GETTING A private counseling session with Bishop Nathaniel Lumpkin was a rare treat. Getting a private session with twenty-four hours notice was virtually impossible unless there was a case of extreme emergency. As Josiah sat in the far-too-comfortable wing-back chair that the pastor pointed him toward, he had Danielle to thank. She was the bishop’s goddaughter, and it was by her special request that the preacher was making the exception.

“Well, Brother … uh, Brother Tucker,” he said, after slipping on a pair of reading glasses and looking down at the notepad on his desk, “I hear you’re having some challenges that you’d like to talk about. I pray that I’ll be able to offer you some biblical insight and wisdom.”

Josiah watched Bishop Lumpkin remove his glasses, carefully place them on his desk, and then lean back in his executive-style chair. The burgundy leather matched the mahogany desk with perfection. For the last three years, Josiah had listened to the dynamic man of God preach the Word every Sunday morning, but this was the first time he’d ever sat in his office. As a matter of fact, this was his first time ever having a private conversation with the man, and it was more than a little intimidating. Josiah respected Bishop Lumpkin, but it took years to harvest the kind of trust he needed to have to tell this man his life’s story.

“Thank you for fitting me in your schedule.” Josiah cleared his throat and squirmed in his chair. He hoped his next words wouldn’t offend the pastor. “I’m … well, to tell the truth, I’m here under duress, really.”

A soft chuckle preceded the bishop’s next words. “Maybe that should be uncommon, but it’s not. Most people who come to any of the leaders of the counseling ministry do so only after some level of coercion from family or friends. For many—and I especially find this to be true among the brothers in the body of Christ—having to obtain counseling is seen as some kind of character weakness. But the truth of the matter is that it’s just the opposite. In the fifth chapter of Proverbs, the Bible tells us that it is a wise man who seeks counsel.”

It got quiet, and Josiah assumed that it was his turn to speak, but he had no idea what to say. Despite the Scripture reference, he still wasn’t ready to expose his life to a man who’d had to look at a piece of paper in order to know his name. A man whose hand he’d never shaken prior to his entrance into the pastor’s study five minutes ago.

Plus, it could easily be that he wasn’t the best person for the job anyway. After all, Bishop Lumpkin didn’t get much practice in this area of ministry. Josiah guessed he must have sat quiet for too long because it was Bishop Lumpkin’s voice that sliced into the thick cloud that was settling over their heads.

“God has consecrated this ministry with some gifted counselors, both male and female, who are well-versed in Scripture and well-connected to heaven,” the man was saying. “Many people have been blessed tremendously after being pointed in the right direction by the divinely inspired instructions passed along by the staff here at Living Waters. I’m not known for my counseling skills because I have set people in place to meet the needs of the congregation. But what many don’t take into consideration is that those who counsel those who have need of counsel have need of counsel as well.”

Josiah looked at the pastor as if to say, “Was that a trick question?” He repeated the brainteaser in his mind and tried to make sense of it, but he didn’t have to ponder for long.

“In other words,” Bishop Lumpkin explained, “those who are anointed to counsel others frequently find themselves in need of some wisdom and spiritual insight. So while I don’t normally sit in sessions with the lay members here at the church, those who serve as ministry leaders sit down and confide in me often.”

It was as though he had read Josiah’s mind. Still, he was unsure. Josiah knew the clock was ticking. Danielle had gone above and beyond the call of duty when she took the initiative to set up this meeting, and there was a big chance that both she and Craig would be outdone with him if they found out that he had wasted Bishop’s time. But knowing that didn’t make Josiah want to spill his guts any more now than when he first walked into the office.

Josiah’s eyes traveled around the massive space, trying to avoid contact at all cost. It was a large office. Much larger than the one he’d had for the past seven years at MacGyver. Even larger than the one he’d be moving into tomorrow. Two sofas and a coffee table were situated on one end, with the look of a living room. On the other end of the office, bookshelves lined the walls on either side of the pastor’s desk. Some shelves were filled with reading material, and others were stocked with photos and memorabilia; mostly souvenirs from Central State University in Ohio, the pastor’s alma mater.

Everything in the office seemed to be in some kind of rational order. Business stuff on one side, casual stuff on the other. It was nice and clean too. Josiah felt comfortable resting his hands on the arms of the leather chair. When Bishop Lumpkin began talking again, Josiah guessed it was because he had been too quiet for too long again.

“There was this one young man—a minister here at Living Water—who, as a kid, had endured endless ridicule. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he had quite a rough life.” Bishop Lumpkin paused and stood from his chair.

