Vita Mea Chapter 01
David Richardson
I crawled. I walked. I ran. Then, I flew away. In the beginning, I was nothing. And then, the egg and sperm came together to make me something. And then, death overcame me to make me nothing again. And then I flew away into the bosom of Jesus to became something again.
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The second law of thermodynamics suggests that life cycles for created beings have grand entrances and undesirable exits. We enter the world through happy random processes, but we exit this world through melancholy chaotic processes. These processes are inevitable! The pathways traveled during life cycles are spontaneous, and their spontaneity is random. All beings that live beneath the clouds and depend on oxygen to exist have chaotic beginnings and chaotic ends. We enthusiastically embrace the beginning, but we sadly accept the end! Human life cycles are replete with chaos and disorder regardless if we travel beneath the atmosphere or if we traverse the pathways to the stars. Contrary to some traditional philosophical beliefs, there are no second chances when the human life cycle ends. I cannot be reconstituted from the dust to be a better human being or reformed from the dust to be a lesser life form. Once my life extinguishes, it ends forever. The roads I travel are unidirectional; therefore, irreversible. There are no mechanisms to return once my life cycle ends. Therefore, my life will not get a second chance. I may learn, however, from my experiences because when a similar situation occurs, I can elect to take a different path. Contrary to Hollywood, science fiction writers, or other time- travel theorists, there is no participatory pathway to the past. It is impossible to create a machine that will allow me to travel back in time and participate in an event with the possibility of altering the smallest or largest detail of the event. However, some innovative engineer or scientist may be able to create a time device that would allow future time travelers to observe the past as if viewing a hologram. People in the past would not be aware of the observer, and the observer cannot participate in or alter past events. The time traveler can observe the past without speaking with or associating with people in the past. Of course, that would be an incredible invention. For the first time in history, people will be able to observe an event without the distorted reports of alleged eyewitnesses. It would be an incredible opportunity to see, holographically, the parting of Yum Suph by the breath of God. It would be a heart-stopping event to see the Israelites trapped on the shore of Yum Suph beside Pihahiroth before Baalzephon. It would be an experience to see a holographic image of God in the form of a cyclonic pillar, perpetually dark on the side of the Egyptians and light on the side of the Israelites. The darkness holding the Egyptians at bay would be an extraordinary sight. It would be an incredible opportunity to see the bifurcated spinning pillar vibrantly flaring throughout the night. Suddenly, on the side of the Israelites, a 3
strong east wind formed by the breath of God blows throughout the night to divide Yum Suph. I can imagine the unbelief of the Egyptians as they see Yum Suph part to produce a visible path dividing it into a north Yum Suph on the left and a south Yum Suph on the right. Indeed, this would be a faith enhancing experience to see the sea holographic part. The directions and actions I take are like rapid moving currents in the stream of time. There is no pathway back to the past once I physically traveled a specific road. Also, there are no mystical pathways into the future. Time is unidirectional, and my only recourse for omission or commission transgressions is to seek forgiveness from God and from those I wronged. Trees have life cycles; plants and flowers have life cycles; the oceans, seas, and lakes have life cycles; mountains, hills, and valleys have life cycles; and human beings have life cycles. All earthly animate and inanimate objects have life cycles, and those life cycles are interconnected. Consequently, I need to cautiously and carefully make decisions that impact the pathways traveled during my sojourn on this spiritually rebellious planet. A few decades ago, it was my turn for heaven to produce something from nothing. The sperm mated with the egg. Heterogametic sex occurred! There was an XY chromosome combination. Bang! Cell multiplication occurred. Nine months of gestation led to my unfathomable entrance. You see, I had no say in the matter, and there was a considerable mystery surrounding my birth. I am still unable to fully explore or comprehend its mystery since the key participants are deceased. I was born during the global chaos of the middle twentieth-century. The second worldwide conflict devastated the planet.
