Write
Now Literary is pleased to announce
What I Gain Through
His Pain
by Nicole Benoit-Roy.
Virtual Book Tour. August 1-31, 2018.
@wnlbooktours @nicoleroy52
ASIN: B0746QSMG3
Genre: Christian
Non-fiction
About The Author
Nicole
is currently pursuing her doctoral degree in educational leadership at Andrews
University. She directs the Children Ministries Department at her church. She
works as a special education teacher by day, a literature evangelist by night,
and writes during the wee hours of the night. She enjoys reading and playing
the piano (beginner). Nicole struggled with college writing, which lead her to
eventually drop out. For this reason, one of her many goals in life is to
become a best-selling author to the glory of God. Nicole and her husband,
Roosevelt Roy, have been married since 1994, and are the proud parents of a
handsome brown-eyed son, Nolan. They currently live in Brooklyn, New York.
About
The Book
In
a society filled with easy Christianity and cheap grace, Nicole Benoit-Roy
takes her relationship with Christ to a much deeper level. Since becoming a
Christian, she has been learning about her newfound Savior, Jesus Christ. She
is an educator who vows to be a student for as long as she lives. The more she
learns about the cross of Christ, the more she realizes the importance of it in
her life. As she meditates on His suffering, she concludes that His pain is the
reason for every blessing in her life. In this book, "What I Gain Through
His Pain," she shares her story about the benefit of the cross as she
expresses gratefulness for His pain.
Excerpt
Something Fishy
Daddy practiced Voodoo, but even as a child I considered
it foolish. During summer vacations in Haiti, the family expected my sister, my
next younger brother and me to go to Lèogane. As the summer months drew to a
close, my father lined up every child in the house to bathe us with a special
Voodoo water made with crushed leaves.
As I got older (though not much older), I grew to detest
the act and so I decided not to go on vacation anymore. I thought it ridiculous
to allow myself to be bathed with stinky water. I never believed in the Voodoo
stuff either. I had a good sense of who I was since early childhood. I knew God
made me, and no evil could harm me (Now I know evil can’t touch me without His
permission). That knowledge made me very bold and never afraid of any Voodoo
stuff. My father had a special table with a white small washbasin and other
Voodoo items on it. No one was supposed to touch them. However, on many
occasions, I pretended to be cleaning just to touch and rearrange everything on
that table. I held no fear. I just knew they lacked any authority over me. It's
weird though, no one told me that Voodoo held no potency. It was always a gut
feeling. I was always very bold about expressing my belief every chance I got.
My father use to hold Voodoo ceremonies where kids in the
house were expected to eat out of special wooden bowls. All that I shunned
eventually. Because my brother Kesnel and sister Carol were twins, the ceremony
held every year honored the twins (a Voodoo ritual) even though Carol died as a
baby. Those were the kinds of things that made no sense to me, leading me to
refuse to take part in them as soon as I grew old enough to say no. With me so
hardheaded and strong-willed, no one in my family could force me to take part
once I said no. Not even my father.
On one occasion, something terrible happened in my
family, causing my father to be the focus of suspicion. I felt his pain
afterward. He needed so much to have someone on his side. Unfortunately, not
even his favorite little girl was willing to be that someone.
In desperation, one evening in Port-au-Prince, the
capital of Haiti, he pulled me aside. In a private conversation, he explained
his own version of the incident after he visited my mother in the U.S. in 1982
for the first time.
He said, “Nicole, I know you’re getting older. You can
understand what I’m about to tell you.”
I was 14 years old then.
“When I went to New York,” he continued, “I swear I did
not take your mother’s soiled panties. It’s only after I came back to Haiti I
saw them in my suitcase. I swear I did not take them.”
I listened attentively, but my eyes stared at the cement
floor as we sat on the edge of my bed.
“You believe me, don’t you, my girl.” He held onto my
left arm as if begging me to say yes.
I’d heard the rumor that he wanted to use her underpants
to hurt my mother through witchcraft so often that I’d already made up my mind
of his guilt.
My father returned to Haiti finding himself in an awkward
predicament. At that age, I was naïve and awfully honest.
“Well, I can’t say whether you did it or not. I wasn’t
there. You’re the only one who knows if you did it or not,” I said.
Suddenly, the look he gave me told me he wanted another
answer. His eyes turned red. His pain turned into hatred.
I knew then I was not his favorite little girl anymore
and I would pay.
In retrospect, I realized I could have answered
differently had I known better. I still feel his pain even now as I write about
it.
As soon as my mother found out her panties were missing,
she demanded that my father purchase a plane ticket and return them to her.
When he did, she burned them in his presence.
My father continued to make his regular weekly visits
from Lèogâne bringing us fresh produce every time. Our relationship was never
the same, however. At times, I’d purposely stayed away to avoid seeing him
altogether, not showing up until after he left. He was the enemy of the family.
He knew it. That made him very uncomfortable and angry.
During one of his visits, he threatened to beat me
because I did not greet him. Of course I put up a fight. He tried to pin me to
the ground. I escaped from his grip and ran to a nearby stony hill. I picked up
a stone and made the motion to throw it at him, but an invisible power stopped
me. I knew Who kept me from flinging the stone, and I’m glad He did. Deep down
inside I really loved my father. I believed that he gave me so much love and
attention that he made it possible to never feel insecure about myself.
During my college years at Stony Brook University in New
York, our father-daughter relationship remained broken. I recall lying on the
bed in my dorm room reminiscing about my childhood. My entire family lived in
the U.S. by then. My mom and dad separated shortly after the panties incident,
although they waited to divorce until eleven years later. I finally realized
the pain my father must have gone through to have his whole family against him,
and the pain he continued to feel every time he and I met.
“Look at Nicole, the daughter I loved so much. Now, she
can’t even talk to me,” he sometimes said.
At that time, we were on greeting terms. As I empathized
with my father, I decided to put an end to our broken relationship. I picked up
the phone.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi, daddy, how are you?” It felt uncomfortable saying
“daddy” but I also realized that doing the right thing was never easy.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“This is Nicole,” I said. “I just call to tell you that I
love you. Bye.”
“Ok,” he said.
I hung up the phone, feeling a burden lift from my chest.
For the first time I began to understand the power of
forgiveness. I still had a long way to go.
Our relationship continued to improve after that phone
call. My father is now ninety-two years old, and I love him as if nothing ever
happened between us.
The Bible says in Deuteronomy 5:16, “Honor your father
and your mother, as the LORD your God has commanded you.” (NLT). I desire to
obey God's Word. Through this experience, I learned that making mistakes is
what we (humans) specialize in the most. What’s essential is that we learn from
them.
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