1
Little Soul
A silence falls over the throne room as the Angels of Heaven watch closely when Lucifer came to present himself before the Lord.
The Lord God speaks to Satan, “Lucifer son of perdition; why are you walking with the Host of Heaven? What business do you have here? Where is it you have come from?”
Satan answers the Lord, “I have need of your mighty patience and that you would bend your ear to listen to my request as I humbly stand before you and the Host of Heaven. I have been walking upon the earth, roaming throughout, passing back and forth.”
“Deceiver of man, you have my ear, I will hear your request.”
“Oh God of Heaven and Earth, Designer of the stars, I seek the soul of a child. His bloodline has no purpose to you.”
“What child do you seek, Prince of the air?”
“My servants informed me that the Christ has visited this Little Soul and allowed him to see into the Spiritual Realm. This child’s bloodline has been cursed for six generations. His fathers before him have rejected the Holy Trinity. Allow me this request; he is of no value to you. God of Abraham, take away his hedge of protection, surely you have no need of this Little Soul. ”
“Silence son of darkness. Have you wisdom so great that you now see into the mind of the Alpha and Omega? Were you there when I formed the springs of the deep, or when I breathed life into the nostrils of man? Have you knowledge of how to create the birth of a galaxy? Son of perdition, I hear the reverent prayers of this Little Soul’s mother, and her groaning from fasting cries out to me in the night. As she humbles herself before this throne, I shall break this generational curse with the father of this child you call, Little Soul.”
* * *
Eight years earlier; it was August 25th, 1960, when a proud father of his second son leans over, resting his head against the thick glass of a newborn nursery. Staring at this little 7lb, 8oz., bundle of joy, Mr. Travis breaks into a subtle smile, relieved that mom’s ok and we seem to have all ten toes and fingers. He’s got a bit of a cone head, but that’s normal considering just making a journey through the birth canal.
Travis feels a slight tug on his pant leg; it’s the three-year-old big brother, Gerald. “Hey there big man, you want to see your baby brother?” The dark eyed toddler stretches his arms out for a lift up. He settles in on the hip of his tall slender father as they both continue to stare at the only baby in the nursery of this small family clinic.
“Daddy, what his name is?”
Travis points to the name tag on the front of the clear plastic crib. “See right there, it says Chad Cole.”
The toddler giggles, “Shadow, Shadow, Shadow.”
“No big man, it’s Chad Cole.”
Gerald shakes his head, “Shadow, his name Shadow.”
“Well big man, he will probably be your little shadow, so what if we give him a nickname and call him Chado? How’s that? ”
“Okay Daddy, Chado my brother’s name.”
The impatient toddler decides it’s time to inform Mom of his new baby brother’s nickname, so with a bit of squirming, Travis gets the message and lowers Gerald to the floor. The happy tot bounces all the way back down the hall to Mom’s room. “Chado, Chado, Chado; Momma, my brother’s name is Chado!”
Mrs. Mildred, very tired from just giving birth, looks over at Travis, “What’s he saying, Shadow or Chado?”
“Well Sweetheart, usually folks wait a while before they give their kid a nickname, baby brother has only been here a couple hours and Gerald just gave him one. He’s saying Chado.”
Mrs. Mildred smiles while reaching over, patting Gerald on his head, “Chado Cole… You know, it kind of has a ring to it. Gerald, you’re such a smart little man!”
The toddler notices his exhausted mom has faded back into a deep sleep, so he gently takes her hand, placing it over on the bed.
The following morning, Nurse Louise walks into the room holding a newborn baby and a clinic invoice for 75 dollars. This was the going rate back in 1960 for delivering a child.
Mr. Travis pulls out his wallet and hands over three crisp twenties to the nurse, “Louise, this is all the cash I’ve got on me. Tell Doc I’ll bring him the other fifteen in a week or so and tell him I’ll throw in a few pounds of filet catfish for making him wait.”
“That will be fine, Mr. Travis. Now…, Mrs. Mildred, are you ready to make that trip back home to Black Creek?”
“Yes ma’am, I am ready!”
Nurse Louise rolls Mildred out to the parking lot and kindly helps a slow-moving mom climb into an old 1951 Chevy. After a few friendly waves, they drive out of the small town of Montgomery, Louisiana, making their way through the back roads, leading home.
* * *
Before we go any further with this tale, I have to introduce myself. I’m the newborn kid, Chado Cole. I know this must seem to be an odd way of telling my story; nevertheless, it has to be done this way. You see, I’m not only standing a few years into the future, I’m sharing this from the afterlife. A strange supernatural adventure is about to unfold, but first allow me to share a small glimpse of my past life. Maybe this will shine a bit of light on why the God of all creation would choose a little boy from the backwoods of Louisiana for his heavenly mission.
* * *
We lived in a humble little wood frame house nestled in heavy timber country with a crystal-clear creek within a rock throw from our house. We actually were blessed with an old pump that furnished my Granny’s house and ours with water from that spring-fed creek.
Our local church also used the swimming hole for baptisms. I missed out on getting dunked in our creek because I was saved in the wintertime. We used a sister church that had an indoor baptistery, because Black Creek was ice cold. Our community was named after that creek; it was our little piece of Heaven on Earth.