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I was born two years and a few days after that infamous day when 2,403 people (including 68 civilians) lost their lives on land and sea at Pearl Harbor (Hawaii). This event catapulted the United States into a second major conflict that led to destruction, disorder, chaos, and devastation. During those trying times, God promised that my days could be seventy years if my strength endures; however, the best of my days would be trouble and sorrow. Those days would quickly pass, and then I would fly away (Psalm 90:10). God has graciously allowed my days to exceed His promise. I have surpassed the designated timeline, and I am grateful for His love, patience, kindness, and tolerance. Nevertheless, those days were like the passing wind because they flew by with rapidity. Though they were short, they were replete with miracles, accomplishments, disappointments, failures, successes, sadness, and happiness. The times were occasionally exhilarating, and they were sometimes devastating. Many would say that God has given me a long life. They are right! Though I cannot complain about the time God has given me, it has been a micro-moment on the cosmic clock. I spent an infinitesimally small fraction of time on earth as a vibrant organism. My carbon-based body is minuscule compared to the mass of the cosmos. My limited existence is spatially insignificant, but God sees me as occupying an important place and assuming a significant role in His unimaginable universe. Only a fraction of the approximately eight billion people living on planet earth will care about, remember, or even recognize the finite time I spent here. My transitory existence is just a tiny spark among the sixteen billion carbon-based organic entities residing on the blue sphere floating by divine intervention on the fabric of space. The fact that I exist in an infinite universe is a testimony to the reality of an Intelligent Designer. No matter how insignificant I may feel, or others may think about my insignificance, the ultimate Reality tracked every minute detail of my physical, mental, intellectual, social, emotional, and spiritual successes and failures. Not me only, but every human being that was,
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is, and will be. “Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God? But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows (Luke 12: 6 and 7).� It is encouraging to know that God has paid particular attention to every detail of my life. God told Jeremiah that He knew him before he was born and that He had set him apart by destining him to be a prophet (Jeremiah 1:5). He has made the same proclamation about me. God knew me before I was born. I will fly away with the assurance that He knew me like He knew Jeremiah before my conceptions in the womb of my mother. This knowledge makes me unique in the universe. Though there is consistent doubt as I travel my earthly journey, God made me a promise. A promise that my corruptible life will one day become incorruptible. That certainty belongs to and describes the unlimited powers of my omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent God. I was born with the propensity to develop the image of God, and that image reflects His character. The Holy Spirit describes His personality using the following words: Love (1 John 4:8); Merciful (1 Peter 1:3); Gentle (Isaiah 40:11); Good (2 Chronicles 30:18); Righteous (Psalm 145:17); Perfect (Psalm 18:20); Just (1 John 1:9); Faithful (1 Corinthians 10:13); and Graciousness (Psalm 116:5)
Since I reflect the image of God, I have the opportunity to emulate His character. I was born in sin and shaped in iniquity (Psalm 51:5). My perfection, justice, faith, righteousness, goodness, love, and mercy come through accepting Jesus Christ as my personal Savior.
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It is through His perfection that I am perfect. It is through His justice that I execute justice. It is through His faith that I am faithful. It is through His righteousness that I am righteous. It is through His goodness that I appear to do good in the eyes of others. It is through His mercy that I am merciful. It is through His love that I can love. My short life is a micro reflection of the mega image of He who interrupted eternity to give me a second chance at eternity. He is the one who will keep me from the second death, and then I will fly away. When God sees me, He sees His son. Segments of a song (Not I, but Christ, 1891) written by Albert Simpson demonstrate the significance of the axiom that the I in me diminishes, and the Christ in me exalts at the moment of self-surrender. “Not I, but Christ, in every look and action; Not I, but Christ, to wipe the falling tear; Not I, but Christ, to lift the weary burden; Not I, but Christ, to hush away all fear. Christ, only Christ Saved from my sin and myself, dear Lord, Saved to be filled with Thee.� My mother gave birth to me in pain, and pain, at so many levels, is associated with death. Those left behind feel the pain of death. When I retreat to the earth, I will experience the pain of death. Jesus will feel my pain. There is no escape from death. Paul said in Hebrews 9:27 that there is a time appointed for all to die, and at that appointed time, I will face the judgment.
