The Devil in Pew Number Seven Read online

  And so they came.

  Knife in hand, Mr. Watts and his accomplice entered our property while my family and I were singing Christmas carols and eating dessert with friends. They crept toward the back of our house, slashed our phone line, and then crippled the recently replaced mercury-vapor light. That done, they took up a position twenty-five yards away in a soybean field that paralleled the length of our backyard. The field was owned by Mr. Watts’s brother-in-law Bud Sellers who, like Mr. Watts, despised Daddy.

  We never heard a sound as Mr. Watts and his sidekick prepared to wage their latest assault on us. In some ways I’m surprised we didn’t hear them coming. You see, the country possesses a variety of quietness that’s vastly different from what passes for quiet in suburbia. In the suburbs when the sun goes down, quiet has a persistent dronelike quality to it: a cadence of soft sounds driven by traffic on a nearby freeway, as tires hum a dull tune to the pavement; a concert of heat pumps or air conditioners cycling on and off; people coming and going at all hours of the night; and the occasional siren wail of an emergency vehicle reverberating in the distance.

  When someone in the suburbs is walking about at night, the chorus of muted tones that passes for quiet provides a degree of covering for their movements. Not so in the country. Country quiet at night is different. In Sellerstown, the quiet was so vacuous, so devoid of sound, you could almost hear the ocean waters lapping against the sandy beaches thirty-five miles away. The stillness in Sellerstown rivaled the soundless moon. About the only noise was the occasional bark of a dog somewhere down the street. There was no highway drone, no sirens screeching, no constant whirling of heat and air units providing comfort to street after street of residences slammed together like sardines in a can.

  Adding to the hushed serenity was the fact that most of the people living on Sellerstown Road were farmers who maintained a strict schedule: early to bed, early to rise. When the sun retired, a peaceful, dreamy tranquillity settled in for the night. You’d think that, with this intense quietness, we might have heard the night-light executed once again in the backyard, extinguished once again.

  We didn’t.

  Obviously, our merriment inside the home trumped the sound of mischief out back. Even Tina failed to raise the alarm. In spite of her terminal cuteness, Tina displayed her lack of worthiness as a watchdog. She didn’t even raise an ear or offer a series of whimpers signaling that trouble was afoot. At 9:28 p.m., a match was struck, igniting dynamite strategically strapped to a small tree five feet above ground. Seconds later, with the thunder of a bomb and the force of a missile, our house trembled down to the foundation.

  The explosion could be heard for miles around.

  We screamed. We cried. We covered our ears with the palms of our hands to stop the ringing that hurt as bad as if we had been standing beside a jackhammer without proper ear protection. And the Sellers children, Renee and Billy Wayne, and I rushed to the safety of the outstretched arms of our parents.

  In spite of her efforts to calm us, I could sense Momma was distressed that her guests were now drawn into the epicenter of terror that had been, for the most part, our private pain.

  Sometime during the chaotic seconds following the detonation, Daddy discovered that the phone was dead. Once again, he knew what had to be done. He had to venture out into the darkness, unsure of whether someone might take a shot at him, and run to Aunt Pat’s to call the law. This time, at least, Brother Billy was able to stay with us while Daddy sought help.

  Deputy Sheriff Bill Smith and Detective George Dudley, both of whom had investigated the first bombing, raced to the parsonage and determined there was, thankfully, little structural damage to our property. And, while nobody was physically harmed, nothing could be done about the damage to our mental states. I have no idea how any of us could have fallen asleep that night after the police left. I never asked, but I’m sure Renee and Billy Wayne had as much difficulty sleeping after the explosion as I had.

  The next morning Detective Dudley returned to finish sealing off the crime scene. Aided by the sunlight, he conducted a more thorough investigation to identify the type and placement of the bomb. As Daddy and the detective surveyed the blast site, Mr. Watts and Bud Sellers, owner of the property, walked up. It was clear they hadn’t come to offer words of concern or sympathy.

  Quite the opposite.

  Mr. Watts, arms folded high across his chest,15 staring through his thick, black-rimmed glasses, had the nerve to inquire whether it was against the law to shoot off dynamite on your own property—not that he was admitting any involvement, mind you. Detective Dudley responded that it was, in fact, against the law.

  Standing within a few feet of Mr. Watts, Daddy somehow managed to retain his composure. To think that this man, our neighbor, a fellow churchgoer, and someone with children of his own, would terrorize a pregnant woman, a four-year-old child, and their guests, I would have been livid—on steroids. Or, at least I would have been less than kind had I been in Daddy’s shoes. But Daddy practiced what he preached.

  When Daddy preached about loving your enemies, those words didn’t roll off his tongue with ease. By God’s grace, Daddy was a living example of what Jesus meant. Granted, anybody with a Bible and an audience could preach about loving your adversaries. But as a practical matter, I’d say it’s impossible, apart from God at work in your heart, to love your enemy when he’s setting dynamite next to your house, putting everyone you love at risk.

