His last words left me unsettled. Every time I had heard those words before meant we were moving far away in a hurry or something was wrong. This couldn’t be good. My mind leapt to a worst-case scenario. Were Mark and Lillian dead? I knew something horrible had happened; I just didn’t know what. Seconds later, I heard tires screeching as someone turned off the road into our driveway.
A moment later, Melvin pounded on the front door as he entered. “Anna! You need to get the kids and come with me. Now!”
I reacted much like I had during the FBI and police raids of my childhood —my instincts took over. I never asked what was wrong. I suppose a part of me didn’t want to know the truth because I realized that this kind of craziness never happened in my family unless someone had been killed. On autopilot, I raced to find the kids and rushed them out the door ahead of me to Melvin’s truck, which he had left running.
We sat in silence as he drove us to the home of Gary and Mary Ann Hammons, trusted members of our church. Other people from church had been waiting on the front lawn for us to arrive and quickly ushered us into the living room, where others were whispering and praying together. A couple of the women dabbed at their eyes with tissues.
I was certain that what I feared was true. If Mark and Lillian are dead, who will take care of their kids? I was old enough. My brain began to formulate different scenarios, coming up with arguments I could present in court before a judge, begging him to let me raise the kids. I knew I could handle the task. I’d been like a live-in nanny to the kids for almost six years. The mantle I took on in that moment weighed heavy on my heart and mind, but I knew God would help me do it and do it well.
Hours went by, and no one told us anything. I tried to entertain the children by playing quiet games and telling them stories. A couple of them went into one of the bedrooms to watch TV. Everyone continued to speak in hushed tones. As desperate as I was to know the truth, I dared not ask the question for fear of hearing the words I dreaded were coming.
Finally, the front door opened, and Alma UnRue, the pastor’s wife, walked in. “Children . . . Anna,” she glanced my way and tightened her lips into a sympathetic smile. “I have some bad news. This afternoon, at about four o’clock, a man entered the appliance store and walked into your dad’s office. He had a gun, and he shot your dad.”
Her voice faltered, and she choked back sobs. Hannah looked at me, confused. I lifted her up onto my lap.
“I’m so sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but your dad didn’t survive the gunshot wound —he died. I am so, so sorry. But I want you to know that God welcomed him into heaven the moment it happened, and your dad is with Jesus right now.”
Though I’d been fairly certain something tragic had occurred from the moment Don called, hearing the truth still shocked me. All around the living room, Mark and Lillian’s children reacted to the news with everything from muffled sobs to loud crying. My little nieces, sitting on either side of me, burst into tears and covered their faces. I put my arms around them, pulling them both close to me. Emily clutched my arm and began repeating, “Not Daddy. Not my daddy.”
My heart pounded in my chest, and my breaths became short, shallow pants. I did my best to hold back my tears, determined to be stoic for the children. I prayed for strength, and God answered by reminding me that Lillian was still alive. I sighed with relief. I wouldn’t have to fight a judge for custody of the children. Their mother would be able to raise them. By herself. Because Mark was dead! Gunned down —murdered.
My breath caught in my throat as a wave of grief engulfed me. I choked back my own tears of sadness and kissed the tops of the girls’ heads. Other adults hugged sobbing children and whispered things I couldn’t hear above the cries.
I closed my eyes and wished I were just having a bad dream, but when I opened them, nothing had changed. The phrase Lillian had mentioned in the car on the way to the doctor’s office came to mind: “a sickness unto the glory of God.”
At the time she’d said it, I’d had no idea what she meant. How could someone’s illness bring God glory? But now, three days later, I had total clarity. Had God planned for me to be so sick that I needed to take medication that would knock me out and make me loopy? Had God intended that I not go to work that day? After all, He’s God. He sees all and knows all. He knows what’s going to happen before it happens.
Mark’s murder hadn’t taken God by surprise. If I had gone to Reliance that day, I might have been lying next to Mark in the morgue. Did God spare me because He had bigger plans for my life? The thought pressed hard on my heart.
I have to call Celia! She lived alone in an apartment nearby, and I wanted her safe here with us as quickly as possible. I picked up the phone and dialed her number.
“Hi, Celia, do you have anyone with you?” My throat felt tight, and my voice came out high pitched.
“No. I just got home from work.”
“Can you come over to Sister Hammons’s house right now?”
“Why do I need to come to her house? Is there something wrong?”
“Just trust me.”
“Okay. I’ll be right over.”
I hung up the phone, relieved that she was on her way.
Ten minutes later, the front door opened and Celia rushed in. I ran to her and held her tightly.
“What’s wrong?” She held me at arm’s length. “What is it, Anna?” Suddenly, she lowered her voice, looked me in the eye, and gravely demanded, “Anna, you tell me what’s wrong!”
Mary Ann quickly gestured at several of us to join her in a back bedroom. Celia reluctantly followed, knowing that was the only way she would get the answers to her questions. I trailed right behind her.
When Sheila, our pastor’s daughter, told Celia that Mark had been shot, my sister burst into gut-wrenching sobs. “Is he dead?” she asked weakly, clutching my hands in hers and staring at me, willing me to tell her this wasn’t true. Our friend Debbie was stroking her arm, saying, “Keep calm. The kids are in the other room and they can hear you.”
I said quietly to Celia, “He’s gone.”
Celia’s wailing began in earnest, and nothing could stop her from expressing her deep well of grief.
Sheila went on calmly. “There’s more we need to tell you girls. We’ve just learned that Mark’s brother, Duane, and one of Duane’s daughters, Jenny, were also killed here in Houston. And your brother Ed was shot and killed in Dallas.” All of the murders had happened right around four o’clock.
I involuntarily clutched my throat as I imagined the last horrific moments in the lives of each of these precious people, all of whom were former members of my father’s cult, who had each left The Church of the Lamb of God, determined to get away from the oppression. Look at the price they’d paid. In that instant, another dreadful thought pierced me: Celia and I had also fled the cult. Would someone come after us, too?