The pastor took a short stroll and came to a stop in front of his desk, just a few feet away from where Josiah sat. Standing at a height of just under six feet, Bishop Lumpkin was a robust man in his mid to late fifties whose pattern baldness actually became him. Grey strands littered his remaining hair, making him seem older than his years. He leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms in front of him like he had all the time in the world to wait for Josiah to come around and open up.

“This young man,” he continued, “had endured a rough childhood wherein he was bullied and picked on just about every day he went to school. His parents tried to convince him that the daily harassments were a result of the low self-esteem of those who did the bullying. There was nothing wrong with him, they told him. But it’s hard to convince a kid of that when he’s walking around on crutches every day because there was nothing below the knee of one of his legs. He had a left thigh and a left knee, but that was it.”

He had Josiah’s full attention now, and he wanted to know more. “Why did his leg have to be amputated?”

Bishop Lumpkin picked up a snow globe from his desk and shook it, stirring the contents before returning it to its station. He took a moment to watch some of the snow settle, then looked back at Josiah. “Amputated? No, there was no amputation. It was a birth defect. He was born that way.”

“Oh.” It was all that Josiah could think to say. In his mind though, he figured that this minister was no longer a part of Living Water. There were no one-legged preachers on their staff.

“This young man’s whole life was hampered by that bum leg and the ugly things that people said about it from childhood all the way into his adulthood. Every time he heard someone laugh, he wondered if they were laughing at him. Every time he saw a person walk with a limp, he wondered if they were really impaired in some way or if they were slyly mocking him.”

Josiah’s back stiffened as he recalled his lunchtime exchange with Craig on Friday. Well, well, well. Looks like his good ole confidant had gone and tattled to the bishop. Or maybe Craig had told Danielle, and Danielle had filled Bishop Lumpkin in when she set up this unsolicited appointment. Either way, a weak moment he thought would be kept between brothers had leaked.

Josiah bit the inside of his bottom lip as embarrassment crept in. Bishop Lumpkin, no doubt, knew about the tears and everything. He couldn’t believe Craig had betrayed him like this. It was enough to make Josiah want to storm out in protest, but this story that his pastor was telling, orchestrated or not, was too engaging not to hear the ending.

“So what did he do?” Josiah heard himself ask.

A half smile tugged at Bishop Lumpkin’s lips. “His road to deliverance from those demons didn’t come until he was probably just a year or two younger than you are right now. That’s when he walked into the office of this awesome pastor who gave him good, sound advice.”

Josiah chuckled at the bishop’s shameless plug of himself. “And that advice was?”

“Change it or live with it.” Bishop Lumpkin said the phrase like it was simple common sense.

That wasn’t the response Josiah expected to hear, and the scowl on his face said that he disagreed wholeheartedly. “That’s it? That’s what you told him?”

“That’s what the preacher told him; yes.”

“The man spent his whole childhood being the target of jokes, and no doubt, he was reminded about the fact that he had no family … I mean, no leg … all through college and even after he entered the workforce, and all you could give him by way of counsel was change it or shut up?”

Bishop Lumpkin readjusted his position. Instead of leaning on the desk, he used his hands to hoist his body up until he was able to slide onto the desk in a seated position. He waited another moment before saying, “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s the same thing,” Josiah defended. “Change it or live with it… change it or shut up … tomato … tom-ah-to.”

In the seconds of quiet that followed, Bishop Lumpkin appeared to be deep in thought. Then he broke the silence with, “You’ve heard of the serenity prayer, right?”

Josiah nodded, and to prove it, he recited the words. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” As soon as he finished smugly rattling off the words, he realized why the bishop had asked.

“There are certain things in life that we can’t do anything about, Brother Tucker,” the pastor said. “If there is a life struggle torturing us that we have absolutely no control over, then all we can do is pray about it, and then release it to the hands of God so that He can direct us on how to live with whatever that issue is. But if the challenge—be it physical, mental, or otherwise—is something that we have been given the wherewithal to do something about, then it’s up to us to change it.”

“So what were you telling the guy to do about his missing leg? Pour some water on his stump and hope it grows?”

“The preacher was telling him—”

“Okay, the preacher … you … tomato … tom-ah-to.” Josiah pounded his fists on his thighs to the rhythm of the last two words. Nothing annoyed him more than people who’d had perfect little lives who tried to tell people with troubled lives how to get over it.

Josiah attempted to keep the annoyance out of his tone, but he knew it could be heard, and for the moment, he didn’t care. It had been kind of cute the first time Bishop Lumpkin referred to himself in third person in this little scenario that he’d cooked up, but now it was getting old.

