This is an real event. Exaggerated, but real.
Sweaty, big-boned, women with false hair and fans yelled “Hallelujah!” after the scripture reading. Grown men with tired, grimace lines hoot when the spirit was high in the level ceiling. The same ceiling that never echoed a sound, so that you’d have to be there under it, to hear what everyone had to say. A voice in the crowd would start the stanza to an old hymn as few other members sang along, others hummed. Moments later, a mediocre drummer, a seasoned organist, a lucky-to-catch-the-beat bass player, and a random tambourine shaker joined in. Before we all knew it, we were dancing to the beat of our own hearts; soul dancing even. Hot with the fire shut up in their bones, weekly sinners ran for the Lord. On the floor was an occasional man, woman, or child screaming thanks onto the Lord. Tongues, a language only you spoke to God, were shouted sparingly throughout the church pews. With all the excitement, it took a few minutes to slow them down. Yes, I knew very well were I was. I knew exactly where I was; a holiness church.
After leaving a fallen church, where the pastor’s son had stolen money and mistreated veteran members, my family and I were without a church home. We looked for churches in the area where we lived. It was hard, not only because we had lost trust in the person who pastured over us since I was a small child, but also because my mother was subconsciously looking for the same thing we had left. Personally, I had a hard time coping. I danced with a group of girls who were like sisters since I was able to stand, made relationships with people who were all like God parents, and I learned how to use my voice from people who were like, no, were family. I had to let them all go; we all went our separate ways. I think that’s why we took so long. My family did'n’t like to stay out of church too long, on account that we did'n’t want to backslide.
She called a few old members to see where they had settled. The look on my mothers face was hard to describe. A mixture of distress, and fear, for we had'n’t been members of a church for about seven months then. We just visited a lot of different ones. I recall one church I really liked. Everyone I knew went there. There was an awesome youth ministry and the pastor was nice and familiar. My mother pulled her nose fairly far in the air at that church. We were out within two months.
I, “a born to relax” type of teen, became bored with the slow-paced Sundays. One of the perks of not attending church was I got to sleep in. I loved to hold on to the pillows that smelled like my hair products and felt worn. I thoroughly enjoyed curling up against my squeaky mattress while forgetting every care I owned. “Wake up Miss Nae! Get ready for church!” Part of me was a bit relieved, the other parts were as shocked as a blind man finding out he had more than one father. I knew my paradise was short lived; I sucked it up, owned up, and finally woke up. I finished up my humanly functions, got dressed, picked up my Bible and purse, then headed for the door. We drove for a while towards a place I did'n’t recognize. We stopped in front of a small building with a tin roof, gravel for a parking lot, and a sprinkle of cars around.
As we parked, it all set in; we were coming here not because the car decided to stall, but because it was a church. When we walked in, it was much to my surprise that we didn’t receive a program. See, it is custom that we pick up an outline of the service beforehand, just so we know what’s coming up. I learned a little later that we were on God’s time, so there was no time limit to anything. Finally we all sat together on one pew. The congregation eyed us and some of them whispered. I felt a bit uncomfortable, but I thought I ought to give it a try.
I immediately noticed how small the church count was. I guessed about 25 people. Whew, family reunions were bigger than that. Ironically, it was just like a family reunion. I saw that 7 or 8 of the members had similar features. There was another set to the back, and one to the right. All together I calculated about 4 families amongst the church, including ours. You know how it’s like when you’re secretly trying to tell a secret about a person to another friend of yours and that friend ends up being that person’s cousin? Well that’s exactly the same thing. Here, you would have to be as holy as possible not to gossip. Word got around way too quickly. I took a deep breath and stole my gaze away from their faces for a bit. I saw a skinny, knuckled hand reach out to me. “Want a peppermint?” I refused her gesture and turned to sit erect. Before the service had ended, I had gotten at least four candy offers. I checked my breath, just in case I was physically offending anyone. More bizarre was what was going on with my other senses. The smell was a unique musk. A combination of, of course perspiration, perfume, sweet sugar, cologne, and hairspray, went through me, but not enough to make me vomit. I could stand it, but I swore I saw the paint begin to peel from the walls.
