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 n.o.body 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. Inever 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 gla.s.ses, 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. staring through his thick, black-rimmed gla.s.ses, 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 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." 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 hara.s.sment was taking.

Digging for some explanation as to why anybody would want to persecute a pastor with such a forceful display of firepower, 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 G.o.d'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 a.s.sortment of bills and advertising circulars. Punctuated with threats, filled with bad grammar and typos to conceal the ident.i.ty 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. "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. 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 circ.u.mstantial 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 Hara.s.sed," "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 antic.i.p.ated 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 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 att.i.tude 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, 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 theearth.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 G.o.d 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.Overall, 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 G.o.d. Inevitably, there are always some who stray from their upbringing. But, with G.o.d in one's heart there is love, for G.o.d 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."

Adjacent to Momma's tribute, the paper ran an article by Wray Thompson ent.i.tled "More Hara.s.sment at Sellerstown Parsonage." After a summary of the most recent a.s.sault, Momma was quoted as saying, "We used to look for the siege20 of hara.s.sment every three months. But now it's every week. My husband, though, is not afraid for himself. He would die for the Lord." of hara.s.sment every three months. But now it's every week. My husband, though, is not afraid for himself. He would die for the Lord."

How was Momma's article received by the man behind the persecution? I imagine somewhere, hunched over the newspaper, Mr. Watts read Momma's words while plotting his next move. The timing of the mischief that night could have been a coincidence. More likely it was a direct response to these two articles, sort of like an unconventional letter to the editor. Either way, Mr. Watts aimed to send us another signal that he meant every word of his promise to drive us away.

That night, with yet another gunshot blast, the mercury-vapor light in our backyard was shattered. Thankfully, Momma and I were not at home. We had taken up shelter elsewhere during Daddy's annual eight-day missions trip to Colombia, South America. There was no way he'd leave his pregnant wife and child alone in the house.

Not with Mr. Watts watching our every move.

With the exception of the frequent, daily phone calls designed to keep us on edge, there were no more shootings, bombings, tire slashings, or other acts of physical intimidation during the rest of December. The relative calm remained throughout January, relative in the sense that we lived each day on the narrow edge of fear that today today might be the day when something terrible might happen to us. might be the day when something terrible might happen to us.

Maybe the attack would come in the dead of the night.

Perhaps during broad daylight, although less likely.

We lived with the dark reality that something awful could strike us at any moment. After several months of being the target of Mr. Watts's campaign of terror, I know I never felt safe. I doubt my parents did either. For me, this tension was greatest as the sun melted into the horizon. Without its warm glow outside my window, I dreaded going to sleep. My mind was tormented by questions that no child should have to entertain.

Why did Mr. Watts hate us?

Why did we have to always live in fear?

Why did life have to be so hard?

Why didn't G.o.d stop these bad things from happening?

Would G.o.d really allow one of us to get hurt?

Aware that I, at times, dreaded going to sleep, Momma would kneel down by my bed and recite the cla.s.sic children's prayer from the eighteenth century with me: "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." Those were not empty words. I meant every word of that prayer. I'm sure she did too.

Much to my surprise, I remember Momma began praying for Mr. Watts. She prayed long and hard for G.o.d to take away his root of bitterness and his deep-seated anger toward our family. And she prayed that Mr. Watts would one day give his heart to Jesus. When I asked her about that, she recited Matthew 5:44, saying, "Becky, Jesus said, 'But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.'" Part of loving our enemies, she explained, included forgiving them when they wronged us-even if they hadn't asked for forgiveness.

Even if they weren't sorry.

Momma explained that we had been forgiven by Jesus for all of our sins, which is why He expected us, in turn, to forgive others. Taking the teachable moment one step further, she pointed to Romans 12:14, where Paul, a follower of Jesus, calls us to "bless them which persecute you: bless, and curse not." Looking back on those conversations, I can see that Momma was, as best she knew how, teaching me that forgiveness is close to the heart of G.o.d.

That forgiveness is the language of heaven.

That forgiveness should be a way of life.

Even when it was humanly inconceivable to do so.

I would soon need to be reminded of this perspective. And yet, thankfully, the welcomed respite from any serious display of trauma continued into February. This was especially good news for my mother, who spent her wedding anniversary giving her husband the ultimate anniversary present: a son. Which was quite the gift, considering she wasn't supposed to be able to bear any children of her own.

On February 11, 1975, Robert "Daniel" Nichols was born, a healthy, bouncing baby boy, at the Southeastern General Hospital in Lumberton. And just as my parents had given me a biblical name, so they gave one to their son, who was always called Daniel.

With the arrival of my brother, the joy returned to our home. Iwelcomed seeing Momma and Daddy laughing again, unlike the last six months when they had had worried, drawn looks on their faces most of the time. Now that Daniel was finally in his arms, Daddy couldn't stop smiling. I know he couldn't wait to take Daniel fishing and hunting-and teach him about the game of football.

