Waiting for Grace

Chapter 1

Richard Hill, Virginia Beach, Virginia

"Behold, I set before you this day a blessing and a curse;"

Deuteronomy 11:26

The Holy Bible, King James Version

January 2005

The meaning was clear, and meant for me. Only me. Yeah, that’s right, the old pages with the carefully inked letters were meant for me. They just had to be.

Please understand, this message wasn’t written by some long-lost relative, or packed away with the usual family photos. Those kinds of things are clearly meant for someone to find. The message I found, this set of writing, was crafted by a stranger who had no way to know I’d ever find it, and still, I have no doubt it was meant for me.

At the time I discovered the old papers, I had no knowledge of the author. After all, I’m not an historian or an archeologist. I’m just an ordinary guy who never thought anything like this could happen to anyone, let alone me. I like to think that I innocently stumbled upon the writings and read them for no other reason than they were, well, old and interesting. But after I read them, I have no doubt they were meant for me. Oh sure, I’ve personalized every sad love song I heard after a romantic breakup, but who hasn’t? This was different. In fact, absolutely nothing in my life, before or since, has jarred me like the words written on those old pages.

The thing is, the document was in fairly good condition, and the handwriting was remarkably clear for its obvious age. It was almost as if the author intended the words to last, to wait for me. And the message wasn’t really a message at all, but rather a story that compelled me to listen. No, it obsessed me. I read it, and then I tried not to read it, and then I read it again. I even dreamt about it. I researched the details, and then every word changed my life.

You see, this story was no ordinary story because the author was no ordinary author. The beautifully crafted words were the work of Grace Sherwood, Virginia’s only convicted witch, and while she claimed to have no powers of her own, her words predicted every irritating detail of my life, and perhaps even more frightening, I believe she directed me to find the document, called me by name, and drove me to make right what was made wrong so very long ago.

Chapter 2

Grace Sherwood, Williamsburg, Virginia

"Grace be with you, mercy, and peace, from God the Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of the Father, in truth and love."

John 1:3

The Holy Bible, King James Version

July 29, 1706

Alas, my name is Grace. Perhaps, of all the names my parents could have drawn from the heavens to bestow upon me, it was the one name they prayed would sustain me. And sustain I must, for here, in this small stone room in the area that has come to be known as Williamsburg, I am left to consider my life as a confined prisoner of the great Colony of Virginia, wrongfully convicted for the hateful crimes of witchcraft.

The carefully stacked stones that separate me from every living creature have forcefully and unmercifully become my sole companions. And what hateful companions they are, for stones offer no sympathy, they provide no comfort, they know not of justice, and they offer nothing save an agonizing reminder of all that has been ripped from me.

But oh, how I long to feel the warmth of my children’s cheeks, to hear their laughter, and to smell the sunlight in their hair. But stones know not of these things, for they stand firm, and offer nothing save their cold, cruel and absolute silence.

The accommodations provided me, while harsh, far exceed those afforded other prisoners, and for this one allowance, I am grateful. For had it not been for the constant and gracious support offered freely by my loving brother, I too would be made to suffer the barren and cruel existence endured by those held in the common rooms. Oh, but indeed, I still hear the cries and know of the pain, but safely protected within the darkness of my solitary cell, I cannot see their madness, smell their filth, nor can I feel the weight of their accusing stares, for I am the only prisoner who bears the intolerable name of Witch.

Chapter 3

Richard Hill

"In the morning sow your seed, and at evening withhold not your hand, for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good."

Ecclesiastes 11:6

The Holy Bible, New International Version

Before I discovered the papers, my life was, shall we say, a series of small and irritating setbacks. I used to say that I’d inherited the family’s curse because my father’s life, just like mine, was one catastrophic failure after another.

I’m not saying that he was entirely a loser. I’m just saying that he had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mom used to say, under her breath, of course, that Dad was what they called a dreamer.

This time should’ve been his motto because he used the phrase every time he needed to sell another one of his get-rich-quick schemes. This time’s gonna be different! This time his ship would come in. Never mind that every other time his ship had sunk at the dock, this time was gonna be different.

How Mom put up with his half-baked ideas in the early part of their marriage, I’ll never know, but as the years went by, she stopped listening and began resenting the constant failures.

