Knowing

by Rosalyn McMillan

  They would open their own real estate agency, and work together. Jackson cashed in his stock, and made arrangements to look at a prime building for an office in Bloomfield Hills. After talking over Ginger’s plan for her business with Little Bubba, he realized that she’d really come up with a novel idea.

  She’d told him about her dreams so long and so many times that he had them memorized backwards. By the end of the summer she planned to open her own real estate firm: Montgomery’s Real Estate & Service Corporation. But, unlike other real estate firms, hers would staff interior designers. Only one in the beginning — herself. More would be added at a later date. And she’d have carpenters, electricians, plumbers, drywallers, masons and painters on staff, as well.

  Her business would focus on the Palmer Woods, Indian Village, Rosedale Park, and University area, homes built around 1920 to the early 1950s, homes that would require lots of repair work.

  Ginger had told him how many times clients would ask for her opinion about redecorating their old homes and her ideas for updating them. So being an expert in the interior design and decorating business would allow her to help the buyer visualize how the home would look when remodeled, and motivate the buyer to purchase the property.

  And since most of her potential clients were two-income families, her business would provide the service of making household repairs the homeowners were unable to do themselves. They’d even come over and change light bulbs on some of the homes that boasted forty- and fifty-foot ceilings, which usually required scaffolding.

  Yes, it sounded like a winner — and he’d finally bought into it. Now he had to convince Ginger to include him in her dream.

  Ginger tossed and turned in the queen-size, iron-canopied bed. A soft breeze blew through the ecru chiffon drapes under an open window. The embers of the last fire of the season furled from a trace of air seeping down the chimney. Ginger had always wanted a fireplace in the bedroom. The irony was, now she had the fireplace, but didn’t have Jackson. How insignificant it all seemed when there was no one there to share it with.

  Unable to sleep, she threw back the fluffy comforter, let her toes sink into the plush silvery carpeting, and headed for the kitchen. Filling the kettle with fresh water and putting it on the burner, she placed the teacup in front of the toaster. As she waited for the water to boil, she heard the pelts of rain splashing against the windows, and looked outside at the mournful sky. She felt tired and drained, yet she’d been unable to get an ounce of sleep.

  Sitting at the small table, she sipped her tea, trying not to think of Jackson. Yet as hard as she tried to force his image from her mind, his hazel eyes seemed to taunt her everywhere she looked. Shaking her knee, she felt the tears slipping down her face. Looking up, she felt her body elevate, almost by itself. Calmly, she walked toward the cabinets, the tears flowing freer, as a small noise escaped her lips. Her body swerved, snatching, opening, pulling all the doors and drawers in the kitchen wide open. She fell to her knees as his name touched her lips: Jackson. . . .

  * * *

  The moonlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the canopied bed. As sleep finally came, Ginger snored lightly. Suddenly, her feet scrambled beneath her. She kicked the covers wildly, awaking, a light film of sweat coating her forehead. She reached out for him . . . and he wasn’t there. Staring at the pillow where his head should be, she fell face forward into the softness, pounding her fists along the plump sides.

  Her heart beat erratically as fear enveloped her. The fear of being alone, without him. Knowing she needed the love of God. But knowing she needed the love of Jackson, too. Knowing she missed all the things that nourished her love for him.

  Knowing that when she got into his car, the seat would be pulled all the way back. Knowing that his shoes would be sitting on the middle of the landing every day. Knowing that when she walked into their bedroom in the evenings, that the television set would be tuned to the Western station, and he’d be half-asleep with the remote in his hand. Knowing he’d be there to reach for her in the darkness. Knowing that she needed him pulling her close to him, until they fell asleep — as she wanted him to do now, as she needed him to do now.

  Yet Ginger knew in her heart that she had to face the truth: that though she loved Jackson desperately, she’d been unhappy during most of their marriage. And as much as it hurt, she had proven to herself that she could do it on her own, without him.