  I’m amazed that Daddy didn’t wrestle Mr. Watts to the ground on the spot—if not out of anger, just to put the fear of God into him. In a man-to-man contest, Mr. Watts was no match for Daddy, who, standing five inches taller, towered over Mr. Watts like an elm tree. Daddy’s strapping shoulders, muscular forearms, and powerful hands could have put Mr. Watts in a headlock faster than the drop of a hat.

  But Daddy didn’t fight back. He believed that a soft answer turned away wrath.

  He was a firm believer in the power of forgiveness.

  * * *

  The fact that Daddy responded with love to those who were persecuting us wasn’t lost on Larry Cheek, a reporter from the Fayetteville Times. While there was scant media coverage after the first bombing—perhaps because the local news organizations figured it was an isolated event—several days after this second blast, the press picked up the story. Mr. Cheek showed up personally to cover the emerging conflict in Sellerstown.

  Walking around the parsonage with the reporter in tow, Daddy identified the first blast site. Daddy said, “Last week’s dynamite hit out behind the house,16 in the field. Folks heard the blast more than a couple of miles away. That didn’t do any damage, except to our nerves. It scared two children who were visiting us real bad too.”

  Next, Daddy walked over to the house to show how the bombing had damaged the exterior. With Mr. Cheek taking copious notes, Daddy articulated his greatest fear, namely that Momma and I would be harmed, saying, “Trouble is, we don’t know what they’re liable to do next, or when. My wife’s seven months pregnant and Becky, here, is four. I sure wouldn’t want to see anything happen to them.”

  Daddy wasn’t the type of person to embellish things. He was plainspoken, preferring to stick to the facts. He didn’t know the first thing about media “spin”—that fine art of twisting the details of an event to cast a more favorable light on your side of the story while positioning the opposing side in a negative light. If anything, he was the master of the understatement.

  Daddy could have made a big deal out of how we were having difficulty sleeping at night. He could have told the reporter that we suspected every car that went by the house, especially after sundown; that we never knew whether someone was sneaking into our yard to lay some sort of trap for us; or that the fear we tasted played upon our imaginations around the clock. Yet he chose not to elaborate on the toll that this harassment was taking.

  Digging for some explanation as to why anybody would want to persecute a pastor with such a forceful display of fir
epower, the reporter learned about the church feud. When Mr. Cheek filed his report, he summed up the conflict this way: “One side does its fighting with terrorist tactics—dynamite, letting air out of tires, cutting phone lines and shooting out lights. The other side answers with preaching, prayer, patience and the sheriff.”

  Daddy gave his answers carefully because he was concerned about the way this conflict might play out in the press. The last thing he wanted was for the church, or for the Sellerstown community, to get a bad rap. He loved the people and was there to serve them, which is why he was quick to point out, “The church members are behind me. It’s just a couple of families that want to run me out. They want to get the leadership of the church back. . . . But we’re not leaving. We’re staying.”

  Daddy explained why he wouldn’t abandon the church. “A good shepherd will lay down his life for his flock,” Daddy said. “It is a great pleasure to live for the Lord. And there would be no greater honor than to die for Him. After all, all of the apostles except for one died a violent death.”

  Mr. Cheek raised his eyebrows in surprise: “Are you really willing to die, if necessary? Why not just do what most people would do and fight back?” he asked.

  “Violence typifies the spirit of the opposition,” Daddy said, dismissing the notion of fighting fire with fire. “They are not Christian people. I know who they are. I know they are violent, mean-spirited people. I will only leave this church if it is the Lord’s will. And if it is the enemy’s will for us to leave, then it is God’s will for us to stay.”

  During the interview, Mr. Cheek learned about Daddy’s days playing football, his four years in the Navy, and his reputation as a former brawler. I am quite sure Daddy wasn’t kidding when he said, “Those boys—I know who they are and they know who I’m talking about—just better pray to the good Lord that I don’t backslide. Because I have never met a man I couldn’t whip.”

  Mr. Cheek asked Daddy, “Could it ever come to that, Reverend? Could you become so frustrated, knowing who’s bedeviling you and your family but being unable to prove it, that you’d revert and go after them?”

  “No,” Daddy said flatly.

  Mr. Cheek noted Daddy had a “faint, beatific smile on his face” as he answered. Rather than retaliate, Daddy admitted, “I’d leave here first. I would never answer them with the same weapons they use against me.”

  “If so,” Mr. Cheek wondered aloud, “when will it end?”

  “Only when you read the devil’s obituary, I’m afraid,” said Daddy. “And I’m afraid that may take more than a few years to happen.”

  * * *

  On December 6, 1974, the Friday after that dreadful Wednesday night blast, the mail arrived, and with it, an unsigned, cryptic letter was included in the usual assortment of bills and advertising circulars. Punctuated with threats, filled with bad grammar and typos to conceal the identity of the sender, the letter promised, “We are going to get the job done.” Which could only mean one thing: the recent explosion wasn’t the last of the bombings in Sellerstown.

  There would be more.

  We did not receive this ominous letter.