“The preacher,” Bishop Lumpkin began again in a much firmer tone than before, “was telling him that he had the option to take control of much of the situation.”

The air thickened, and Josiah shrank in his chair, feeling like a kid about to be punished. He had crossed the line when he so rudely disrupted his pastor’s previous reply, and he knew it. Josiah clasped his hands together, and then slid them between the same thighs he’d pounded earlier. His eyes were downcast when he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

“Contrary to what you have assumed, Brother Tucker, I am not the preacher in this story.”

The bishop’s tone had softened a little, and Josiah felt that it was safe to look up at him again. What did he mean he wasn’t the preacher in the story? Josiah never verbalized the question, but Bishop Lumpkin answered as though he did.

“I am not the preacher who gave the advice.” Bishop paused like he was giving the words time to sink into Josiah’s head; then he reached down and carefully rolled up the left leg of his dress pants. “I was the young man who he gave the advice to.”

Wonderment left Josiah speechless as he watched his pastor roll down a brown sock to unveil a prosthesis that served as his leg. Josiah didn’t know what to say, and even if he did, there was no voice to amplify the words.

“I couldn’t water my stump and grow a natural leg,” Bishop Lumpkin said, allowing his prosthesis to remain exposed as he talked, “but I had the power to change the incompleteness that had tortured me for more than twenty-five years because I didn’t have that leg.”

Josiah felt like a fool. He wanted to apologize again for his outburst, but saying I’m sorry just didn’t seem adequate. So instead, he remained silent while the preacher continued to talk.

“I could change it so that what I didn’t have wasn’t the first thing people noticed when they saw me, so that I didn’t wear my pain as a visible chip on my shoulder. So that people didn’t get introduced to my hurt and my bitterness before they got introduced to Nathaniel Lumpkin.”

Josiah finally tore his eyes away from the visual example that his pastor had given and stood from his chair. He wanted to go to a window and look out of it, but the bishop’s office had none. Plan B had Josiah walking to one of the bookshelves and scanning the spines of the reading material while he spoke.

“What did Craig tell you about me?” Josiah asked.

“Nothing.”

The bishop’s reply made Josiah turn to face him. Nobody else knew his life story. Josiah had made Craig vow never to share the details of his past with anyone, so who else could have told the pastor? “Danielle?” Josiah asked, all the while, preparing to corner Craig if he found out that he’d shared the story with his fiancée.

Bishop Lumpkin slid from the desktop and walked back around to his chair. “No one has told me anything about your story, Brother Tucker. Why don’t you share it with me?”

Josiah eyed his pastor in disbelief. “If you don’t already know about me then why did you tell me your story?”

“Because the Lord led me to,” the bishop replied.

Josiah looked at him a moment longer before turning back toward the books. He stared at the spines, wondering how many of them had been written out of pain. “That’s great about your leg, Bishop. I mean, it’s great that you could do something to make your life better; put something there to take the place of what you lost … or never had. But that won’t work for my issue. So since I can’t change it, I guess I’m one of those people who has to somehow learn to live with it.”

“Why don’t you think you can do anything to change it?”

Josiah had just scanned intriguing book titles by authors he’d never heard of before, like Run and Not Be Weary by Toni Alvarado, Naked and Unashamed by Dr. Stacy Spencer, U-Turn by Terence B. Lester, and Jesus In Me by Adrian M. Bellamy, when he turned away to face Bishop Lumpkin again. Inwardly, he prayed that his words wouldn’t cross the lines again.

“You can’t go and buy a prosthetic family, Bishop,” Josiah said. “I’m not trying to say that what you went through was a piece of cake compared to what I’ve had to put up with, but to tell the truth …” Josiah left the sentence hanging momentarily. Then after a breath he started again. “To tell the honest truth, if I could be given a choice to live without ever having a leg versus living without ever having a family, I’d choose to spend my life on crutches.”

Josiah expected a reprimand from his pastor, but he didn’t get one. Instead, Bishop Lumpkin urged him to go on.

“Tell me about your family.”

Josiah released an annoyed laugh that ended with the words, “What family?”

And then it happened. The words poured from Josiah’s mouth, making Bishop Lumpkin a member of the elite group of two who now knew the poignant, heartbreaking details of the life of Josiah Tucker. As he spoke, he leaned on the bookshelf as though he needed a prop to keep him from toppling to the floor as he’d done on the day the policeman first told him of his mother’s murder. Throughout the reveal, Josiah found himself blinking hard, determined not to get emotional as he’d done on Friday. When he was done, he ran his hand over his bald head for no apparent reason.

