The voice on the phone was barely coherent; the background noise, loud and confusing. Was she on a bus? If so, that would explain the noise, for the Jamaican roads can be atrocious. Amidst the din and the crying I could make out three words, repeated over and over – “Daddy get shot! Daddy get shot!” It was Sherine. On her way to the Operating Theatre at the Kingston Public Hospital, (KPH) she’d managed to squeak out that frantic call. It was Thursday, April 7th.
“Oh my God,” I thought to myself, “it was happening all over again.” As fast as I got to know the men from West Kingston they’d be gone – shot, wounded, imprisoned, or dead. Long Head was dead, so were Dangles, Curry Cat, and Happy. Even the taxi driver who’d eaten with us that night … he was dead too. How could anybody live like this? But Mr. Charlie wasn’t dead, he’d only been shot. Where? I didn’t know. How many times? I didn’t know. By whom? I didn’t know – but within an hour or two I would.
Instantly I’d called a friend in Denham Town. “Andrean,” I said, “Sherine’s dad has just been shot. I need you to find her and stand beside her; she’s on her way to the Operating Theatre.”
Silence.
“Are you afraid?” I asked.
“No, Brother Mould, I’ll go.”
I should have thought it through. She’d probably been silent initially because like me she didn’t have the details. Had the shooting been the result of gang warfare, she could have been exposing herself to danger. Things had become so bad at KPH, the police had actually opened a sub-station right there. In the bad old days it wasn’t uncommon for vengeance to be taken against wounded patients right there in the hospital. I know of one case where the patient, evidently with help, somehow managed to make his escape over the 10 – 12 foot high perimeter wall, gunshot wound and all.
KPH was replete with terrifying stories – those that I’d heard having come back to me in an instant. I doubted Mr. Charlie’s shooting was gang-related though, he’d struck me as such a peaceful man. Oozing calm, his voice actually conjured up images of Christ to me. In fact, a couple months ago when I told him how much he sounded like a Christian, he’d actually confessed: “I used to be.” Under the barrage of gunshots that killed 78 persons from the community in 2010, he told me he’d prayed like he’d never prayed before. With bodies still on the streets, soldiers had actually come in to his restaurant and put a man who was still alive inside his freezer. Why? To threaten, intimidate, or frighten the poor guy – God only knew. Eventually they’d let him out, but what happened after that?
Needless to say I prayed for Mr. Charlie even while making those telephone calls to Andrean, Sherine and our former worker, Tamara Gordon. About an hour into the drama I’d hear from Sherine again. This time the reception was crystal clear. She was standing outside the Operating Theatre and could actually see her father. “Brother Mould,” she said, “he’s got lots of doctors and nurses around him. One nurse told me they’re doing everything they can.” She sounded so relieved.
Calling Andrean again I’d discover that because she was not a family member, she couldn’t go inside with Sherine. So there they were, Andrean and a few church members, on the sidewalk, praying, waiting. Fortunately Andrean’s boyfriend worked at the hospital and had made his way to the Operating Theatre; there he’d wait beside Sherine for the news.
Mr. Charlie, Sherine and her mom.
Little by little the story had emerged. Sherine’s father had been in a betting shop right there in Denham Town (earlier versions had it as a bar in Tivoli Gardens) when gunmen broke in looking for someone else. The intended victim, who was there, tried using Mr. Charlie as a shield, but to no avail; the masked gunmen having sprayed the place with bullets. That’s life in Denham Town, I suppose. With the former don in custody in the U.S, things had deteriorated to the point where old loyalties were apparently gone. Nobody was safe. How many from these communities had been shot in just such a manner over the years, I wondered, victims of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? And what did it say for me? Would I be safe when I returned to do my mission work there? Would walking the streets and ministering in homes be the pleasure it once was?
All these thoughts rushed across my mind as the evening unfolded. Betting shops I was familiar with, but not this one. As for Denham Town’s bars? I’d been inside bars at least twice in that community, guest of men who’d wanted to show their appreciation for our mission work. To the question: “come buy me a beer, nuh pastor?” I’d invariably respond: “I can’t use the Lord’s money to buy you alcohol, but we can drink a Malta.” Unafraid, I’d gone inside those bars determined to come as close as I could to these men. How did Paul put it? “And unto the Jews I became as a Jew, that I might gain the Jews; to them that are under the law, as under the law, that I might gain them that are under the law; To them that are without law, as without law, (being not without law to God, but under the law to Christ,) that I might gain them that are without law. To the weak became I as weak, that I might gain the weak: I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some.” 1 Corinthians 9:20 – 22.