You see, Mom grew up idolizing Betty Crocker. She’d dreamed of living in a cozy little cottage, surrounded by a charming white picket fence that, of course, was draped in rambling roses. She just assumed that a successful loving husband would provide this for her, but sadly, it didn’t turn out that way.

When I was small, Mom tried to hide her disappointments and avoid the heated arguments that came later. She did all the right things, said all the right words, and even tried to smile for the camera in those horrible staged family photos during my younger years, but it didn’t last for long. By the time I was in junior high school, she’d stopped pretending altogether.

For me, growing up the kid of a hard luck story was no picnic either. I WAS the kid who lived in the shabbiest rental house in the otherwise neatly groomed suburban neighborhood. Everyone knew it too. That’s because, there’s no way to hide something like that, and tragically, it never changed, no matter how many times we moved to in my dad’s never-ending search for gold.

That was the amazing part. Somehow my dad could find the same house in every town we moved to. Every one of them had the same cheap white paint that barely served the purpose. They always had the same three bedrooms, the one bath, and the carpet that had barely survived a series of tenants with pets. They always had the same three anemic boxwood bushes awkwardly positioned in front too. Yep, that was it: home, sweet home.

Chapter 4

Grace Sherwood

"He that justifieth the wicked, and he that condemneth the just, even they both are an abomination to the LORD."

Proverbs 17:15

The Holy Bible, King James Version

And so it is that I am tucked away, nay hidden, within the walls of the common jail in Williamsburg, Virginia, where I am to sustain myself with nothing more than a simple cot, a sturdy table, a suitable chair, a pen, some paper, and a Bible with which, I am told, I am to use to recover my lost soul.

But hear me now; my soul is not lost. I am, in the eyes of my Savior, a saved woman, consistent and diligent in my religious practices. I am innocent. I be not a witch. I have brought no evil or harm to anyone. Is it not said in this very book of righteousness that the treasures of wickedness profit nothing, but the righteous are delivereth from death? And so, I too have been delivered from death, not once, but twice even. Does that not prove the purity of my soul?

Yet, I am imprisoned, and what greater miscarriage of justice, I know not of, for I have been ripped from my family, estranged from my home, and branded in the eyes of all who know me with the hated word witch. And to be sure, this vile name, when once placed upon a woman’s character, cannot be easily washed away.

The whole of the injustice sickens me, for the weapons used against me were not knives or stones, but the mere whispers that were maliciously planted and the swelled until they rose up again and left their mark upon me. But I am no witch. I have been wrongfully convicted and placed here. Make no mistake; the low hidden voices of men can be poisonous, nay, lethal, when they rise up from a dark, tangled, and covetous soul. And just as a venomous snake lies precariously close and yet go undetected, so too did my attackers, for they were once known as my neighbors. Tis true, for these men were the very same men who worked their land beside mine, who traveled the roads to church each Sunday beside me, and whose wives bore children who kept company with my own.

How then could it have come to pass that my neighbors wished me harm, nay, wished me dead? How could they have conjured up such lies and rumors to entice the commonwealth to become an accomplice in their murderous scheme? And how then could I have not detected their villainous intent? Did we not hear the same words whilst attending services each Sunday? Thou shall not bear false witness. Thou shall not kill. Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s possessions. Did we not hear and know to be true the wages of sin were death?

So what nature of evil would make men, under pretense of abiding by these sacred words, endeavor to pursue each one with wild abandon? Do they not know the difference between the wretchedness of sin and unabated evil? And where is the justice? Can innocents be so easily swayed that righteousness itself is in peril?

These are the questions I am left to ponder each day as I walk from corner to corner in this stone room, for I alone contemplate the enormity of this evil.

Chapter 5

Richard Hill

"You desire but do not have, so you kill. You covet but you cannot get what you want, so you quarrel and fight. You do not have because you do not ask God."

James 4:2

The Holy Bible, New International Version

So, what was the fuel that drove the seemingly irrational belief that the pot of gold was right behind every one of my father’s this time schemes?

Quite frankly, who knows?

He called it The American Dream. Dad wholly subscribed to the insane belief that anyone could have the big house, the two cars, and the proof that one had arrived with just enough good luck. He cited examples of it continuously.

Did you see that new car parked next door?