“You have indeed been through a lot,” Bishop Lumpkin said.

“Been through implies that it’s over and done with. I feel like I’m still going through it.” It was the first time Josiah had admitted it out loud. “That’s the problem. I pray and I ask God to take away the memories and the pain, but every single day it’s still there on some level. Some days are better than others, but it’s always there. My entire life, I’ve put my everything into whatever I’m doing-school, work, church, everything—just to try and clutter my mind with so much other stuff that there is no room for the memories. But they’re still there.”

“Are there no good memories? None at all?” Bishop looked like he was sincerely trying to grasp for something positive.

“None.” Josiah wasted no time answering. “I don’t even know who I am. The only person who gave me a particle of identity is dead, and sometimes I think I didn’t know her either. I never knew a sober Reeva Mae Tucker. Not for long, anyway. The little time she was clearheaded was spent trying to steal something from me or somebody else that could buy her next high. And when she wasn’t stealing, she was out on the streets trying to earn the money the only way she knew how.”

“I see.”

“No, Bishop. No you don’t,” Josiah insisted. “Part of the reason that I carry this … this … this unexplainable heaviness is because as much as I wish I could say I loved my mom, I don’t think I did.” When Josiah said that part, his voice dropped to a whisper. He felt ashamed of himself for saying the words and wanted to be sure that no one standing anywhere near the bishop’s door could hear them. “I know that sounds awful to hear it, ’cause it feels awful to say it. But it’s true. I can’t say that there was ever a time that I really loved my mother. I mean… I did, but I didn’t. That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, I know,” Josiah rambled. “But I don’t know any other way to say it. I prayed for her all the time, and I hoped that she’d one day just snap out of it, but that never happened. So just to get some relief, I would hope that she’d go off somewhere for a few days so I could get some sleep or so I could eat in peace. Simple stuff that I couldn’t do when she was home.

“She never gave me anything, Bishop. I felt like I was the adult of the house, and she was the kid. The spoiled, unruly, rotten kid.” Josiah blinked away more tears. “I was constantly cleaning up behind her; washing her dirty clothes, picking up empty beer cans and liquor bottles and making sure there were no filthy used needles lying around the house that I might step on or prick my finger with. I had to keep food in the refrigerator and lights on in the house and … and … and toilet paper in the bathroom. There were so many days when I asked God why He didn’t just fix things so that I could have remained with the Smiths. I just wanted to be a regular boy who lived a regular life, but I couldn’t be a regular boy because I didn’t have a regular mom.”

Bishop Lumpkin had been nodding throughout Josiah’s rant, and when silence finally reigned the pastor took advantage of it. “It’s very understandable that you would feel that way, Brother Tucker. And believe it or not, I fully comprehend how you could love your mother but not love her at the same time. There are different types of love, and there are some people in our lives—within and outside of our families—who we can only love with the love of Christ.

“Agape love is a type of love that makes you sacrifice self in order to try and help others. You definitely did that in the case of your mother, so maybe that was the kind of love you had for her. She didn’t feel like a mother to you. She didn’t do the things a mother should do for her child. Mothers are supposed to protect and care for their children, but yours brought danger and hardship to your life. It stands to reason that you wouldn’t necessarily feel toward her as you would if she had been the nurturing person that a mother should be.”

Josiah had never heard it put quite that way before. He wasn’t feeling so much like a monster anymore. That was how he’d felt for years knowing that he hadn’t loved Reeva the way a son should. Even still, the void was there. The same emptiness that he felt when he had no one rooting for him at his high school graduation, his college graduation, nor at his promotion dinner last night, was still there.

Josiah gave his pastor a pitiful smile and pointed in the general area of where he knew the bishop’s leg rested behind the desk. “You think they make those things for families? If I could buy a prosthetic family, I would.”

Bishop Lumpkin laughed, then said, “Give technology and medicine just a little longer, and who knows?

Josiah laughed too. It felt good to laugh.

“What about the Smiths? Are you still in contact with them? Did you form any real bonds there?”

Josiah looked perturbed. “The Smiths?” How did he know about them?

“Yes,” Bishop said. “You indicated a moment ago that you wish your mother would have left you with the Smiths. I assume that’s the surname of one of the families that took you in. Tell me about them.”

Josiah must have been talking faster than his brain could keep up. He hadn’t realized he’d mentioned them, but it was apparent he had. “I stayed in a number of homes, but only for a few weeks or months at a time. It was different with the Smiths. I stayed with them from the time I was eight until the time I was fifteen.”

