A Shattered Heart

Contents Foreword Introduction CHAPTER 1 CAUTION … BEHIND THE YELLOW TAPE CHAPTER 2 SAYING GOOD-BYE CHAPTER 3 THE PAIN IS TAKING MY BREATH CHAPTER 4 FACING THE HURT CHAPTER 5 AM I LOSING IT? CHAPTER 6 WHERE ARE YOU, GOD? CHAPTER 7 LEARNING TO BREATHE AGAIN CHAPTER 8 MY FORGOTTEN MOURNER CHAPTER 9 FINDING MY NEW NORMAL! About the Author Chapter 1 CAUTION…Behind the Yellow Tape For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me. —Job 3:25 It had been almost a year since I walked behind the yellow tape that had the word CAUTION in bold, black, capital letters. It was May 2, 2013. My older son, Davon, and I frantically tried to make it to the airport to catch our plane to Denver, Colorado. We had a 6:00 a.m. flight. Of course, Davon was late picking me up. I told him we needed to leave by 3:00 a.m. to make sure we would be on time to catch the flight, and at 3:45 a.m. he finally arrived. It was pitch-black outside, but I could see the brightness of the moon. We rushed to load the car and get on the road to the airport. I was frantic and panicking on the inside, but on the outside I was calm, singing gospel music. Inwardly I prayed, Lord, let us make our flight. I desperately needed to get away and start a new journey after the year I had just had. To make things worse, I looked at the gas tank and blurted out, “Oh no, we don’t have gas!” The intensity of my emotions raised the anxiety, frustration, and panic. I prayed, Lord, don’t let us miss our flight. The drive to the airport seemed to take forever, and my emotions were intense. The scenery looked very familiar to me, and my emotions were familiar as well. The darkness of the early morning caused my mind and heart to drift back to May 6, 2012. The frantic feeling and praying to God were the same, but that day my prayer wasn’t for me to make a flight. It was for the melody of my heart, my younger son, Donté, to still be alive after being shot. I couldn’t believe I was approaching a year since his death, and I wanted to get out of Pittsburgh. I didn’t want to deal with the emotions of my family members or friends on the one-year anniversary of his death. The journey has been a very long one. As I look back over my journal, I realize those vivid memories of that very tragic night will be forever impressed in my mind. It was early in the morning on May 6—to be exact, it was 2:40 a.m.—when I received the call. I was sleeping and my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was my sister’s number. I slid the bar to answer the phone. On the inside, I knew it wasn’t going to be good news. I said, “Hello,” but I was confused, because it was not the voice I was expecting. The caller wasn’t the sister whose name was on the caller ID, but my other sister. I could hear the break in her voice as she tried to find the words to tell me some bad news. Her voice was shaky, but she quickly said that Donté and another young man had been shot. I thought to myself that it couldn’t be, because I had just hung up the phone with Donté. He said, “Mom, I am on my way home.” He had just finished the semester at college, and I looked forward to seeing him. I got out of the bed and went downstairs to unlock the door for him. He and I had just had an entire conversation. His last words were, “Mom, I love you,” and I said, “I love you, too.” I walked back up the stairs, and I lay there. I began to pray for him as I normally do when he wakes me up. This prayer was a little different, though, because I felt like something was going to happen to him. I ignored the feeling and kept praying. I must have fallen back asleep. Later I was on the phone, hearing a voice tell me the story of what happened to my son. I asked questions, but mentally I really wasn’t there. I was unusually calm. My sister said, “I will meet you there since I am closer to the club.” I said, “Okay,” and pushed the end button, not knowing that my life as I knew it had ended. My mind began to race with questions. Did she say he was shot? Where did he get hit? Is he dead or badly hurt? While all these questions went through my mind, I began trying to find something to put on to get to my son. I found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. At the same time I got dressed, I tried to call my mom, my pastors, the prayer warriors, my closest friend, and my older son, but no one answered the phone. I got frustrated because no one answered. In that moment, I realized it was just me. I needed everything I knew about the Lord to work. The walk down the hallway seemed to take forever. I rushed to get to the car. I finally got to the bottom of the steps and put on my shoes. I prayed, Lord, let someone answer the phone to go with me. He whispered, I am with you. I jumped in the car and began to ride down the street. I really didn’t want to face this alone, so I stopped by Davon’s apartment. It was just around the corner and on the way to the scene. I prayed, God, let Donté make it! Let him make it! The rush of emotions started to overwhelm me as I began to frantically bang on Davon’s front door. He opened the door—what a relief. I slowly began to tell Davon that his brother and another guy were shot at a club. He began to scream as I stood at the door, watching him in the moonlight. I told him, as any mother would, “It’s going to be okay.” He put on his shoes, and we rushed back to the car. We drove off and sped to the scene. I prayed, just as I later would in the early morning on the way to the airport. But this time, the words were dreadfully different. I said, Lord, let Donté make it.