Friday
6:30 pm—Sunday School Teachers’ Meeting
8 pm—Bible Class
Saturday
12 Noon—Church Cleaning (on rotation)
7 pm—Young People’s Service
We were at church every day of the week, save Monday. Paw-paw was the Sunday school Assistant Superintendent and one of the church deacons. Erma Lee was a deaconess, taught Sunday school, sang in the choir, was on the Missionary Board, and served on the Baptism Committee. Because they were so involved, we were at church for all meetings in addition to regular services.
The Daniels attended a Pentecostal church, and the difference between it and the Church of the Nazarene that I was accustomed to was like night and day. It was impossible to sit through a praise and worship service and not be moved. There were no hymnals. Sometimes, there were no musicians. But the piano and drums were no match for spoons and a washboard, and for rhythm nothing beat the sound of Sunday-go-to-meetin’ shoes on a hardwood floor. The way they sang, moaned, and clapped their hands was like nothing I’d seen or heard, but I liked it; I felt at home in it.
Then they’d take turns telling what God had done for them even though what He’d done wasn’t what most would consider newsworthy. The simple fact that they’d woken up that morning and had the ability to open their mouths and say Thank you was enough to bring the house down. Services were interactive, animated, and driven by call and response. As usual, I wondered if my White family knew anything about this kind of church, but many years later while visiting my Aunt Jean, I was pleasantly surprised by a story she told me.
As we chatted, Aunt Jean got up, disappeared into the back room and returned with a box. “I found these, and I think you should have them,” she said. She handed me three certificates from the box. The parchment paper had long since yellowed, and the pink and yellow floral decorations were faded. “These were your mother’s,” she said. “They’re from Vacation Bible School.” A little surprised at seeing the name of the church, I asked, “You guys grew up in a Pentecostal church?” My aunt, the oldest of the three girls, my mother being the youngest, laughed and said, “Oh yeah, let me tell you about that.”
We went to the Baptist church. This particular summer, the three of us walked down to the church for VBS like we did every summer. When we arrived, your mother kept walking, and she marched herself right down to the Pentecostal church at the end of the block. Betty and I ran back home to tell Mama that Sue had gone down to the Pentecostal church. Mama leaned out the door and looked down that way, and then she gave a dismissive wave and said, “Let her go.” So from then on, Betty and I went to the Baptist church, and your mother went to the Pentecostal church.
“How old was she?” I asked.
“Five.”
Pentecostals love church. Although I enjoyed church, once or twice a week would’ve been plenty. However, there were some things I enjoyed immensely. Because Erma Lee was a deaconess, she was in charge of preparing the Lord’s Supper as well as the bottles of holy oil that were given to the church members at watch service. The oil was prepared at home.
She would purchase a case of three-ounce glass medicine bottles with screw-on caps from Steve’s Pharmacy and several large bottles of olive oil. Before preparation could begin, the TV was turned off and the phone removed from the cradle. Initially, I could only observe, but by the time I was 10 and had been baptized, I became her official assistant. We washed our hands and prayed. Then we laid the bottles out on a new linen cloth. Erma Lee would pray over the large bottles of oil before beginning the process of filling the small bottles. Because it was imperative that none of the oil spilled, only she filled the bottles; I capped them and placed them back in the case. If anything fell on the floor, it was discarded. There was no idle chatter. On many occasions, Erma Lee’s cheeks were wet with tears from start to finish.
Later at the church, after foot washing and Communion, the small bottles of blessed oil were given to the members for their personal use. Although I assisted with the oil, Erma Lee would not let me assist with any part of the Communion. But I watched as she gathered the leftover Elements from the serving trays. The bread was placed on paper towels and the wine was poured over it. The towels were then rolled into a ball and left to dry in the church kitchen. The following week, Erma Lee would burn the Elements and cast any ashes into the wind. Communion was administered usually three times a year: New Year’s Eve, Easter, & Pentecost Sunday. The oil was distributed only at the New Year’s Eve watch service. I still have my original bottle that Erma Lee and I filled.
