A Poem for Charles Giles

This past week, my stepson was brutally murdered. He was 24 years old. Because of the circumstances of his death, we have no remains to bury. All we have are tears, photographs and perhaps later on a few ashes.

On top of our loss, we have been criticized and judged harshly for every parental decision during his short life. Though my husband and I are not perfect, we love Charles unconditionally.

I wrote this poem 22 years ago, on the day I met my future stepson, Charles Devin Giles. I pray that he reads this from heaven as a testament that he was loved.

 

Charles

 

Charles, he was the greatest shock

in my life. Only two years old,

and if I was asked yesterday he

wouldn’t have existed. I wished

I would’ve known of him sooner,

and I wished he was mine. But if

he was mine then he wouldn’t be

Charles. Part of him would be

missing and that missing part of

his mother would make him less of

a love to me.

 

I must never try to take her place

because it’s not possible. But

how I would treasure the return

of my love for him. If only words

could describe my emotions for

him and his life.

 

He and his father how fast they

have changed my heart. In one

love I envy her; In the other I thank

her.

 

But why should she have all the love

and joy of a Charles. Why can’t I

be as blessed as she. For as my eyes

see, she is blind of charles and his

love. How can God let him be hers

when I need so badly, and she does not

want anything. My heart cries for Charles.

 

Should the time come, would he love me

and mine any less than Charles, Or

should he love Charles the less; My

heart says NO! For me and mine do not

want for Charles’ love, but only for

our own. Without our own we would

be incomplete, and not filled; empty

inside.

 

I hope I asked not too much from him

to love not only Charles. I ask not

for more love but only an equal amount.

 

Pray he to understand my wants as well

as my needs. Pray he to share his

love; Pray he to be fair with his

judgment.

                        ~ Bridgett Ann Davis

 

Charles Devin Giles

A Tale of Amazing Grace and My Uncle Charlie

This post is based on my childhood memories. I hope it doesn’t offend other relatives.

 

 

A Tale of True Amazing Grace

 

Maybe it was the images and memories of the Vietnam War
or it could have been the car wreck after he was discharged from the Army,
but my Uncle Charlie wasn’t quite “all there.” Even though he’d sit in the front yard
cussing an unseen enemy, I won’t call him crazy because I loved him
and he was my friend.

My mom assures me that before the war, he was very intelligent
and held a prestigious position in the army.
I should look up his military records but the solider wasn’t who I knew.

When I was a kid, bored during a visit at Maw-maw’s house, he was my playmate.
He and all my other bored cousins.
We thought that he was playing pretend and we’d sneak up behind him,
wait for just the right moment and tackle him.
Looking back, I see the miracle in that he didn’t mistake us for the enemy.
Instead he retaliated with hand to hand combat in the form of tickles
and rolls across the yard.
He always looked out for us, calling “watch for snakes” and “stay out of the road.”

Did he tell on us for setting the woods on fire?

Nope.
He simply put out the fire, drove us to a small country store, and bought us ice cream.

I won’t mention the fire later that night after the wind revived the coals.

Like all children must, I grew up. Then I married and moved away.
When I finally returned to my roots, Uncle Charlie was old, sick, and dying.
As I Christian I began to wonder, if he was saved.

Was his mind lucid enough to understand the concept of salvation?

I began to pray.

I wanted assurance that my beloved playmate would make it to heaven.

God is good and he answered that prayer in a unique way.
I wasn’t there when Uncle Charlie took his final breath,
but my mother was and this is what she told me…

My mom had driven from Tennessee to be with her brother.
Uncle Charlie was weak, on oxygen, and freshly released from the ICU.

There was nothing more the doctors could do.

Death was a matter of time.

One morning, as his breath grew shallow;
he turned to my mother. With wonder in his eyes and said,
“Jesus wants to hold my hand. Why? Why does Jesus want to hold my hand?”

I don’t remember what mom told him, or who else she said was in the room,
but I do know he was too weak to lift his head.

Yet my uncle reached toward heaven and smiled.

His hand then floated to the mattress and he was gone.