After alter prayer and a quick scripture reading, they had testimony service. Testimonies are for when you want to tell others of how God has blessed you through a point of time. Because you do this, you will be doing your Christian duty; telling others about God. During this time I heard everything from, “God helped me pay my light bill!” to “The Lord saved my Satanist son!” My sister whispered to me that she noticed that the whole church got quiet at this time. We did'n’t want to say what we were thinking, so we wrote it down. I got a scribble in a small piece of paper, a receipt, if I remember correctly. It read,” Girl, this church is full of gossip. I bet they save a lot on phone bills because they be tellin all they business in front of the church.” I held in the snicker on the end of my uvula. Everyone who stood up had a very strong yet proper, southern twang in their voices. That was a plus considering I was going to label them hicks for the mere volume of their voices. I shook the judgment form my head.
Before and after every testimony there was a song. There was one beat. It was a distinct, steady beat. They used that beat for five songs. It was sort of like a DJ super techno remix on a Saturday night in Club Red Warthog. The same excitement broke out around the church again. An endless amount of time after hearing the talk of old, young, ugly, and everyone in between, the chorus got up to sing. Two of the four families got up from the pews and walked up to the stands up top. The organist got a very serious look on her face. Sort of the face you make when you smell old, fuming, fried fish that you made a few weeks before and just found at the back of your ice box. The drummer, a laid back teenager, who seemed to be related to the rest of the church, caught the beat to the humming of the rickety organ. There was sudden harmony amongst the chorus. The sound was a beautiful tone, like the feeling of cold, sweet, creamy, thick-but-thin, coffee running down your throat. The altos brought the fist set of oohs, the tenors backed them up, the sopranos not far after. For the first time at this church, I felt relaxed, basking in what seemed like the Baptist church I grew up in. “Gratefulness” is the song they sung. I paid close attention to the words; they hit close to home. I was grateful for my family, my friends, my life; I was very fortunate. Before I knew it, all the people in the church were bawling and fanning themselves and others. The soloist did'n’t even hold up, she was holding her back and jumping in place. I learned later, that the spirit was there, and had touched them all.
The preacher came next. He was a tall man, with brown eyes; blue and green rings of ages circled his iris. His voice was slow, deep, and a little rusty; like a retired smoker turned blues singer. He had a leather-like, droopy type of skin. I saw him immediately as a mentor. Someone with experience, wisdom, and always knew what to say. His voice boomed, “Hit it Sugar!” along with a scripture. Sugar was his wife. She was a cute lady, though she didn’t look as old as him. Her voice was loud and had a raspy-aged sound to it, so she didn’t need the microphone. When she finished the reading, she smiled and her husband said, “Thank you Sugar!” He began to preach, and I was into it. Telling stories of his life that perfectly related to the topic of the sermon, he had all of our attention.
On God time, we were there for about a few minutes. On my time we were there for at least 4 hours. I figured I had a lot to learn. We gave offering right after the preacher ended his sermon. Let me point out that traditionally you give your 10 percent of profit to the church as tithes once a month. The rest of it went to offerings. There is always an accounting room they count the money in after they collect the money. To my surprise, they counted the money RIGHT IN FRONT of the congregation. Then after they finished counting, they shouted, “Could you reach deep into your pockets for 160 more dollars? That’s all we need is 160 more dollars, please!” They never waited for anyone to get up; they simply walked around to each pew to collect. I was embarrassed for them, though the other members hadn’t showed any jolt.
The Announcements were next. A short lady with braids and a multicolored dress came up with a big spiral. She announced the upcoming weekly happenings, birthdays, and then finally, she called for visitors. My sister, my mother, and I stood up. Acting as if they hadn’t known we were there from the start of service. We said our names, and then took our seats again. “We’re glad to have you here. Once you come three times, we claim you!” She said it with a jolly laugh. I laughed to, but because I knew I never wanted to come back. Benediction finally came. As I dashed for the door, there was a wall of hands hugging me, rubbing my hair, and ladies kissing and pinching my cheeks. I smiled, still inching for the door. When my family and I were well out of their holy reach, I asked my mother why. I wanted to know why she took me there, and why we stayed. She told me simply in an even voice, “I wanted you to see that every church isn’t established, and I hoped to create an opportunity to build up God’s kingdom. The reason we left the other church is because they had everything they needed to complete the Christian mission. These people do not, and I want to help them out.” I cringed out of rebelliousness.
We continued to go to that church, I still go there now. It taught me to praise, and trust God through the rough times, as well as the happy time; to love my neighbor, even when he doesn’t love me and to judge not, for it’s not my place to do so. I learned so much, from a place that didn’t have much. What they had before I arrived, the only thing that counted, was love. A love for what's right, family, and the human race. Also seems that love is like morphine; to take the pain, most of us endure, away.