  Jackson flicked on the television set, and the room took on a soft gray glow as the black-and-white movie flashed before him. An old segment of Gunsmoke. Miss Kitty sat at the bar, nursing a drink. Her trademark black mole caught his eye as she swirled around the bar stool to face the man in her life, Matt Dillon. Jackson felt a smile down inside him as he remembered Ginger’s pet name, Miss Lilly.

  Occasionally, Jackson teased Ginger about how sexy he thought Miss Kitty was. Ginger, in turn, thought she’d put on her own wild Wild West show, emerging from the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of pink cowboy boots, stockings and garter belt, and . . . a holster hung low on her hips, with six-shooters balancing on each side. She’d fired the cap guns, blowing smoke into his eyes, interrupting his bang-bang, shoot-em-up Western. By the time the movie was over, he and Ginger had fired off a few shots of their own. God, he missed her. There was no one else like Ginger. There never would be again.

  Knowing this, he never wanted to be without her again. Knowing he’d hear the hoarse, deep tone of her voice every day, hollering and nagging. Knowing he’d find her Lipton tea bags drying in saucers all over the kitchen sink. Knowing she’d burn her cooking half the time. Knowing she’d smell like Shower to Shower powder when she climbed in bed every night. Knowing she’d press her buttocks firmly into his abdomen every night. Knowing she’d give him the core of her womanhood, when he’d awaken her in the middle of the night for a moment of passion. Knowing he needed her beside him now. Only God knew how much he loved her. How much he needed the generosity of her love.

  Shielding herself and Autumn from the downpour with a large umbrella as they ran into the church, Ginger smiled at the saints running in behind her. Brushing the silvery drops from their clothing, she and Autumn said thank you to the usher who handed them their Sunday pamphlet with the details of the morning’s service.

  Ginger was astounded at Robert Earl’s invitation to come and visit Hope Memorial Church of Christ this Easter Sunday. Jackson had called Robert Earl, asking a favor. He knew Ginger would come by invitation of Robert Earl and Mae Thelma more surely than if he asked himself.

  Ginger loved sitting near the front of the church. Autumn guided her mother to a vacant pew up there, near the stained-glass windows, scooting back in her seat to put a handful of mints in her mouth. They sat patiently, awaiting the beginning of the service.

  The pastor stood before the pulpit and spoke to the congregation: “We also want to bid Sister Mae Thelma Collins and Brother Robert Earl Collins Sr. and their boys a farewell. They’re leaving this week. Moving back to their hometown of Guntown, Mississippi. Anybody ever heard of Guntown, Mississippi?

  “We ask the saints to pray for their safe trip over the highway. We also want to congratulate Brother Robert Earl and his wife on their new blessings. Sister Mae Thelma is with child.” A resounding cheer from the congregation caused Ginger to turn and view the happy couple. But she missed Jackson, who was sitting in the last pew.

  Mae Thelma had donned a shimmering white triangle, draped loosely over her head. She wore a modest, white, midcalf-length dress. She’d promised Robert Earl she’d convert to the Moslem faith if he’d grant her a final wish and go to her old church with the family before they left for home. He agreed.

  Before the pastor stood before the pulpit, he was already wiping the sweat from his forehead. It was neither hot nor warm. Ginger knew he was fired up for a “Glory Hallelujah” sermon.

  “I’d like for you to open up your Bibles to Matthew 27:32. My text to you this afternoon will be on ‘The Commitment to the
Christian Journey.’ ” Sweat trickled down his forehead. He started rocking back on his heels, feeling the rhythm.

  “And as they came out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name: him they compelled to bear his cross. ‘The Commitment to the Christian Journey.’

  “The commitment I make is between me and my God. The commitment you make is between you and your God. So I can’t look at you and presume to know what you are going through, what you should be doing, or where you should be doing it, or who you should be doing it with. Mind your own business.

  “All I can do is what God told me to do. If I do what I am supposed to do, it is guaranteed to help. Mind your own business.

  “Where God put me or what He tells me to do, or how He chooses to use me, it’s not your business. So mind your own business.”

  Ginger looked around at the other members of the congregation, who were all doing exactly the same thing, looking around at each other. But no one said a word.