I knew right then, another this time scheme was emerging. They always did and were always presented in the same way – at the dinner table.

It’s hard to know if Dad planned his revelations this way or not, but predictably, every time that someone in the neighborhood got something new, Mom and I would get an earful of what other people had, what we didn’t, and what luck had to do with it. New cars, vacations, and even promotions were a constant topic of conversation. And details? Dad gathered every one of them, and before it was over, he’d know the make, the model, the cost, the upgrades, and even the type of interior of a neighbor’s new car.

Tragically, Dad ended up knowing more about other people’s stuff than he did our own.

He’d say things like, You know that Fred at work landed the promotion that I should’ve had. That’s a big extra five thou’ right into his pocket too. How do you like them apples?

Can you believe the new car next door has real leather upholstery and seat warmers in it? Who needs to have their tush warmed in San Diego, I ask you? It’s hard to believe what people will waste their money on nowadays! And, they’ll be paying for it for years too! You won’t catch me wasting my money like that. I’m not that stupid. No siree, I know how to invest my money.

I didn’t believe a word of it. I knew my dad, and knew that if he could’ve conned his way into a new car, he’d have driven a solid gold Cadillac right up a neighbor’s nose. And it’s not that Dad had anything against a particular neighbor either; for goodness knows, we had lots of them, and they changed every time we moved. What moved with us each time was my dad’s interest in what they had.

When I was young, I listened. I didn’t know any better. But my teenage years were different. Dad would talk, and I’d roll my eyes. After all, I couldn’t help but think that if he’d spent as much time on his career as he did gathering information about other people’s stuff, we might have a new car.

But we never did, and somehow, the old one managed to get us to another new town every time Dad’s luck ran out.

Bottom line: I attended ten different schools before graduating high school, never played any sports, or developed any lasting friendships. I learned to pretend that being an outsider didn’t matter to me, but it did. I wanted to belong. I wanted a real home, real friendships, and, at the very least, I wanted clothes that weren’t a constant source of embarrassment.

Chapter 6

Grace Sherwood

"But the God of all grace, who hath called us unto his eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that ye have suffered a while, make you perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle you."

1 Peter 5:10

The Holy Bible, King James Version

I have struggled to find meaning in this hateful miscarriage of justice, but in truth, I have found none. My endless search has exposed nothing, save a deep longing, a desperate need for the truth to be told, even if written by my own hand.

Yes, tis truth, not water, or bread, or even companionship that can sustain me now, for it is only truth that will feed my spirit.

So, what then of truth? Can it be so easily perverted that I am to spend the rest of my life locked away for crimes I did not commit? I know not how to answer this.

I do not blame the courts for my misfortune. I believe the prudent men established by the Queen to oversee justice in the colonies were unwittingly entangled in the distasteful business brought before them. I also believe these men were forced to levy the only palatable solution they could offer and sought to dissuade an unholy alliance with my accusers. I do not doubt they sentenced me in the only way they could, finding probable cause to believe me guilty of the crimes of witchcraft and held indefinitely to await a full trial by jury.

And while justice was not served, and these fine and prudent men did not make me whole, still, I was awarded a reprieve. And a valuable reprieve it is, for my life has been spared, and I have been given sanctuary. Yes, it is a compromised sanctuary, to be sure, but with the passage of time afforded by the reprieve, my sons will come of age and lay claim to the land that is so rightfully theirs.

But for my accusers, it is written in the righteous book of Jeremiah, the iniquity of the fathers shall be recompensed into the bosom of their children after them. Do my accusers believe they will escape this ultimate justice? Have they mistaken the source of their curses and hardships? For it is not I who curse them, as I have no power to bring forth any curse, it is they who, through their own hateful and devious actions, have brought forth a curse to follow them. Do these evil men not love and cherish their own flesh and blood? Surely, they must, so why then have they burdened their children and all those who follow with such a curse?

And where is salvation for those unfortunate enough to follow and bear these evil names? Will the mere passage of time wipe clean the injustice spawned by such absolute evil? I think not. I have found no such evidence in the sacred text that will provide such immunity, for even the book of Proverbs promises that all who speaketh lies shall perish, and as long as I am denied justice and my good name remains tarnished with the hateful lies purposely placed there, all who believe me a witch, or withhold the truth of my innocence, shall perish.

