The Retreat. Dijorn Moss

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СКАЧАТЬ the issue. He wasn’t here to witness to some college student. The group of thugs who hung out under the tree needed his attention more than some blasé undergraduate.

      “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil,” Chauncey muttered under his breath as he arrived at the group and broke the circle the gang had formed.

      The group started to reposition themselves to size up Chauncey. One guy was as big as the tree. Shirtless, he showed off his coil skin and stretch marks. With a pot belly, his physique was not desirable. Chauncey set his sights on the young man who appeared to be the leader, since he was the only one who did not move.

      “Could you turn it down?” Chauncey asked.

      “What?” the leader said.

      “I said could you turn it—”

      “Speak up! I don’t like all that mumbling,” the leader said.

      The leader who commanded this motley pile of thugs looked to be no more than eighteen. His body was like a memorial: tattoos of “rest in peace” followed by the names of what Chauncey assumed were his fallen comrades covered most of his golden skin.

      “I just want you to know that you should be ashamed of yourselves for doing the devil’s work,” Chauncey said.

      His comment caused a nod from the leader, at which point one of the other thugs reached over and turned the music off.

      “Say that again, old man?” the leader urged, spitting out the last two words.

      “I said you’re doing the devil’s work and you need to repent. I have the Lord on my side and I refuse to be intimidated by you thugs.”

      Chauncey felt an object press against his temple. He held on to a fool’s hope that it was not a gun until he turned ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of the muzzle.

      At that moment, Chauncey’s raven-like eyes burst out of his skull.

      “Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” Chauncey’s facade crumbled as he cried out the words.

      “You better get up out of here with that church crap before I have the homie bust a cap in you,” the leader warned.

      Chauncey backed away from the group and started to walk as fast as his heart beat. Even the wind terrified him, as if at any moment he would be shot in the back. These gang members are ruthless cowards, Chauncey thought, not noting the irony.

      As he got back into his car, Chauncey peered out of his front window. In the distance he could see the gangsters laughing at him.

      He was jolted back to attention by his cell phone vibrating in his coat pocket. The caller ID showed that it was his sister, Nicole. She lived in Sunnyvale, a small city in Northern California. It was about an hour away from Monterey, where the Men’s Retreat would be held this weekend. Chauncey planned to get to the Retreat on Thursday evening, a day before the official start.

      He wanted to help set up and spend some quality time with his pastor and some of the brethren. Of course, there was also a professional matter that Chauncey needed to secure. Pastor Dawkins had been reviewing applications for the minister’s class. Chauncey’s application was among them. When Chauncey was twelve, a prophet had spoken about him becoming a preacher, and how yokes would be broken by his testimony. Chauncey believed that his time had come to become a minster, and being at the Retreat would show Pastor Dawkins his commitment.

      “Sis, thank God you called. I just wanted to tell you that I love you,” Chauncey said.

      “Did you forget that you’re supposed to visit your brother today?” Nicole asked.

      “No hello…just right into criticism. Sister, you would’ve made a great Sadducee, because you love to judge people,” Chauncey said.

      “So now you think you’re Jesus?” Nicole snapped back.

      Whatever excitement Chauncey felt to talk to his baby sister had left by the time she started talking. He had just escaped a life-or-death situation, and his sister’s accusatory attitude was not the response he needed or wanted.

      “Oh no, I’m supposed to see him, I just had something more important to take care of,” Chauncey said.

      “Just get over here. You know how bad traffic is on the 405 around this time,” Nicole said.

      Chauncey hung up the phone as he sped away. He wondered how in the world he would ever truly be able to do God’s will when his family was in constant need of his help.

      Chapter Three

      “Not the response that I expected.” Melvin, Jamal’s boss, adjusted his platinum Day-Date Rolex.

      Jamal began to loosen his tie and unfastened his top button. “I am happy. I’m ecstatic. This is what I want.”

      “I remember when you sat in that chair five years ago, nervous and scared. It was like your entire future rested on you getting this job. But day in and day out I’ve seen you hustle your butt off to get results.”

      Jamal had worked for that promotion every day for the past four years. To become a senior marketing exec for Pinnacle Sportswear was his goal. He was sick and tired of living from dime to dollar. Jamal’s family raised him on the idea that if a person wanted something, he had to be willing to work harder than the next man to get it. That meant that when everyone else was asleep, he needed to be at work.

      So he made a solemn promise to work while everyone else was at the water cooler, engaged in gossip. Jamal would work while his coworkers complained about their salaries. He never lost sight of his goal and purpose. With his faith in God, he now had everything he wanted career-wise, but his mind could not allow him to savor his victory.

      Jamal thought about his son, Jamir, and how every day Jamir resembled him less and less. His life was at a crossroads, and with so many life-changing decisions at his feet, Jamal turned to the only one who knew what the best course of action was for his life.

      “Father, open my eyes so that I might see the wonderful plan you have for me. I don’t want to be outside your will, and I pray that the results today will bring you honor and glory. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.” Jamal prayed.

      “If I had your wisdom at my age, I would be a billionaire by now. But understand we are not going to pay you this salary for a nine-to-five, forty-hour workweek. We are going to need you to be a machine. Can you live with that?” Melvin asked.

      Jamal locked into his problem: a $100,000 salary in exchange for time with his most precious resource, his son Jamir.

      “Can you?” Melvin asked.

      “I know I can, I just need a minute to get my affairs in order.”

      Melvin pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “I’ll tell you what, take until next week to think about it, and on Monday I expect your answer.”

      “Thank you, Mr. White.”

      This weekend was the Men’s Retreat, and Jamal would have a lot to think and pray about. He walked back to his cubical, where he had a decent view of the parking lot. He also had a view СКАЧАТЬ