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When I was born, someone severed the cord that connected me to my mother. Wow, what a large cord it was! It was a three-quarter-inch diameter cord. The umbilical cord transferred vital nutrients from my mother to me. Though the circumstances of my birth were suspicious, God watched over me during my mother’s gestation period. He connected me to her love, and when I exited the womb and entered the light of the world, someone severed the umbilical cord. Then, I connected to that spiritual cord that supplies me with God’s vital nutrients (unconditional love, hope, and immeasurable grace). God ignited a spark that initiated my life, and then I took my first breath. According to David in Ecclesiastes, when I take my last breath, my spirit will return to God. According to Paul in 1 Thessalonians 4:16 and 17, I will wait on Jesus to "descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and then the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with Christ in the clouds, to meet Him in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord". At that time, I will fly away. I will fly away to a place where Jesus lives. The words of Alison Krauss and Gillian Welch pinned in I’ll Fly Away beautifully describe my final destination. “Some bright morning when this life is over I'll fly away To that home on God's celestial shore I'll fly away” On Monday, November 29, 1943, I exploded into existence clinging to a safety raft floating on the river of time. Witnesses to this spontaneity would carry the secrets surrounding my birth until they flew away into the arms of Jesus. I am not sure of the exact clock hour and the minute I emerged from the womb of my mother because no one recorded the event. The setting was in the winter of 1943 in a small one-bathroom house with 364 written north of the door at North South Carolina Avenue in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Four half-siblings, my biological father, and a midwife witnessed my exit from the dark and comfortable chambers of the womb of my mother
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into the scary light of a complicated world. In the mid-twentieth century, the City hospital did not enthusiastically embrace blacks. Perhaps there was a more secretive reason for my home birth. The City of my birth has an intriguing history. It was born in the middle of the nineteenth century during the birth of the Camden-Atlantic Rail Transportation System. Built on a seventeen-square-mile island, the City has small waterways securing it on the west, north, and south sides and the breaking waves of the Atlantic Ocean on the east. After its inception, the City rapidly became the playground of the world for national and international tourists. The railroad played a role in the success of its development. The myriad of vacationers used trains as their primary means of accessing the City, and the Island became a popular site for world-renowned entertainers. Unfortunately, tourism was the catalyst that perpetuated the growth of the infamous criminals who overshadowed the City. Popularity, wealth, and a corrupt political infrastructure served as media for the percolation of crime and corruption in Atlantic City. The corrupt City is a citadel of vice. It is the Las Vegas of the east, a place for nourishing criminal activities. Can any good thing come out of Atlantic City? Following my natural birth at home, I was placed in a drawer and kept warm by the heat of a small light bulb. My family was at a loss for a name when one of the children in proximity said, “Let’s call him David”. David is a great biblical name. It means beloved. So, the name David stuck, and my father and mother decided to use Richardson for my surname. My mother, Ethel (Farrow) Richardson, was married, but separated from her husband, Wilbur Richardson. James Madison Warrick, my father, hired my mother to care for his four children, Mozelle, William, Willis, and Christine. At this writing, Mozelle flew away into the arms of Jesus as the oldest of my father's five children. She was a nonagenarian who lived in Baltimore, Maryland. James’s second wife, Beulah, left because she could not deal with his “unruly and unmanageable” kids. Mozelle loved Beulah, and she followed her to Baltimore. But there are secrets not revealed surrounding Beulah’s departure. There are many faces of truth. Truth for one may differ from the truth of another.
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James’s first wife, the four children’s biological mother, died in childbirth giving birth to their youngest child, Christine. My mother, Ethel, had two children of her own –Archie and Shirley. In those days, unmarried couples felt compelled to avoid any hint of impropriety if an unwanted pregnancy occurred. They took precautions to ensure that their indiscretion was under the veil of darkness, never to be exposed to the light of day. Secrets do not remain secrets forever. “Therefore, whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops (Luke 12:3).” My half-brother, Archie, was only thirteen months older than me; therefore, my mother blamed her estranged husband, Wilber, for my conception. I surmise that Wilbur probably was in the picture when my mother became pregnant, and her indiscretion may have precipitated Wilbur’s mysterious and inexplicable departure and permanent absence. Some family members on the Richardson side continue to celebrate and have family reunions, but I have not received invitations to or announcements about those reunions. More secrets! I grew up under the prevarication that Wilbur Richardson was my biological father when, in fact, my father was James Madison Warrick. The only semblance of his paternal attachment was a hidden insurance policy I inadvertently stumbled on. That policy has long since expired and has crumbled under the decay of time. The document identified me as David Warrick. However, no other documents (including my school records or birth certificate) identified me as David Warrick. All my official documents identified me as David Richardson – David Richardson without a middle name. Perhaps they did not provide me with a middle name because there was a rush to name me so that there would be a record of my birth officially documented in the archives of the Hall of Records in Atlantic City. Perhaps they were not concerned with names because I was an accident of birth. Who knows and cares? It does not change anything or make any difference because God knew my name before I was born.