Just last year while visiting Aunt Betty, she said, as we struck out to do some Saturday morning running around, “It’s my month to set up Communion, so let’s swing by the church and get it ready for tomorrow.” So there I was at a small roadside church in Possum Grape, Arkansas, helping Aunt Betty prepare the Communion trays. I wanted to look toward heaven and shout to Erma Lee, “Look at me, Mama!”
When we weren’t at church, Erma Lee would often hold mini services at home. We children would act as both congregants and participants. She had an old reel-to-reel she used to record these services. She’d pick one of us to give the opening prayer, another to read a scripture, another to give a testimony about something wonderful God had done, and another to sing a solo. She herself would always sing her favorite song, Jesus [Build] a Fence All Around Me Every Day.
During one of these home services, her grandson Snoopy, around three years old at the time, stood up and sang “Jungle Boogie” by Kool & the Gang. She let him sing uninterrupted and afterwards used the song as the basis for her sermon. Speaking into the handheld microphone attached to the recorder, she said, “We thank God for all the wonderful words that have gone forth this e’ening. Brother Snoopy blessed us with the song Get Down, Get Down. What does that tell us, chilluns? It tells us we must Get Down for Jesus.”
As we grew older, Erma Lee fell out of the practice of having home services. But when the foster children grew up and had children of their own, she resumed it. I have a cassette tape of one of these home services dated November 3, 1989, on which Erma Lee introduces “…my granddaughter who will render for us a solo.” The next voice is that of my eight-year-old Nicole singing, I Might as Well Think Big.
Erma Lee was devout, and she expected that same devotion from us. But for all of her austerity, she was surprisingly tolerant, and she had good cause to be. She was a firecracker, short-tempered, and not one for holding her tongue. She was tolerant because she herself sought God’s tolerance and forgiveness.
And there was another side to Erma Lee, much deeper than her feisty character. She had a past, but unlike many, she wasn’t ashamed of it. Actually, it was one of the first stories she told me about herself when I had asked her why we had to go to church so much.
“Don’t you like going to church?” She asked.
“Not all the time.”
“Have you give your life to the Lord?”
I didn’t even know what that meant. What I knew about God I’d learned at the Church of the Nazarene where I’d gone with Aunt Katie.
Every Sunday when Pastor Walworth would give his sermon, I would sit transfixed, not by anything he said, but by the two massive and colorful stained-glass windows behind the pulpit. The one on the left was of Jesus kneeling before a huge stone in the Garden of Gethsemane. The one on the right was of Jesus and a few lambs, one of which He held close to His bosom. This was the God I knew. He’s the One I talked to, and even though He didn’t talk back, I knew that He listened and that He liked me, but I’d never heard of people giving their lives to Him. “You gotta confess the Lord with your mouth, be baptized, and ask God to fill you with the Holy Ghost,” she said. I’m sure salvation was discussed at the Church of the Nazarene, but I have very little, if any, knowledge of what was said over the pulpit. I have one prevailing legacy with the Church of the Nazarene, and it has nothing to do with salvation.
In the late 60s, it was common for very young children
to wear short dresses. I was wearing such a dress when I decided to go up and kneel at the altar at the end of the sermon, which was a common practice. However, somewhere between Aunt Katie’s house and the church, I’d apparently lost my underwear. I knelt, and the church fell into an uproar. Aunt Katie came and snatched me from the altar and dragged me from the church amongst giggles and stares.
Once we were outside, she grabbed both of my shoulders and said, “Where the hell are your underpants?” Well, it was news to me that I wasn’t wearing any. It wasn’t something a four-year-old child would concern herself with. While Aunt Katie ranted, Uncle Rosco went to pull the car around, and Becca, their middle daughter, who was 10, was laughing herself silly.
By the time we made it back to Aunt Katie’s, she was obsessed with finding the missing underpants, which she never did. When my mother arrived, Aunt Katie told her, “I can never again be seen at the church.”
“Why not?” My mother asked.