He'd pick Daniel up with his huge hands that engulfed my brother, study his face with proud eyes, and say, "That's my boy!" Daddy knew Daniel would be the one to carry on the family name to future generations. And maybe, just maybe, Daniel would follow Daddy's footsteps and become a pastor-perhaps he'd even fill the pulpit in Sellerstown once Daddy retired.

In the Bible, Daniel obeyed G.o.d completely, which I'm sure Momma and Daddy hoped would be the case with their son, too. You know, a great name to live up to. And, whether or not they consciously intended it, there was a deeper significance behind the choice of my brother's name. In the Bible, Daniel was betrayed by those closest to him and then thrown into a lions' den filled with hungry creatures.

Ironically, my brother Daniel had been born into a lions' den of sorts, betrayed by his closest neighbor before he had even taken his first breath. In fact, his doctors noted that Daniel was born with a nervous condition, which they attributed to the impact of the threats and acts of violence against us during Momma's pregnancy.

Daniel wasn't the only one suffering from frazzled nerves. The year before, at age three and a half, I had experienced a complete meltdown that I can only attribute to the impact that two home invasions and the relentless late-night phone calls had made upon me.

During the summer of 1973, my family took a much-needed vacation and traveled to Cherokee, North Carolina. Nestled in the shadows of the majestic Smoky Mountains, the fresh air of Cherokee seemed to be the perfect remedy to the hara.s.sment we had been experiencing. We had met up with our relatives, including Aunt Dot, Grandmother Nichols, Aunt Martha, and her daughter, Linda. Momma's friend, Sue Williams, came along on the trip as well.

While window-shopping one afternoon, a colorful Indian feather headdress caught my eye. I just had to have it. You see, both sides of my family have Cherokee and some Choctaw blood. Daddy was a good sport and coughed up the money. After I donned my new headdress, we stopped to pose for pictures at various spots in the Oconaluftee Indian Village, an authentic replica of community life for the Cherokee Indians in the eighteenth century.

While my parents gravitated toward a frontier church, I was attracted to a Wild West train ride. Happy to please their Indian princess, they paid the fare, and we boarded the train. I sat securely in my daddy's lap as the steam engine belched gray smoke and we started to inch forward. Since it was an open-air train with no sides to obstruct the view, we moved slowly, which seemed fun for me and I'm sure peaceful to my family.

That is, until the cowboys came.

Materializing almost out of thin air, with bandanas masking their faces, the cowboys swooped down toward the train on horseback. With whoops and yells, they fired their guns into the air. Rather than pick up steam to evade the bandits, the train slowed to a stop. I was beside myself. For the life of me, I couldn't understand why we were no longer moving. Didn't the engineer know we were in trouble? Didn't he care that we were under attack? Why didn't someone tell him to get away from them?

Stunned at the drama unfolding, I watched in disbelief as the cowboys dismounted their horses and hopped aboard the train. Walking up and down the aisle, they started yelling for the pa.s.sengers to hand over their money. What was this? The cowboy bandits had been shooting guns, and now they were robbing people.

I became hysterical.

Try as they did, my parents were unable to comfort me. Daddy scooped me up in his arms and carried me off the train until the "show" was over. How was I supposed to understand it was all just part of the train ride, part of the "fun"? A ride that had started out as an enjoyable afternoon turned into an absolute nightmare for me. While this staged event might have been fake, by age three I knew there were bad men in the world. Men who thought nothing of terrorizing others.

We had one living across the street from our house.

And now this.

I'm sure I ruined the "fun" experience for some of the other pa.s.sengers. If they had known what was really going on in my little world, maybe they would have understood why I screamed and cried for five minutes straight while turning different shades of red. With hot tears running down my face, I was convinced we were in mortal danger.

And while my reaction may have "embarra.s.sed the fire out of her," as Momma would sometimes say, my hunch is that she completely understood why this event triggered such a distressed response from me. It was too much for my nervous system to handle. She, too, had felt the consequences of Mr. Watts's relentless intimidation.

All of us had.

And now Danny, a newborn, had signs of a nervous disorder.

I can't say for certain, but I imagine one of the hopes Daddy and Momma held was that Mr. Watts would have tired by now of his lunatic tactics to get my family to leave the church and our home.

Was it too much to believe that Mr. Watts would somehow come to his senses and realize that we were happier and more resolved than ever to stay? Was it possible that Mr. Watts, watching our home from behind the curtains of his front window, might experience a change of heart? Would he take into account that there were now two small children in our house and, in turn, resist his monstrous desire to attack a harmless family?

Chapter 7

The Toughest Guy in Town.

He paced.