Delvin looked beyond their immediate conversation and thought back on that day he wanted to give Murphy a lesson in keeping his trap shut. He remembered, too, how it had backfired on him. “It’s not something I need.”
“It will be. Good piece of advice. Go ahead, get one for yourself. It’ll do you a world of good.”
“What do you want, specifically?”
“Think about it. Surprise me.”
With the round-about explanation he’d been given, Delvin thought about putting on his list the first junk toy that came to mind. Then he took a second for more intelligent thought. That thought told him not to make Stinson an enemy. That man was his free-flowing water line, and he wanted to keep the bill paid.
Stinson barged in on his thoughts and said, “Got a bit of advice for you, Storm.”
“What’s that?”
“Bitterness clouds your thinking. All the more reason why you need to start paying attention to your surroundings. You don’t need your thinking clouded.”
Delvin felt him trying to dig below his surface; he wasn’t having it, so he felt a change of subjects was in order. “Hey, what was with the corn scraps?”
Stinson rose up from the table, causing a screeching noise that echoed through the room. It startled both Murphy and Saks, who seemed impatient from the wait. As he walked away from the little huddle, he told Delvin to, “Keep your eyes open. You’ll see.”
Chapter 6
Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Exodus 20:8
Job stuck to the bed early Sunday morning, yearning to stay right there. He tried not to think about the day and what it represented.
“In all things, you gotta have faith,” Monica told him the day that the Louisville Real Estate Commission put the proverbial chains on his company door. “This came out exactly like it’s supposed to. It’s the way God planned.”
“Faith didn’t help, Monica,” he told her. His countenance fell under the soil when God didn’t do His job. Then what was the purpose for attending church?
He wanted Monica to understand that he believed there was a God, but that life’s situations needed more than a prayer or a fasting. He wanted to hold fast to the belief that God helps those who help themselves.
Her words did little to convince Job that the Lord was always around, moving for the betterment of his life. Since college graduation, his credo had been one of self-reliance, but he would give anything to garner the faith that Monica spoke of. According to her, his lifelong existence could be one continuous, indefinable dilemma if he didn’t go with her to church on that morning.
Monica had risen out of bed and taken over the master bath.
He grabbed his overnight toiletry bag and a towel and went to the full bath on the second floor.
Thirty minutes later, they retreated to the master closet, dressed, and convened in the foyer.
He studied her from the cobalt blue, wide-brimmed hat down to her stilettos. To Job, she made Macy’s Couture look good.
He wasn’t in the suit mood, but felt that he needed to make a positive impression since this was their first time going somewhere with a new neighbor to a new environment, a new church. He chose one of his favorites—a Jones New York, navy and white shirt, gold silk tie, black platypus Stacy Adam’s.
Job heard a car horn.
Monica said, “It’s Fontella and her husband in the drive.” She grabbed her purse and headed out the door while taking a glance at her watch. “Wow, like clockwork. Nine twenty-five. We haven’t had time to get to the truck.”
“In this sun, who wants the time?” He locked the door, and they walked off the porch.
Fontella suggested that Job and Monica ride with them instead of following, especially on their first time attending the church. Her husband, Larry, welcomed the Wrights to Phoenix and the neighborhood. He apologized for not making their acquaintance earlier. “Pharmaceutical sales keep me busy, away from the house during the week. I’m glad my wife saw to it that you were welcomed properly.”
Although Larry was at the driver’s seat, Job estimated him to be every bit of six-foot-seven. It was more than a coincidence that the Logan’s family car was a Navigator. Larry appeared to be navigating from the back seat.
“Monica, Fontella tells me that you have a position at Nine Iron Golf,” Larry said.
“I begin in about three weeks,” Monica replied.
“I’m sure I’ll see you there sometime. I have a membership.”
Job resented the fact Larry felt comfortable enough to bring up topics revolving around luxuries his present salary couldn’t afford. Can we talk about something else? His petition was answered.
Fontella asked Monica, “What does the Lord Jesus Christ mean in your life?”
Monica looked over at her with a whitewashed stare. “Huh?”
Fontella’s eyes sparkled as she let out a small giggle. “It’s the question that our pastor has made a part of the witnessing ministry. It’s the question of our church culture.”
“Oh. That’s interesting and different,” Monica responded.
“So? What does He mean in your life?” She focused in on Monica, seeming to wait for an answer.
“I think God has me and Job on a journey. It’s not an easy one. I just pray and trust in Him. I guess that it’s all we can do,” Monica said.
Fontella shouted, “Aw girl, testify!” The women slapped a high five.
Fontella interrogated Job within moments of Monica’s answer, and all eyes were on him. Larry’s face filled the rear view with Fontella twisting in from the front passenger seat. Monica was at his side. There was nowhere to turn, run, walk, or drive away.
“W—well, you know. J-Jesus has showed me some things. God’s all right with me. I love Him,” Job stammered out. He was thankful as the next ten minutes whisked away. That was the length of time he heard silence—before arriving at the church.