While the vigil inside that hospital continued, I’d have time to reflect on my two previous conversations with Mr. Charlie. He had such a love for his daughter, the only Christian in his home. “Brother Mould,” he’d said, “can’t you call her from time to time just to encourage her? She’s hated in this home you know. Because she won’t do what the others are doing, she’s hated.” You certainly couldn’t tell from the outside. I remembered the first time I’d ever seen their home. Sherine had been so proud of her mother, father, little bedroom and father’s restaurant. She was just a sweetheart, her sweet spirit wafting like fragrant incense across the pain and darkness of those crime filled streets. (If you take the time, you can actually see her sweet smile for yourself on our accompanying video.)
Oh, how Satan works. That home had now been transformed into a place of terrible turmoil, nobody quite knowing what would happen to Mr. Charlie. If there had been one bright spark to Sherine’s life, it had been Mr. Charlie. He was determined to see his little girl go to college. Was this what drove him to that betting shop? I don’t know. I do know things had become extremely tough on them since the infamous shooting that took those 78 lives back in May, 2010, many of his customers having fled the area.
A couple months ago I’d promised to help him, but explained that it had to wait until I’d taken care of some of my own basic needs back in Florida. “Once the Lord allows me to bring these under control,” I said, “I’ll help you.” Barely two weeks before the shooting I’d told Sherine to tell him to renew his passport, that I was determined to find sponsors for a trip for them both. Last year I’d tried to get Sherine and one other church member (her mentor, Brother Leo) to the General Conference Session in Atlanta, but had failed. If Sherine and her Dad couldn’t come to the U.S., then I’d get them to one of the West Indian islands that didn’t require visas. It would be the most tangible way I could devise for letting them know how special they were to me.
None of this would happen, however, for Mr. Charlie died in that Operating Theatre that evening. The doctors said he’d been quite strong, having hung on for a much longer period than they’d expected. Fortunately he’d even been able to speak before he died. Oh, that comforted me. If Jesus could save the thief on the cross, then couldn’t He save Mr. Charlie? Might not Mr. Charlie have made his peace with God during those two hours when he was still conscious? While struggling to breathe, he’d spoken to his wife and his five year old son Chad, but had lost an enormous amount of blood – at least, that’s the way the doctors explained it to Sherine and Andrean’s boyfriend outside that Theatre.
Needless to say Sherine was distraught. Her main support on earth was now gone. If there was a silver lining to this heartache, however, it was this: Andrean had risen to the occasion by texting several members of the Regent Street Seventh-day Adventist Church, the church to which they belonged. Leaving that hospital with a fainting Sherine in their arms, they took turns supporting her during the almost one mile walk to the church. News spread. En route people gathered, staring, knowing full well that Mr. Charlie had been one of the victims of that shooting and that the weeping, barely ambulatory young woman being propped up by her friends was his daughter.
At the church, I’m told, they held a truly memorable impromptu service, the outpouring of the members having been something to behold. According to Andrean, the transformation that occurred in Sherine in the few hours after her father’s shooting had been utterly amazing. From initial fright, despair, doubt (yes, she did question her God) and anger, she’d evolved to strength and control. Evidently in the singing of those songs, the reading of God’s word and the fellowship of the saints who’d come out in support, the Lord Himself had drawn near.
Mr. Charlie was buried on Sunday, April 24th, 2011. Though I purchased a ticket that would have taken me into Montego Bay that morning, I ended up canceling when the car we thought we’d rented was given to another person. Because it was the Easter week-end, there was simply nothing else available. Even with Knutsford Express (the bus line from Montego Bay to Kingston) there was no way I’d get to that church before 6:00 p.m. Disappointed? Of course. I wanted so much to honor Mr. Charlie. All is not lost, however, for I’m going to ask you to do something special for Sherine. Be a mother, father, brother or sister to her. Help with her educational needs. She’s been admitted to Northern Caribbean University but lacks the roughly $12,000 (US) per year it will cost. I don’t know who’s reading this, but if you’ve been touched by the story, feel free to communicate directly with her at:
You can send your gifts directly to her via Western Union. You’ll only need to send gifts via our ministry if you need a tax-deductible receipt. Who knows, maybe Mr. Charlie’s death was the sacrifice required for his little girl to go on to college. God still works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.
P.S. All three men shot inside that betting shop have now succumbed to their wounds. One of the killers was himself killed by police on Sunday April 10th. Evidently the security forces are looking for the accomplices. I wouldn’t like to be in their shoes.