I guess I had a normal childhood, other than hovering at, or around, the poverty level; but we never seemed to want for anything. We lived almost entirely off the land; blessed with an abundance of fresh vegetables, milk, butter and eggs, that were all homegrown. I remember Granny having peach trees scattered all over the home place along with huge fig trees that shaded each side of the barn. Man, my granny had a green thumb; everything she planted seemed to be touched by God. It wasn’t unusual for me, or my older brother, to have peach juice running down our chins and elbows, as we would bite into the largest peaches you have ever seen.
There were several times when we had little or no money and my dad would work at a local gravel pit running a dragline. This was a seasonal job and he was often laid off during the winter. My dad would set what we called drop hooks in a nearby lake to catch “mud cat”, a type of catfish we had in our local waterways. They were a little less desirable than what you get in a restaurant, but in those days, folks would give Dad a few bucks for a few pounds.
Getting paid to fish might sound like easy work, but it was not. I remember Dad getting back from the lake after running his lines and hovering over the wood stove to warm up. He would often complain about having to break the ice to get to his lines. He had a big cage in the creek he would store his fish in to keep them alive. I don’t think the fish sales were a big money maker, but it did keep the lights on. You know, whenever I’ve found myself complaining about how rough my dad was on us, I think back on how he really did all he could to provide for our family during those lean times.
We had an awesome mom who seemed to always lead us in the right direction, and one of those directions was straight to our local church. My brother and I knew better than to try to avoid going. If the doors were open at the church, she was herding us through. I thank God for my mom.
My brother was three years older than I, and buddy, he reminded me of that regularly. I was either getting beat up or tortured. Often during some of our scuffles, he would hold me down; dripping spit over my face and then skillfully slurp it back up, just before the long gross spittle broke off landing on my forehead. You know - showing the brotherly love. There were times when I was able to make him retreat if I could get my hands on a weapon of some kind…a stick, ball bat, hatchet, or oh yeah, the BB gun .
Once, I was sneaking around the house about to take aim at a defenseless red bird sitting on the power line connected to our home, when ole brother grabbed my BB gun. He snatched it so quickly the sight cut my hand. He took aim, killed my bird, turned back around and threw my cherished gun on the ground. He walked off, giggling all the way across the yard toward Granny’s house.
That was it! I slowly cocked my BB gun, took close aim and popped him on the back of the head. Yes, I was in trouble… My brother got carted off to the doctor to get a BB cut out of his head, and if memory serves me, I got my butt tore up. I regret popping him, but that day was a turning point in our relationship. From then on, he used more caution when being hateful to his little brother.
During our woodsy secluded childhood, we didn’t get a lot of company and the highlight of our year was our family reunion. We would all gather down at the camp house located at the creek. Everyone that could play an instrument or sing would join in. The music, smiles, and laughter seemed to never end.
Just up the creek a-ways, our family swimming hole would be full of shivering blue-lipped cousins. The ice-cold spring-fed creek would also keep our floating watermelons a perfect temperature. Even after all these years, I can still remember the sound of guitars and mandolins echoing through that creek bottom.
After all our kin would go home, sadness would always come around. However, it was slowly removed by our dad lining us out on chores or teaching us how to throw a curve ball.
Thinking back over that part of my life I thank God for it, and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
As we got older, I learned a few things about my dad that made me understand more clearly, why he was a bit rough around the edges. From all the stories we were told, he had somewhat of a wild childhood, and occasionally that side of him would show up. He was a daylight-to-dark hard worker and he expected us to walk the same road.
To say Dad’s up bringing was rough is putting it mildly. In the dictionary, there’s a word that describes the Cole family, and that word is dysfunctional. I’ll give you a small example: One incident he told us about stands out in my mind. This particular day, Dad’s older brother – who was the oldest of nine kids – was attempting to open, what was known in those days as an icebox. As he did, Grandma Blonnie threw a butcher knife, sticking my uncle in the calf of his leg. She hollered, “Stay out of the icebox!”
After that gesture of affection, my uncle left home and moved to California. Shortly after this family love fest, my dad and one other brother joined the military to get away from the ongoing family battlefield.
Dad told us they were so poor growing up, that sometimes for Christmas, he would get one apple and a box of shotgun shells. When he opened the shells, he was warned that he’d better not waste any on cans or bottles; they were to be used to bring in wild game. Overall, my dad was well liked in the community. He loved his family the best way he knew how, and eventually came to know the Lord on his deathbed.
My brother and I went to school in Dry Prong, a small hick town located in central Louisiana, a few miles south of Black Creek. At this point of my life, everything seemed to be normal until school desegregation came in the picture. Some idiots in Washington decided to bus us way over to Colfax, Louisiana, while having their kids safely placed in private schools. Go figure.
We were forced to attend school where the famous 1873 Colfax Massacre occurred. This was not a place where you would want to even have a school, much less throw kids into this chaotic soup bowl. I know other schools most likely suffered in the same manner, however this particular school struggled for several years before finding a level of peace.
I truly believe we were the test dummies of the seventies. Desegregation took a toll on black and white kids alike. The dropout rate among my classmates during this awful transition was terrible.
Throughout all our trouble during these school years, I came to understand deep down in my heart that God doesn’t care about the color of your skin; it’s the heart that He observes. So, in the midst of so much confusion and deep-rooted hate in our Parish, I personally chose to break this generational curse of division, and to seek out the good in a person’s heart.
Now after so many years have passed and I look back on those troubled times, I know it was my Savior who led me down this path of understanding. He showed me how to love the unlovable.