But as for me, I pray that I might be strengthened to endure all that I must. I also pray that I might be given the wisdom to forgive my accusers for the unspeakable crimes they so wrongfully levied upon me, and finally, I beg for God’s gracious mercy that I might be fully restored one day.

Chapter 7

Richard Hill

"A greedy man brings trouble to his family, but he who hates bribes will live."

Proverbs 15:27

The Holy Bible, New International Version

I never knew much about my family history because we, or rather my father, focused all our attention squarely on the future.

Opportunity waits for no one, he would say.

Consequently, we never visited my grandparents for Christmas. Heck, we never visited any relative for any holiday whatsoever. We also didn’t send Christmas cards. We didn’t birthday cards either. They’re just a waste of money, Dad would say, sneering at a birthday card a friend had sent me.

I didn’t argue with him. There was no point in it anyway. And I didn’t ask any questions either. He’d never give me a straight answer anyway. So, I, like many transient kids, learned nothing about my roots.

But I really didn’t miss the quaint family functions dramatized in the sappy Christmas movies Mom used to watch. The way I saw it, how can you miss something you know nothing about?

To me, the holidays meant just one thing: toys. They mesmerized me. Not that I ever got any, but I knew enough about them to fool just about anyone.

The holidays were also devoid of any religious trappings. We celebrated Christmas, Easter, Halloween, and the rest of the American holidays in much the same way other people did; we’d buy a bunch of cheap stuff, stick it up, and then act like we were having fun. The whole thing got pretty lame after about a week or so, and then we’d tear it all down and throw it away.

We did it year after year, holiday after holiday, kind of like a tradition, if you will.

We didn’t have any kind of a formal religion. That’s because Dad always said that churches were nothing but a bunch of do-gooders looking for a handout. Mom never said much about it either, especially not after she’d learned the hard way that religion was a touchy subject with Dad.

It happened shortly after we’d moved into a small town somewhere in the Midwest. Mom met some ladies from a local church, and they invited us to join in a few social activities. Mom didn’t get out much, so she was thrilled to have new friends.

She even took me along and enrolled me in a Bible camp. We kept our new activities a secret, and we only went when Dad was at work.

I’d never seen Mom happier. She even laughed with her new friends, and cherished the new Bible they’d given her. That is, until Dad found out about it. He didn’t take it too well. He said that he didn’t like presents and especially not ones like Bibles. Then, he ordered Mom to get rid of it.

She didn’t though. I think it meant too much to her. She asked me to hide it.

Apparently, I didn’t hide it good enough.

How’d this get into my house? Dad yelled, waving the Bible accusingly at Mom.

She didn’t answer him. Neither did I, but Dad never listened when he was yelling anyway. I don’t need no do-gooders marching up here and snooping around in my business, he yelled. I don’t need ‘em droppin’ off books, and telling me how to live my life either! All they want is my money!

What money? I thought to myself.

Mom looked sad and put the Bible into the trashcan. I thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t. I found it years later in a box Mom packed when we were moving again. Obviously, the kindness those ladies had shown her, even if for only few days, had touched her deeply, and no amount of Dad’s yelling could prevent her from holding on to it. She gave me that Bible years later when I was leaving home. I never read it, but just knowing how much it meant to her, motivated me to keep it safe.

As far as I know, Mom never went to church again.

Chapter 8

Grace Sherwood

"Of which salvation the prophets have enquired and searched diligently, who prophesied of the grace that should come unto you:"

1 Peter 1:10

The Holy Bible, King James Version

If I could gather up all the treasures of the world and then trade them over to have this black smudge removed from my family’s name, oh, I would gladly make the trade and consider it a bargain. For the value of a good name is immense, and once damaged, can no more be set right again than restoring the scattered bloom of a dandelion when spread widely by the wind.

Perhaps I understand the magnitude of this loss better than most, for I was born with the fine and prestigious name of White, the first generation of the Virginia Colony and heir to the abundant lands therein.

But what is the value of a name? Most people have the luxury of never having to consider such, yet I have been forced to dwell on it at length. For I, Grace Sherwood, the third child and only daughter of the great John White of the Virginia Colony, have been privileged to come into the