Write the things which thou hast seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter – Rev. 1:19

My granny was a Holy Roller.

I spent the first six years of my life trying to find out what that meant. Today, some of the children of those old time Pentecostals hold graduates degrees from prestigious southern universities — and some of them are master criminals in the Louisiana State Penitentiary.


On February 10, 1951, my parents and brother were at Stevens’ Hospital in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Daddy was a shy twenty two year old, Mother was eighteen and equally shy; my brother was two and a half.

The hospital was small compared to Saint Patrick’s, a multi-storied brick and iron ornamented catholic hospital three blocks over; but it was clean, friendly and sufficient. According to Daddy, a little after one a.m., Dr. Stevens walked from the delivery room. Daddy’s eyes filled with tears when the doctor reported, “Gervis, you’ll have to make a choice. I can save your wife or I can save your child. I cannot save them both.”

Daddy could not answer the doctor. With tears pouring down his face, he left the waiting room. Thirty minutes later, they found him in front of the hospital. He was on his knees behind the boxed hedge bushes.

“On that night, God gave me a baby girl and the life of my wife,” Daddy said, twelve years later. Granny said it was a miracle.