No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown) by Michelle Stimpson Page A

classes, then left that building trailing the covered walkway
to the main sanctuary. Waiting for Stelson, I sat on one of the benches in the
foyer. He finally arrived, and we proceeded—without discussion—to
our regular section of the church. Right side, second section of pews. The
ushers knew our preference. We were regulars, and Stelson was one of the
long-time members. Not that we had special privileges. I suppose it was like
how Mother Bohannan had her spot at Gethsemane COGIC. People expected her to
sit there as much as they respected her routine.
    Living Word Church had grown
into an adult-heavy congregation. There was a good chunk of teenagers, but
there weren’t as many kids around as I remembered when Stelson and I first
married and I joined the church. The rainbow of colors present had always made
for a pleasant, gawk-free experience. When all our hands were raised toward
heaven, the spectrum of color was beautiful to behold. People from every nation
praising Him in our mid-sized sanctuary.
    Almost half of each service
was spent in praise and worship, which instantly lowered the temperature of the
anger brewing in my chest. “Here I am to worship…” I know it upsets my
husband when we’re late, Lord. I need to do better. “Altogether wonderful
to me.”
    As I blessed the Lord with the
fruit of my lips, gratefulness coursed through my soul.
    Without notice, the pain of
losing my mother sprang up fresh. Threatened to overtake me. But in truth,
recollections of Momma added to my praise. I could only thank God for the years she was alive, pouring into my life. Not everyone had a
mother when they were growing up. Some people’s mothers didn’t get to see them
finish high school, college, earn a master’s degree, become a professional
success, and walk down the aisle to say “I do”. Some never got to see any of
their grandchildren.
    Other people didn’t have good
mothers, and instead of suffering the pain of loss, they suffered the
inexplicable pain of neglect, abuse, or indifference.
    My mother was good. And she
was in the presence of a good God. “I’ll never know how much it cost…”
    Counting my blessings brought
thoughts of the wonderful man He had brought into my life ten years earlier,
who was standing at my side. Stelson was an amazing husband. He loved the Lord,
he loved me, and he was proving himself a great father to our children, despite
the fact that Stelson lost his own father to cancer when he was only nine. It
was hard to believe now that I’d almost missed out on the blessing of being
married to a man of God because Stelson was white. The way God changed my heart
through Stelson’s love and companionship was nothing short of an earth-moving
miracle testimony. I didn’t know many women—black or white—with a husband like mine.
    The final stanza of the song
was a reflection of how much it cost Jesus to pay for our sin, which sent tears
trickling down my face as my hands flew toward heaven. I didn’t deserve God’s
goodness, but He loved me. He loves me.
    Skylar Woodland, the worship
leader, led us in a moment of prayer, thanking God for His Son, Jesus. And then
she asked us to pray with someone near us.
    Of course, this brought
Stelson and me face-to-face. Immediately, I folded my arms around his neck and
whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry.”
    He locked onto my waist and
prayed as we swayed to the slow beat of worship, “Father, I thank You for this
beautiful woman. Thank You for our family. Thank You for teaching us both to be
obedient to You and submissive to one another, as Your Word directs. We stand
against division in our home. Help us to put aside hard feelings this morning
so we can hear Your voice. And please God, please help us to get to
church on time in the future. Amen.”
    Now, that last request wasn’t
quite the prayer I think Skylar had in mind when she’d instructed us to go
before the throne. But I let it slide because Stelson sealed the prayer with a
peck