After my home birth, my mother, who stayed in a house adjacent to my great aunt, continued to care for my father’s four children while he worked. I imagine that my great aunt, Bell Nicholson, 10
owned both homes and permitted my mother to stay in one. Bell’s eyesight deteriorated over time. Glaucoma was the insidious culprit. The disease slowly destroyed her optic nerves and eventually took her sight. In a few short years, she could only see shadows. Ultimately, she lost the ability to see shadows. At that moment, complete darkness engulfed her environment. Unfortunately, Glaucoma, unlike many diseases that plague humanity, can become so debilitating that freedom of motion is severely restricted. That was Bell’s fate. Bell was responsible for encouraging my mother to move from Charlotte, North Carolina to Atlantic City, New Jersey. That was my great fortune because my birth would be null and void if she had not moved from the south to the north. My mother did not have the opportunity to complete elementary school. In Atlantic City, during the decade of 1940, my mother had limited educational opportunities for academic growth. So, after leaving Charlotte, North Carolina, she obtained her education from the school of common sense. Her lack of formal education relegated her to menial employment opportunities. Consequently, she decided to work as a chambermaid at the Ambassador Hotel. The Hotel eventually changed its address to 2831 Boardwalk - a location that is presently just a few feet away from the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk. This address is the present location of the Tropicana Casino and Resort. The name is familiarly close to the name of a casino hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada.
Speaking of the advance of the criminal element in Atlantic City, I would like to share a bit of information about the Ambassador Hotel. The Ambassador Hotel was the location of the 1930 Atlantic City Conference in which several early twentieth-century infamous gangsters attended. Remember that Atlantic City is the petri dish for cultivating criminal activities. Among the many questionable characters who attended the 1930 Conference were Al Capone, Frank Costello, Charlie Luciano, and Bugsy Siegel. A year later, someone shot and killed Mickey Duffy, the infamous bootlegger, while he rested in his hotel room at the Ambassador Hotel.
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My mother, who flew away into the arms of death many decades ago, would have been disappointed to learn that someone gutted her beloved Ambassador Hotel and converted it to a gambling casino. The City is the citadel for criminal activity; consequently, a gambling casino is inconsequential compared to murder and other high crimes that occurred during the early years of the twentieth century. My mother tirelessly worked the midnight to eight ante meridiem (am) shift for many years as a chambermaid at the Ambassador Hotel. She scheduled an inconvenient shift because of her commitment to Bell Nicholson. She had an exhaustive work arrangement. She insisted that her family use every reasonable method to wake her in time to get to work. She did not take public transportation to work, and she did not own an automobile. Every night, except Tuesday evenings, she would walk to work- a distance that was close to six miles. The family’s methods to wake her included sprinkling her with water, shaking her until she woke up, and shouting at her to wake up. The reason why she had difficulty waking up to go to work was that after finishing her full-time overnight job as a chambermaid, she would go to another job. She would come home for a brief moment to make sure that her children were ready for school (clean clothes, bath, teeth brushed, homework completed, lunch money, etc.). After checking on us, she would walk to my great aunt’s house to help her clean her home and prepare for vacationers who rented rooms during the summer, spring, and fall months. She remained most of the daylight hours with my great aunt. That was her second job (without monetary compensation). Then she would return home by four or five post meridiem. As far as I can remember, her cycle of helping my great aunt and working at the Ambassador Hotel continued for many years. The only rest she had was on Tuesday evenings. She rested a few hours between five in the evening and one hour before midnight. Also, she took a one-week vacation annually to visit her sisters and other relatives in Charlotte, North Carolina. My mother spent a significant portion of her time between five and eight pm preparing dinner, eating dinner, and watching the black and white mini TV that rested on the top of a dresser in the living room. Frequently, she only received three-four hours of sleep per night. I do not know how she had the energy or strength to essentially work two jobs and remain viable throughout the night and day. She was a hard-working woman. She loved her children and grandchildren unconditionally.