After a long draw on her cigarette, she said, “Nancy showed her ass; now I can’t show my face.”
To this day when I get together with Katie’s kids, and when the reminiscing begins, this story unfolds anew. Kneeling bare assed at the altar is something I will never live down. It’s my sole contribution to the First Church of the Nazarene on East 5th Street.
Now Erma Lee was telling me that I needed to give my life to the Lord. I was both confused and fascinated. “Let me show you something,” she said, and then she lifted her blouse.
She ran her hand along two deep, dark surgical scars that ran just below her right breast. “That’s where they took my liver out. I got a little piece still left in there. You know what sir-roaches[6] is?” I shook my head. “It’s a disease that come on people who drinks too much liquor, and I drank liquor like most people drink water.”
They had to go in twice, and they took my gall bladder and some of my liver, and they weren’t sure if I would live. Every time they sont[7] me home, I was right back. Off and on for six months, I got worse and worse. The last couple months I was in the hospital straight. They had tubes to pull that bile off me and tubes to feed me. I was down to 87 pounds.
Round that time, a missionary from the church came to see me in the hospital. Said she wanted to pray for me. I let her pray. Then she came back the next day and had two, three more with her. I said, “Oh no… Y’all tryin’ to get me roped into somethin’!”
“No such a thing, Sister Erma. We just wanna pray for God’s healing.”
I was so mean to those women, but they kept comin’ back.
Finally, the doctors said they had done all they could do for me and that it was best for me to go home and spend what time I had left with my family. They pulled all the tubes out of me and sont me home.
I laid in the bed day in and day out. Everything I ate, I threw it up. I couldn’t even keep my medicine down. Then low and behold, here come the missionaries to the house. I rolled my eyes, ain’t even wanna talk to them. “Don’t be like that, Sister Erma. We just wanna help you.” I told them, “If y’all wanna help me, then bring me some lightnin’.” They kept comin’ and kept prayin’.
Then something started happenin’. My appetite come back. I was able to keep my food down; I started puttin’ on weight. The strength come back in my legs. Before long I was able to get up and walk around the house.
Those missionaries come back through and said, “Sister Erma, God done raised you up; you ought to come on down to the church house.” Hmph! I told them I wasn’t stud’n what they was talkin’ about. I was back on my feet and had some catchin’ up to do. I don’t care how ugly I acted toward them, they had always been sweet to me, but not that day.
That missionary looked at me and said, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! God done delivered you from death’s door, and the least you could do is take your hateful self down to the church house and give Him some thanks.” My goodness! That hurt me so bad. I apologized and told them I’d be in church come Sunday mornin’. But before Sunday mornin’ came, there was Saturday night.
I got myself together and went on down to the joint, and I drank until the sun come up the next day. But I was bound and determined to make it to the church house because I’d give the woman my word. I went in there stinkin’ like cigarette smoke and sat all the way in the back. I buried my chin in my chest, and while those folks was shountin’ and dancin’ I was gettin’ some of the best sleep I ever had.
I woke up just as the preacher was givin’ the altar call. He said, “If you’re tired of livin’ in sin, won’t you come?” I thought, this is the perfect time for me to make my exit. I got up to walk out, but somehow I got turned around and ended up walkin’ to the altar. The preacher looked at me and said, “Sister?” And before I knew it, I said, “I wants to be saved.” He smiled and told the missionaries, “Y’all get her before she changes her mind.” They took and baptized me, and God filled me with the Holy Ghost. I ain’t seen the bottom of a liquor bottle since.
I went back to see my doctor. I was so fat and pretty, and when I walked in he looked at me like he’d seen a ghost. I told him, “God healed me.” That’s been years ago, and here I am today.
I was extremely fascinated by this story. The idea that God actually interacted with people, that He did stuff seemed miraculous to me. Without hesitation, and knowing that it was possible, I sought that interaction. When I talked to God, I began expecting an answer. I would lie awake at night and talk to Him. I would steal away to quiet places and listen for His voice. I looked for signs of Him in everything, the trees, the wind, the clouds and thunder. I looked for Him in the ants that crawled on the sidewalk and in the chalk I used to play hopscotch.