“Were they the last ones you stayed with before going home for the final time?”

Josiah nodded and stared off as he spoke. “I wasn’t the only one though. They kept quite a few foster kids, so I saw many come and go. But there were two—a special-needs boy named Sammy and a girl named Peaches—who were there just as long as I was. We were together so long that I felt like I had a little brother and an older sister.”

“Peaches?” the reverend asked with an amused face. “I would expect a name like that to rise out of a southern area that’s a lot more rural than metropolitan Atlanta.”

Josiah shrugged. “It was a nickname. Long story. Her real name was Patrice.”

“I see.”

Josiah smiled as he brought his eyes back to the place where his pastor sat at his desk. It felt good to talk about a time when life was more pleasant. “Thomas and Joanne Smith were great,” he concluded. “Those were my parents … my foster parents, that is.”

Bishop Lumpkin leaned forward in his seat and repeated the question he’d asked earlier. “Are you still in contact with them?”

Shaking his head, Josiah said, “No. Unfortunately not. It was my fault. They were getting ready to move into a new house at the time I was being returned to my mother, and the new house was gonna have a private phone number. They gave it to me on a piece of paper and told me to call them often. I lost it somewhere in the move from Atlanta to Chicago. They didn’t have a number for me ’cause … well, my mom didn’t have a phone in the house where she was living when she regained custody.”

“You never went back to see them?” Bishop Lumpkin sounded baffled.

“How could I? They lived in Atlanta and I lived in Chicago. I didn’t have any money for a flight, and that wasn’t exactly walking distance. Mama had no life insurance, so even when she died, I had no extra money to use for travel. It took all of my little paycheck to keep the bills paid until I moved into my dorm on campus that fall.”

The bishop nodded. “I understand that, but what about after you graduated from college? Did you ever try to get in touch with them?”

“I told you, I didn’t have their phone number.”

“You could have called information, and—”

“The number was private.”

“Or maybe gotten back in touch with your old social worker, or even searched the Internet. There were ways—”

“I went straight to work after graduation.” Josiah folded his arms and shuffled his feet. “There were new employer orientation meetings, policies and procedures to commit to memory… I guess life just got too busy with work and all. By then, they’d forgotten all about me anyway, I’m sure. Like I said, they kept a lot of kids.”

“You’re choosing to be a cripple, Brother Tucker.” Bishop Lumpkin’s words startled Josiah. “You’re handing me a laundry list of excuses as to why you haven’t reached out to this family, and although you’re saying a lot of words, all I’m really hearing is fear.”

“Fear of what?” Josiah tried as hard as possible to sound like the bishop’s charge was absurd.

“Rejection. More pain, maybe.” The pastor didn’t miss a beat. “If the Smiths have truly forgotten you or if they simply don’t want to reestablish a relationship with you for whatever reason, you’ll feel that fresh sense of loss all over again, and you’re afraid of the possibility of reliving that pain.”

Josiah stood in silence, unable to protest the hardcore truth.

“That’s your other leg,” Bishop Lumpkin stressed, coming to a standing position once more. “The Smiths are your other leg; that missing limb that could complete your body. I believe with my whole heart that you could find your foster parents if you tried. You certainly can with God’s help. With God, all things are possible. Atlanta’s a big city, but it’s not as big as the God we serve.”

Josiah started to say that he had no paid leave time left on his job, but that would have been an out-and-out lie. He hardly ever took a day off from work because doing so would leave too much idle time for his mind to linger in the past. Josiah had at least ninety days of accrued vacation time that he could use, probably more.

“It’s been fifteen years.” Josiah’s voice was hoarse. He sounded more like he was talking to himself than to the pastor. “Fifteen years is a long time. What if they don’t live in Atlanta anymore? What if they’re not happy to see me? What if they’re deceased? What if—”

“What if the prosthesis doesn’t feel natural? What if it hurts? What if I walk with a limp that looks even more ridiculous than using crutches? What if? What if? What if?” The bishop walked closer to Josiah with every comeback. His eyes said he knew all too well the fears that came with a risk like this one.

Josiah stared back at his pastor and knew that no excuse he presented would be an acceptable one. A heavy sigh served as his surrender.

“Stop being a cripple,” Bishop Lumpkin said. “Yes, fifteen years is a long time. It’s a very long time. Too long, actually. Fifteen years of wandering around feeling no sense of belonging. Fifteen years of letting life beat you down without the ability to fight back. Fifteen years of hobbling around on one leg when God has provided you with a perfectly good prosthesis.

“Go get your leg, Brother Tucker. Go get it, and learn to walk again.”