  It had been mailed to the home of Mr. Horry Watts. The handwritten note told Mr. Watts17 “to keep your mouth out of our business” and added that “the job [of getting Nichols out of the area] will be done without . . . your advice or help.” Mr. Watts wasted no time making a big deal about how he, too, was being targeted by the anonymous bully. He promptly contacted the police about the note. Detective George Dudley met Mr. Watts and retrieved the letter as evidence.

  For his part, Detective Dudley had to determine what to make of this latest development. Had the menacing letter been mailed by the real culprit behind these bombings? Or did Mr. Watts send it to his home in hopes of taking some of the heat off himself for the recent acts of intimidation against us? From the detective’s point of view,18 Mr. Watts had the motive, he had the influence, and as owner of the local farm store, he had the means to secure the raw materials for the explosions.

  But circumstantial evidence wasn’t enough.

  Detective Dudley needed concrete proof.

  * * *

  There’s an old saying in the public-relations business: “All press is good press, even when it’s bad press.” If my family were seeking media coverage, which we weren’t, we’d soon succeed by becoming the epicenter of attention in the local newspapers. “Minister’s Family Is Harassed,” “Field Near Parsonage Dynamited,” and “The Embattled Pastor” were among the headlines in just a four-day period.

  The news got people talking.

  Not all of the talk was constructive.

  After all, during the mid-seventies, the newspaper played a much greater role as a media leader and conversation starter in society than it does today. Back then, homes were not wired with cable service. Households didn’t use satellite dishes to pull down news from around the globe. And the five-hundred-channel television universe offering several twenty-four-hour news channels was as unknown as it was unthinkable then.

  Instead, the newspaper served as an umbilical cord to the local, national, and world events. Major markets often had two competing newspapers offering an early morning edition or a late-afternoon option. People anticipated the arrival of the newspaper. They’d start their days with a cup of coffee and its familiar pages. Having a paper route was certainly more lucrative then than now. Almost every house on your street subscribed, unlike today where newspapers are folding right and left as more news is delivered electronically.

  For a story to make the newspaper, of course, it had to be “newsworthy”—something that would captivate the attention of a wide readership. To make the paper, then, you were big news. You were the talk of the town. And with that talk came the gossip.

  The more the press dedicated coverage to the bombings and threats, the more people began paying attention to the unfolding drama on our street. As my parents had feared, there was negative fallout on the good people of Sellerstown due to these reports. Certain mean-spirited stereotypes were pinned on our neighborhood.

  Driven by her love of those whom she knew in the community, Momma wanted to set the record straight. She did a remarkable thing—especially for someone living in a virtual war zone: She sharpened her pencil and penned what she hoped would be a Christmas gift of affirmation to the community. With her purse on her arm and me in tow, Momma walked through the offices of the News Reporter, based in Whiteville.

  We found the office of reporter Wray Thompson. Sitting on a metal chair, feet not quite touching the floor, I drank in the smell of newspaper and ink as Momma, with the attitude of a defense attorney, made her case. The stereotyping of Sellerstown was unfair, she said, and her article would offer an insider’s viewpoint. Momma handed Mr. Thompson the article. After scanning it, he agreed to publish it. In “Tribute to Sellerstown,”19 which ran on the front page of the newspaper on December 16, 1974, she wrote,

  Since such widespread news coverage of recent happenings around the Free Welcome parsonage, we have had numerous phone calls from people stating their opinions of the Sellerstown community. Also, there have been discussions relating to the reputation that the community has had over the years.

  We have learned much about the people of Sellerstown during the five years and one month we have lived among them. First of all, we know there are good and bad, rich and poor, intelligent and ignorant people in every corner of the earth.

  Not since the Garden of Eden has there been a perfect spot in this world to live.

  Because of outsiders (and those outside the Christian faith), there have been anxious moments here at the Free Welcome Church. It is impossible to please all the people all the time, and it is our desire to try to please God first of all. Due to non-committal to Christ or the church, our enemies have resorted to violence. There are some people who cannot bring themselves to go along with the majority. Therefore, they prefer to separate themselves from true believers.

  Overal
l, we have found Route 3, Whiteville, a most wonderful place to live. Most of the people here in Sellerstown are related in one way or another; through blood-kin or marriage, and have a deep love and admiration for each other. We have come to love these people with a fervent love and devotion. Here, we have found neighborly love, whereby neighbors care about each other. Something most communities the world over have forgotten, and in most places people do not even know their neighbors’ names.

  The older people have been hardworking farmers, who worked hard through the years to provide for their families, and to give their children a good education. They also brought their children up in church and taught them to fear God. Inevitably, there are always some who stray from their upbringing. But, with God in one’s heart there is love, for God is love.

  We have been treated with much love from most of the people of the community, but, our church does not consist only of people of this community. The year 1974 has brought many wonderful families from surrounding communities, and as far away as Shallotte, and Evergreen. There has to be a deep devotion to a pastor and church for those people to drive from such distant places and so many miles roundtrip.

  We are proud of our church and the way it has out-grown itself. Due to overflowing crowds, the need is great to arise and build. Plans are being made now to build a larger church in the very near future. The people have a vision and a mind to work. Our aim is to “rescue the perishing and care for the dying.”