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One day, many years after I left Atlantic City while crossing the street, she was struck by an automobile. After being hospitalized briefly, she started to show an aggressive form of dementia, and, at a relatively young age, she flew away into the waiting arms of Jesus. I do not have in-depth knowledge about the personal lives of my parents because they were so secretive. It would have been a joyous occasion for me if they shared their stories with me. It would have been delightful to hear about their moments of happiness, triumphs, sadness, and disappointments. Nevertheless, I remember them working hard, occasionally spatting, and clearly showing committed love, in multiple ways, to their children and grandchildren. For example, the night before Christmas, my father would meticulously prepare Christmas plates for each family member, and they were magnificent. They consisted of a variety of fruits and nuts. He was wise beyond his time because he prepared healthy selections during the fifties when eating healthy foods was not that popular. My father prepared those delicious healthy plates for many years. The energy and time he put into that project will dwell with me forever. His healthy selections were precursors to my committed vegetarian lifestyle. The mysteries enshrouding my parents’ lives were not unusual for the times in which they lived because many black families held secrets that would make voluminous anthologies. My biological father was a veteran of World War I. As a boy, I vaguely remember him reminiscing about that great world conflict. He flew away into the arms of Jesus only a couple of years after my mother. Before her passing, she reinforced some of his stories. They shared one story where God intervened so that he avoided the heart of the conflict. Inadvertently, the chain of command overlooked him, and he spent the remainder of the war in the states. Nearly eight hundred black soldiers died in that war. About fifty thousand black soldiers saw conflict, and approximately four hundred thousand served as non-combatants. My dad served as a state-side non-combatant. That was fortuitous because had he died on the battlefield, I would not have had the opportunity to float on the river of time. My father was an elevator operator in the hospital. His job was to transport visitors, patients, and hospital employees from one floor to another floor within the multi-story building. The manual 13
mechanism that operated the vertical movements of the spacious elevator was not easy to manipulate. The ancient controls that permitted vertical up and down motion were unlike automated elevators we have today. It could only be operated by a trained operator who had command of the manual control device. My dad was proud of the fact that he could maneuver the elevator so that the floor of the elevator perfectly matched the level of the floor requested by visitors, patients, or hospital staff. My father had a fifth-grade education, but he exhibited an incredible amount of knowledge and common sense beyond the expectations of an individual with only five years of formal education. During the time I lived with him, I do not think I truly appreciated his wisdom, analytical skills, intuitive reasoning, and critical thinking abilities. I acquired an appreciation for his insightfulness and his common sense reasoning after I completed college. James Madison Warrick was an extraordinary man who had a significant impact on my life. Frequently, I regret not taking full advantage of his street smarts and critical thinking abilities. In retrospect, I regret not letting him know how much I appreciated his third eye-an eye of insightfulness.
My father and I could be twins if we were born on the same day, in the same year, and if we were not father and son. If one compared our pictures, the resemblance is evidential. In my opinion, our facial and body features are closer than those of any of his other children. We have that same unmistakable high hairline. Our adult physical appearances are similar, and our facial features are uncannily close. Anyone comparing us side by side could see the resemblance of father and son or, at least, see that we are from the same gene pool. Not only do we have similar hairlines, but by looking at him, it would have been an anomaly if my height had exceeded five feet seven inches. The gene pool is a powerful heredity indicator that provides a mechanism for irrefutable evidence of paternity and maternity. Genes provide similar characteristics that can be employed to track physical and personality traits.
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James M. Warrick
David (NMN) Richardson
James Madison Warrick, my biological father, inadvertently displayed excitement and willingness to be a father during the holiday seasons. I remember on several occasions that he would favor me over my half-brother, Archie. My half-sister, Shirley, did not live with us at 364 North South Carolina Avenue. She lived with my great aunt in a house on Illinois Avenue. Since my aunt was rapidly losing her eyesight, she needed someone to help her during the nights that my mother worked at the Ambassador Hotel. So, Shirley lived with Bell Nicholson. Bell did not take too kindly to James because she thought he had taken advantage of my mother. The relationship between my father and mother was a consensual partnership. Years after I was born, they legally dissolve their previous marriages. Then, they got married at the Second Baptist Church in Atlantic City, New Jersey, where they could publicly proclaim their love as Mr. and Mrs. James Warrick. On a cold Christmas morning, sometime during my early years, my father took great pains and energy in preparing his traditional fruit and nut plates, decorating