  “What God speaks in my ear is between me and God! Where I am led is between me and God. You can’t look at me and decide for me what I should be doing. I can’t look at you and decide for you what you should be doing.

  “You don’t know the load you are compelled to carry. We don’t know the decisions you have to make. We don’t know the sacrifices you have been required to make. We don’t know what you’ve been through, who you’ve talked to, or who you have seen. We must continually remind ourselves who you are working for and who you are serving.

  “Simon was doing what he had been compelled to do on his journey. Simon in doing what he was compelled, so doing he teaches us something. So what if I have to come behind you. So what if you have to follow me. So what if you seem to walk lightly with empty hands while my steps are heavy and my hands are full. So what if we are called to do the dirty work. So what if nobody calls our names.

  “How much more difficult could it be for us than it was for Simon? How much more could we suffer than Jesus suffered? We must keep things in perspective. Jesus was doing what He had been led to do.

  “He wasn’t just doing a job. He wasn’t just out for reward or recognition. He wasn’t looking for pay or promotion. He was honoring a commitment. He was about to die on the Cross!”

  Ginger felt a pain, as if her heart had been seared. Even Autumn was still, absorbed in the pastor’s sermon. Somehow she knew that he was saying some truths that she needed to hear. She leaned forward on the edge of the pew, concentrating on his every word.

  “What do you really know about the Cross? To you, the Cross is a piece of jewelry, a trinket to put on a key chain, an ornament to put somewhere on a wall, a piece of wood that reminds you of Good Friday.

  “To you, it’s a hard way to go, it’s difficulty in your life, some deficiency, some handicap, some thorn in your flesh, some person you have to put up with, some hardship you must face. This is the cross you know. But do you know what Jesus meant when He said, ‘Pick up your cross’? He is talking about shouldering your weight, accepting your share of responsibility, carrying your load, bearing your burden, without grumbling, questioning, or complaining.

  “Notice that there is no dialogue between Jesus and Simon. Notice that there was no reply from Simon when compelled to stop what he was doing and carry that Cross. Simon said nothing. He just did it!”

  Pastor Washington lifted the folds of his robe, shouting, “Glory! Glory!” The men and women rejoiced, shouting amens. He shook his head from left to right, his face downcast. “Y’all don’t know what I’m talking about.” The organist backed up the commemorable colloquy with a subtle accompaniment.

  A woman stood, clutching her Bible to her bosom. “Glory. Glory be to God.” Pastor Washington felt that he was getting through. He continued:

  “We need more of the ‘Just do it’ attitude in the church and in the world. Call a meeting, just do it. Cook the food, just do it. Sing in the choir, just do it. Pray in public, just do it. Be on time for worship, just do it. Tithing, just do it. Shut your mouth, just do it.

  “Jesus said pick up your cross. Bear your own cross. He’s talking to you. Others see the cross and step over it and keep on going. But you, Christian, you have got to pick it up and bear it. Have you ever handled the cross? Some of us are just now reaching out to touch it. Some of us have been stooped over for years, trying to get a grip on it; we can’t straighten up. For some of us, it slips right through our hands. It becomes so heavy that we drop it.

  “When it comes time to pick up the cross, sometimes our knees buckle, our determination grows weak, and commitment wavers. The cross is never easy to pick up even with the crowd standing by, and to make the lonely journey to Calvary with it, bearing down on us may be more than we can handle.

  “This is where your Simon enters. I must help you. You must help me. I cannot see you struggling and not stop to help. You cannot see me in distress and not offer to at least dry my tears.

  “Simon followed Jesus carrying the Cross. On our journey to commitment, follow Jesus. You may not know where you will end up, but follow Jesus. You may not feel like it, but follow Jesus. You may not be prepared for it, but follow Jesus. The call may come while you’re doing something that you want to do, but just have faith and follow Jesus!”

  Ginger stood, clapping her hands, tears of exaltation slipping down her face. More than half the church audience were on their feet, applauding the sermon. The power of God ricocheted through them and back into the pastor, fueling him to carry on.