I lived in a state of anticipation believing that each day was the day God would show Himself to me, but my prayers were met with silence. In fact, I’d felt closer to God when I hadn’t expected anything from Him. Now that I sought Him, it seemed He was hiding, as if my searching had driven Him away. “If you wanna hear from God, read your Bible,” Erma Lee said. “That’s how He talks to us.”
“But if He talks to me personally, how will I know?”
“If He talks to you personally, you won’t need to ask.”
I would have to wait 13 years to find out that she was right.
Meanwhile, life with the Daniels continued with very little variation: school, home, church, and the occasional funeral or wedding. Completely comfortable in my new life, I grew into a typical teen. I made the cheerleading team, but Erma Lee wasn’t pleased with the short uniform, so I had to quit. I tried my hand at tennis but lost interest when I discovered I had to chase the ball. Then I decided to try my hand at something else. I was, after all, 14 and in high school. I called one of my friends to tell her the news.
“No you didn’t,” she said in disbelief.
“Yes I did.”
“Did it feel good?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
“Then you didn’t do it right. Everybody knows that doin’ it feels good. If it didn’t feel good, then you didn’t do it right. You’re still the same old you; nothing’s changed.”
But something had changed, and nine months later it showed up weighing 8 pounds, 11 ounces.
Chapter 13
One fear consumed me: What’ll happen when Erma Lee finds out? My best friend Leila wasn’t convinced that I was pregnant. “Just because you missed your period doesn’t mean anything,” she said. I was 14 and she was 16, so I expected her to know what to do. “We’ll have to go to Planned Parenthood,” she said, “so meet me by the cafeteria tomorrow.”
“Does it cost anything?”
“No, but you’ll need some pee.”
“How am I supposed to bring pee?”
“Just find something that has a lid and pee in it.”
Erma Lee had a spice rack in the kitchen. After examining the bottles, I reached for the fenugreek. It was a spice she never used and wouldn�
�t miss. I poured the tiny, brown seeds down the sink and rinsed out the bottle.
The following day, we left school and walked downtown, but Planned Parenthood was closed. The next day we tried again.
“Did you bring pee?”
“Yep,” and I pulled the fenugreek bottle from my pocket. Leila stopped cold. “Is that the same pee from yesterday?”
I didn’t answer, but the look on my face said it all. “Damn it! You can’t go in there with day-old pee. We may as well forget it now.” Novices both, it hadn’t occurred to either of us that I could just pee when I got there.
For the next two months, Leila and I kept our secret. But one Sunday afternoon, we locked ourselves in the ladies’ room at church to mull over my predicament and discuss what our next move should be. Unbeknownst to us, one of the church members was listening outside the door.
At home later that day, Erma Lee called me into the kitchen to help with dinner. But instead of asking me to peel or chop something, she asked, “When’s your last period?”
I thought about lying, but it was my chance to finally come clean. “February.”
“Have you fooled around with a boy?”
“Yes, but only once.”
“When?”
“March.”
“I guess we need to get you to a doctor then.”
And just like that, it was over. The yelling I’d anticipated never happened. Later, I’d heard Erma Lee tell someone on the phone, “Sister Henderson heard the girls talking in the restroom, and she told the pastor; he called and told me.”
The next day at school, I told Leila that Erma Lee knew.
“How’d she find out?”
“Sister Henderson was eaves dropping outside the bathroom door yesterday.”
Leila’s eyes narrowed the way they did when she was plotting. “That’s all right; I got somethin’ for her,” she said.
The following Sunday at church, Leila told me to meet her out front once the morning service was in full swing. I followed her half way down the block to where Sister Henderson’s car was parked. “You stand there and tell me if anyone comes,” so I turned around and kept an eye on the church. Shortly I heard the unmistakable hiss of escaping air. After she finished with one tire, she started on another.
The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir Page 9