a live Christmas tree, and stuffing the Christmas stocking with all kinds of goodies. He took meticulous care to ensure that we had a joyous and spirit-filled Christmas. On that glorious Christmas morning, Archie and I woke up with too many toys under the Christmas tree. We could smell the odor of pine emanating from the tree that satiated the room. The many toys under the tree included two aesthetically designed bicycles with different heights and two sets of toy six-shooters (one sprayed with silver paint and smaller and the other sprayed with gold paint and larger). As previously indicated, one bicycle was slightly smaller than the other, but the designs were similar. The gold-painted set of toy guns were for me, and Archie received the smaller silver set of toy guns. Archie was unhappy with his toy guns. Why did my father favor me with the larger gold-painted toy six-shooters? Because he was my biological father. I did not understand 15
why I had received the more elaborate set because Archie and I called him Uncle James, not papa. We were unaware of his actual role in my life. I felt terrible about the favoritism; therefore, I switched my set of guns with Archie’s set. I cannot remember our ages. Perhaps we were somewhere around 8 and 10 (we were thirteen months apart). It was unusual for a young child to give up his gift at Christmas time. Kids can be so selfish, and they frequently forget the true meaning of Christmas. It is not for us, but for Jesus who gave the greatest gift ever – His life. Children are naturally selfish, and I did a very generous thing that Christmas morning, and by doing so, I brought joy and happiness to my half-brother. He was excited to receive the golden set of guns. We laughed, and we had a great day because we were so happy with our gifts. I had a smaller bike because I was smaller. He had a bigger bike because he was bigger than me. I had the set of silver, less elaborate, six-shooters, and he had the golden six-shooters. While living in the house at 364 North South Carolina Avenue, I met James Fundenberg, a kid who lived not too far from our home. We were approximately the same age; however, I was ahead of him by, at least, one grade. I was in the seventh grade at Central Junior High School, an integrated Junior High School. At that time, there were only two Junior High Schools in Atlantic City- Central Junior High and Chelsea Junior High. Before attending an integrated Junior High School, I attended a segregated elementary school - Indiana Avenue Elementary School (located at 117 North Indiana Avenue). My encounter with James Fundenberg at the tender age of around twelve turned out to be divine intervention that dramatically changed my life. James invited me to visit his Church. I rapidly responded with a yes; however, I accepted the invitation without fully realizing that the date was on a Saturday. When I thought about my premature response, I remembered that Saturdays were movie days for the kids on the block in 1955. It was a tradition on our block that the neighborhood kids would attend the all-Black Alan Theatre’s double features on Saturdays. Also, in 1955, you could sit through movies multiple times. You could stay in the Theatre all day if you desired. During the 1950s, Blacks could only sit in the balconies of the movie theaters located on Atlantic Avenue. The only theater that was freely open to Blacks was the Alan Theatre located on Arctic Avenue. The Theatre was within reasonable walking distance from my home. My father would
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take my mother out religiously on a date every Tuesday night to see a double feature at the Alan Theater. They frequently took Archie and me with them. After the second movie, I was very sleepy, and my father would carry me home on his shoulder. The Alan Theater was closed shortly before or soon after 1960. I added a caveat immediately to my acceptance of Jimmy’s invitation. I told him my “yes” reply for the Saturday Church invitation was contingent on my mother’s approval; however, in the back of my mind, I was thinking that I would be infringing on my traditional go-to-the-movie day. We both went to see my mother, and I thought she would not approve my request since she insisted that Archie and I attend the Second Baptist Church (pastored in those early years by the Rev Isaac S. Cole) every Sunday morning for both Sunday school and Church. Incidentally, she sent us to church without accompanying us. To my dismay, she gave her permission for me to go to church with James Fundenberg on Saturday. So, my mother’s “yes” was a surefire commitment for me to go to church on that life-changing Saturday many decades ago. James picked me up early Saturday morning. We walked several blocks from my home on North South Carolina Avenue to an apartment complex on Virginia Avenue where two extraordinary people lived. They would become an inextricable part of my life. We knocked on the door, and, for the first time, I met Lawrence and Gertrude Hudnall. Lawrence and Gertrude were wonderful Caucasian people who truly believed in God’s intervening power in their lives. They were gentle, kind, and missionary-minded. Gertrude was a meticulous housekeeper with an extraordinary cooking talent for making delicious soups and making unbelievably tasty vegetarian sandwiches on Sabbath afternoons. Her soups and sandwiches made a long-lasting impression on me that has been memorable throughout my life. She and her husband, Lawrence, greeted us at the door with joyous smiles and open arms. Then, they invited us in as they completed their preparations to attend Church. James made the introductions, and then Lawrence and Gertrude (a wonderful example of loco parentis) drove the eight miles to the Absecon Seventh-day Adventist (SDA) Church.