  “You may wonder why the word compelled is used. Simon was ‘forced’ into helping Jesus. He was not recruited. He did not campaign for the position. He was not appointed or sent. He was forced. The Roman soldiers compelled Simon to follow Jesus. Paul used the same word when he wrote in II Corinthians 5:14, ‘For the love of Christ constrains me.’ Constrains means to compel.

  “We, too, are compelled because of the love of Jesus. The Christian journey is a walk of love. We don’t do it because we want to, we do it because we love God. And that love compels us. It forces us to do right, to love right, to live right, to act right. To make us love our enemies. The love of Christ makes us commit to the imperative to pick up our cross and follow Jesus.”

  “Yes Lord,” said Ginger, joining in on the chorus of the congregation. Cries of “Amen” and “Thank you Jesus” flowed on the tongues of the parishioners. Each soul stood, eagerly testifying to the power of God filling them.

  “Sometimes the Cross will get in our way. Sometimes we want to party, but there’s the Cross. Sometimes we want to drink and smoke, but there’s the Cross. Sometimes we want to get even, but there’s the Cross.

  “When we talk about Christian commitment, we are talking about Cross-bearing. Not just any cross, but the Cross of Jesus. When I survey the wondrous Cross on which the Prince of Glory died, my richest gain I count but loss, and pour contempt on all my pride.

  “Simon carried the Cross for Jesus, then somebody took it from Simon. Somebody will help you carry your cross. God’s got a Simon standing in the way. There’s Simon’s grace: ‘My grace is sufficient for you.’ There’s Simon’s mercy: ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.’ There’s Simon’s truth: ‘And the truth shall set you free.’

  “When we make a commitment, we can’t look back. Whatever you commit your hand to do, do it with all your might, all your heart, all your soul.

  “If it’s to sing, sing ’til the angels get happy. If it’s to pray, pray ’til deliverance comes. If it’s to shout, shout the harvest over. If it’s to preach, preach them to heaven. Whatever you start out to do, give it all you got.”

  “Please Lord, help me.” Eyes closed, head bent, Ginger prayed with all her might that the good Lord was listening. “I feel, Lord, that I’m imprisoned with golden shackles — I’m not able to give birth to the things in life that I feel are important to my survival. I’m chained to Jackson’s promises. Chained to the delusions of his selfish love. Free me, Lord, so that I can
soar and fly. Free me of the golden shackles that have entrapped me.”

  “Keep on going. Take the Cross. There’s joy in the Lord. There’s power in His blood. There’s glory in the Cross,” Pastor Washington continued.

  “When I am weak, He makes me strong. When I am down, He lifts me up. When I am suffering, He gives me a song.

  “I’ll bear it, yes I will. I’m going to take it; I’m going to preach it; I’m going to tell it; I’m going to sing it; I’m going to shout it.

  “Yes I will cling to the old rugged Cross, and exchange it someday for a crown. Amen!”

  Drenched, soaked in sweat, the Reverend Washington uplifted his arms to a standing ovation. An exaltation of the spirit. A cleansing of the soul. Shameless tears streamed down the faces of men as well as their wives. They shouted amens and praised the pastor’s volcanic sermon. This Easter Sunday, Jesus was surely present in the hearts and minds of those who loved him.

  As the service neared a close, Ginger heard the pastor giving the final prayer, blessing the souls in the church and those who were sick at home, unable to attend. Ginger said a special prayer for Ri-Va, then mouthed to herself the prayer she loved: “Thou art coming to a King; large petitions with thee bring, for his grace and powers are such, none can ever ask too much.”

  Love and forgiveness. If you don’t have those two qualities within you, you’re missing something, Ginger observed silently. As she watched Mae Thelma and Robert Earl gather their boys and head out of the church, she could see the love they both had for each other. Mae Thelma’s face lit up as her husband placed his arm around her shoulder.

  The rain had relented outside. And, as if on cue, the sun made its debut, streaming the radiant colors of the rainbow through the windows. A brilliant yellow butterfly with iridescent blues and greens coating its wings fluttered against the clear pane. Autumn tugged at Ginger’s elbow. “Mommy, did you see Daddy?”