my dream or reality. No sooner than I look over to check on Tiffany who is lying next to me, I hear footsteps like galloping horses coming toward the bedroom. There are strangers in my home.

Just as I start to get out of bed, two masked men dressed in black snow suits burst into the bedroom. One of them covers my mouth with his black leather glove and pulls me from bed. He asks me where the money is as he holds a gun at the temple of my head. I tell him it’s in the other room. The other guy is pacing back and forth while Tiffany is crying and screaming. Real TV stuff. I’d heard stories, but never in a million years would I have imagined that I would be the one to experience it. My heart is pounding so hard I think I’m going to pass out. My whole body is trembling as he walks me to the other bedroom where the money is hidden.

With the gun still pointed at my temple, I reach into the corner of the dresser drawer and pull out stacks of money tied in rubber bands. All of the drug money Marcus has saved up, every dollar, I hand it over. He then asks for the rest of the money. I tell him that’s all there is. It’s the truth. I gave him all I knew about. He didn’t believe me. He starts yelling and getting rougher with me demanding that I give him the rest of the money. I start praying aloud asking God to help me, to save me. I don’t want to die. Not this way. Not over drug money. The gunman yells to his partner who is in the other room to take the money and go to the car. He grabs it and runs out of the door. The gunman yells at Tiffany and tells her to sit on the bed. I tell her its okay and to do what he says. He then pushes me and tells me to bend down as he turns me away from him and tries to push my face down into the bed. I struggle and do all I can to stop him from forcing me down. I had a feeling this would be the position he would use to shoot me, cold bloodied in the back of the head right in front of my daughter. I grab my stomach and I begin wailing as if I am going into labor. I don’t know where the thought came from to fake labor, but I did it. There was no pain. At least not in my stomach, surviving the moment was all that mattered to me. I needed to save me and my children. I would try what I could to gain his sympathy and only hope God would spare my life and the lives of my children.

I kept moaning and groaning. Holding my stomach and keeping my body upright, I was determined not to surrender to the bent down position. I fight for all I’m worth. Seems the gunman had a change of heart. He told me to sit in the chair, shut up and not to move unless he would kill me.

He begins backing out of the room to leave, still pointing the gun in my direction. I hear the door slam, but I dare move. Soon I hear nothing but the cold air that is whistling through the bullet busted balcony glass door. Tiffany is sitting on the bed taking in quick breaths, staring at me with her eyes big as day. I begin to loose my arms and legs from the ties, all the while thanking Jesus over and over. I put on a coat over my gown, slide into my slippers, wrap Tiffany in her coat, get in the car and drive to Aunt Ruby’s house.

God saved me, my daughter and my unborn babies that night. God is so merciful and gracious. He didn’t have to spare my life or that of my children, but He did. There was no way things could go back to the way they were. I could no longer go on living life as a hustler’s wife.