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The Church was small. The membership was more than ninety percent Caucasian. At the young ignorant and tender age of twelve, I picked up a book resting on a designated foyer table, and the bound edge of the book had the word White embossed in white on a red background. I mistakenly thought that White meant the book was for white people. I was not aware of the prolific writings of Ellen Gould White, and, at my impressionable age, I didn’t know that the name White on the bound edge was the name of the author. I do not remember the Pastor’s message that particular Sabbath morning, but I was intrigued by the conversation I had with Lawrence Hudnall after church service and during lunch at his apartment on Virginia Avenue. I asked lots of questions. One question was, “why do you and your wife worship on Saturdays rather than on Sundays?”
Lawrence and Gertrude Hudnall
We discussed how the Sabbath changed from the seventh day of the week to the first day of the week. Also, he talked about the history of Emperor Constantine’s Edict of Milan. At my young and impressionable age, He impressed me with his knowledge of scripture and history. I had not heard that kind of wisdom and knowledge from anyone at the Second Baptist Church. So, I asked Lawrence could I go back to his Church. The next Sabbath, James and I took another trip to the Hudnall’s apartment. This was the beginning of numerous trips to their home where I received interesting answers to lots of questions, and the opportunity to eat Gertrude’s culinary mastery of tasty vegetarian food. My mother consented to my church-attendance on Saturdays as long as I continued to attend Second Baptist Church on Sundays as well. I vaguely remember this dichotomy of worship experience from the fifth grade to my early years in junior high. 18
Eventually, I committed to attending only one church, and that church was the Absecon SDA Church. I was not a baptized member, but I continued to attend church with James Fundenberg and Joseph Jacobs. Joseph (Joe) Jacobs was my closest friend during my early years. He and his family (two siblings- a sister, Denise, and a brother, Michael; his mother and father) moved next door to our house in Atlantic City. They moved from New York City. I was so excited to share my newfound faith with Joe. He embraced the Sabbath, and Joe, Jimmy, and I were church partners with Lawrence and Gertrude in their capacity of spiritual loco parentis until we were freshmen in high school. After reaching high school, Joe and Jimmy stopped attending church. The Hudnalls moved to Pleasantville, and they asked us to attend the small Adventist church in Atlantic City. We were now on our own. Joe and Jimmy decided to discontinue attending church services even though the three of us were baptized in Philadelphia a couple of years before we separated from the Absecon church. Joe, Jimmy, and I spent at least three summers attending junior camp at the Alleghany Campground not far from Pottstown, Pennsylvania. Lawrence and Gertrude Hudnall would drive us to the campsite and make sure that we were comfortable. Archie, who flew away at an early age, went with us one summer. We spent two weeks with A. V. Pinkney and his team of religious counselors actively engaged in crafts, swimming, nature discussions, and other wonderful activities. After our stay at the Allegheny Campground, Lawrence and Gertrude would come to get us and returned us to our homes in Atlantic City, New Jersey. You can see from the picture that Archie and I must have had different fathers. He was taller and more handsome. However, you cannot tell from the photograph that I was more studious, and he could not read or write. Fortunately, we had the same loving and nurturing mother. Archie reflected the epitome of the Richardson genome, and I was a false replica of Richardson but a dead ringer for a Warrick. Frequently, I wished that I took the time to change my surname name to Warrick. The river of time flowed with such rapidity that I did not take the initiative to initiate a name change or even contemplate a timeline for making such a change. Many events transpired in my life associated with the rapidly flowing river of time. The acquisition of three degrees, marriage, children, and accessing the academic workforce resulted in the procrastination of a name change. So, the name Richardson stuck.
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Summer Camp (Pine Forge Academy in Pennsylvania) Archie Richardson, A.V. Pinckney left to right on the back row James Fundenburg, me, and Joe Jacobs left to right on the front row as children
Procrastination links inextricably to the passage of time. Many projects fall by the wayside because the river of time steals them. Their recovery is irreversible. Nevertheless, it is never too late to redesign, re-engineer, reconstruct, or recommit when you want to reinvent yourself. The surname that would have been more appropriate during my earthly sojourn is David Warrick, not David Richardson. “He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches; To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the hidden manna and will give him a white stone and in the stone, a new name is written, which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it (Revelation 2:17).� So, in heaven, I will receive a new name. Maybe a name reflective of my earthly life.
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