God answered my prayer with Uncle Charlie's final words.

I picture him now in heaven, sitting cross-legged by The River of Life.

Instead of curses for the enemy, praise for his savior rolls off his tongue.

One day, I plan to sneak up and tackle him.

I wonder…Is there ice cream in heaven?

 

 

 

Scars - What's Your Point of View?

 

 

There’s a burnt mark near my back door. A guest, whom I was trying to help,

set the linoleum on fire. She tried to burn down my house.

Deliberately.

 

That was years ago. Recently, I mopped over the charred spot and thought,

“Why did she do that?” I was good to her. Helped her every way I possibly could.

Yet, she attempted to harm me.

 

I could become bitter and nurse the hurt from her actions, but

I chose to see the scar for what it really is;

a symbol of God’s protection.

 

A woman set my house on fire. There could be a pile of rubble

where my home stands, but instead there’s a bit of melted plastic,

that I cover with a rug.

 

God is good. He’s ever faithful.

Yes, it hurts to know someone wanted to harm me,

but it feels so wonderful knowing God’s got my back.

 

How do you view your scars?

As a sign of hurt?

Or a symbol of God’s protection?

 

For Ladies Only - A Healing Testimony

 

 

I’ve never been one to have female “problems.” My monthly visitor would arrive, stay about four days and leave, only to reappear the next month right on schedule.

 

Until I had my third child. Then the visitor wasn’t so gentle and stayed longer than welcomed. Over the next 8 years, I stocked Midol as the symptoms grew worse. By spring of 2012, my visitor was an unwelcomed guest, staying for three weeks, leaving for two, and returning for an addition three weeks. It was a hideous cycle. Something was obviously wrong with my body. But…

 

I haven’t had medical insurance in twelve years. My bank account was empty. So I prayed that God would heal me.

 

 He didn’t and my symptoms grew worse.

 

 At my church, we have some great nurses. Their advice was the same as my mom’s. Go to the doctor. But, I haven’t had medical insurance in twelve years? And I haven’t visited a doctor since my daughter was born eight years ago. Previously, I depended on the Lord to heal me and he had. Time and time again. So why wasn’t he healing me now? I prayed again and again.

 

The Lord answered, “Don’t worry. I’ve healed you before, I can heal you again.”

 

But He didn’t.

 

Finally, in September, the visitor refused to leave. By the end of October, I was using one “super plus” sanitary product an hour. That’s not a typo. Yes, One per hour. With the added protection of an extra thick liner.

 

After SIX WEEKS of this horrible nightmare, I became so weak, I could barely get out of the bed. I literally thought I would die. Since, God hadn’t answered my prayer, I gave in to the commands around me and made an appointment. $1700 later, the doctor diagnosed me with tumors in the uterus. I don’t know the technical term he used. But basically it was this. Since the tumors were isolated in the uterus, they shouldn’t grow, and should eventually shrink after menopause. I could have surgery or make my visitor welcome until after menopause.

 

Hello! I’m only forty. And did I mention the ONE sanitary product an HOUR for going on SEVEN weeks straight now. And he wants me to wait a “few” to ten years. No, thank you.

Surgery? I did mention no medical insurance and my empty bank account. Right?

 

My visitor and I went home, crawled in bed, and cried into the pillow. Why wouldn’t God heal me? A few nights later, though weak, I dressed and forced myself to church. During the choir, as the congregation worshiped, the Spirit descended. Someone laid their hand on my head and prayed. Instantly, energy surged through my weak body as God spoke. “I’ve healed you before. I’m healing you again.”

 

I shouted all over that platform. Thanking God, for His touch.

 

When I got home, my visitor was gone. Hallelujah!

 

Since November 2012, I haven't returned to the doctor. There’s no need. Now, months later, the visitor sometimes peeks its head in the door, but doesn’t stay longer than three days.

 

The lesson learned? If I hadn’t doubted God’s healing ability, I wouldn’t have $1700 in medical bills. I’m not saying that He doesn’t sometimes use doctors. But I’d rather be healed by God’s touch than by a scalpel.

 

Can I get an Amen?