Pre-summer heat teased all of South Central Los Angeles. It was April 1985, the fool’s month. I stood on the corner of 75th Street and Avalon Boulevard, directly in front of a small white church. I had been up for three days straight, without sleep, a shower, or clean clothes. Cocaine-filled sweat skateboarded down my face. I had dope, a broken crack pipe, and a few dollars in my pockets. I even had a mild case of gonorrhea some woman had given me. I was wanted by the police for a string of crimes I did not even commit, but that was the reputation that came with the title “Crackhead.” I was hooked and loved it more than money. A melodic organ began to play. It took me awhile to identify the song. It was the traditional version of “Precious Lord.” Its sound permeated through the walls, out into the street, and surrounded me. I was forced to summon the days of my childhood, reminiscing on the times I was in church, and the music that made people fall out and talk in Russian. For some reason, my high began to subside. It was the power of the Lord talking to me. I began to sing along while my tears of shame fell. A church member came out for fresh air. That song then hit me dead-on. The way that woman sang stirred my soul like lumpy grits. It was a song that brought lost sinners to Christ, or a believer on home to Heaven. One of Pastor Sneed’s sermons came to mind. He was telling the congregation to “come as you are.” It meant that no matter how you looked, or if you were a crackhead, just come. Unconsciously, I felt myself facing the church’s entrance—my legs taking small steps toward the entrance. I entered and was greeted with shocked stares. I walked over to one lady sitting in the front row, gave her all the money I had in my pockets, and left. The tears that I shed as I walked away from that church were of relief. It was as if some unexplained burden had been lifted and everything would be all right. I shed the kind of tears that asked for sincere forgiveness. I knew there was a God looking over me. Much as I disowned Him through my daily sins, He was indeed worthy to be praised. Oh yes, I had a real reason to be thankful. Even as a crackhead committing every sin known to man, I knew how it felt to be blessed. In my darkest hour, God protected me. I didn’t understand why. I had no right to put a question mark where God had put an exclamation point. He put me in a place where He could get my full attention. Each passing day I am constantly reminded of my past. I know now why I failed, why my life was in so much turmoil and strife. I didn’t put God first.
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