Chapel In The Desert emerged from a strip mall abandoned during a five-year urban renewal that took place in the mid ’90s. The congregation was blessed to have expanded down three blocks on Sun Valley Parkway at Grand Avenue in a suburb of Phoenix called Surprise.
“I guess now you see why we have to be on time for service,” Fontella said.
Parking was a phenomenal task as cars congregated like a swarm onto the parking lot. People rushed from their vehicles to the entrances labeled Faith, Hope, and Charity.
In the vestibule, columns of pink Italian marble shaped in Corinthian style lined the hall and towered well above fifty feet overhead. Human-sized floral arrangements of Yucca, Matilija Poppy, and Beavertail Cacti were along the walls with Bird of Paradise trees in an intricate pattern on the floor. Glass encased posters offered picturesque details of the various church ministries. A scrolling message board announced activities and provided scriptures defining why people should worship. Men and women with brisk handshakes and broad smiles were greeting, making sincere attempts not to miss a single person.
Job looked around at the people and their manner of dress. The wardrobe styles—tees and jeans, pant suits and sandals, casual linen pastels—had him exchanging glances with Monica. He could feel her saying to him You know? We could’ve worn what we had on yesterday and been more in keeping with the people here.
Monica whispered to Fontella, “You should have told me that the attire is more casual.”
Fontella responded, “Girl, we don’t pay attention to what you have on.” She patted Monica on the hand. “You’re fine.”
As they were ushered to seats, Job navigated his eyes forward to the pulpit. A small group of musicians had assembled themselves on an elevated part of the stage that held a physical set-up equaled to that of Frankie Beverly and Maze. They settled in and tuned and cranked up an assortment of songs as mega screens projected lyrics.
He heard shouting behind him and looked. Young people had filled the aisles waving banners and flags. The congregation joined in singing, “We have come into this h
ouse, gathered in His name to worship Him ...”
“This is just too much to take in at one time,” Job bellowed out in hopes that the Logans would believe he was well-versed in good-ole conservative Baptist tradition. He laughed to himself in embarrassment; back in Louisville, he rarely attended church, other than on Christmas, Easter, and Mother’s Day. Any other Sunday while Monica was at church, he would be found at home, catching an old movie or a football game.
A quartet of singers, two men and two women, came to the stage in front of the pulpit. They each grabbed a mic and led the congregation in singing one tune after another. Job sang along as best he could, even though most of the songs were unfamiliar. He made out pretty well on one by Donnie McClurkin and another by Dallas Holm.
Forty minutes had gone by. Job leaned in and whispered to Larry, “When is the offering?” He figured that if the preacher called for the money, then the sermon and benediction would soon follow.
Larry told him tithes and offerings were place in wooden boxes stationed in the vestibule as they exited. “We don’t take up offerings during worship service.”
Job laughed, hoping not to draw attention. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, putting emphasis on each word.
“No. That’s really how we do it. Pastor Harris says that Christians need to embrace a level of trust. If someone robs a church offering basket, they rob God, and the wrath will be more than they can bear.”
“Yeah, but you don’t dangle the carrot. You’re asking for trouble.”
“This body of believers is blessed,” Larry said. “We’ve never had a single incident of mishandling or theft.”
Job shook his head in disbelief. He had been used to deacons taking up the offering, whisking it to the back office where one counted and another two or three watched. After church, under heavy guard, the money would be taken to the night depository. Monday morning, it was double-checked to see that it had been handled properly and received by a bank officer, who issued a stamped receipt. A set of watchdogs. A back-up to the back-up.
A middle-aged man, about five-foot-nine with graying hair, beard and mustache, came onto the stage. By Job’s sight, either the man was void of a single blemish on his café noir skin, or the pixels on the mega screens perfected him into Ebony Fashion Fair status.
“Good morning, saints, worshippers, and friends,” the man proclaimed.
Job and Monica exchanged glances. He reached over, clasped her hand and whispered, “This is a trip, ain’t it honey? No reading of the scripture. No singing of “Amazing Grace” before the preacher gets up. Makes you wonder, huh?”
“What?” Monica asked with a hint of aggravation in her voice.
“If it’s a cult the Logan’s are trying to get us into.”
Monica backed away from his lips, licked the poison on hers, and stared him down as though she cared less if anyone heard what she was about to say. “I never thought Louisville had a monopoly on how church services were supposed to be carried out. Now be quiet.”
He did just that.
Pastor Harris made a few announcements regarding ministries within the church that had gatherings scheduled for that week. He instructed those with birthdays and wedding anniversaries in the remainder of July to stand, and then had visitors to stand.
Job and Monica were of one mind at that moment. They refused to rise despite Fontella’s coaxing. Job looked out over the part of the congregation he could see, amused that the church found praise in such simple gestures as welcoming what they labeled, “the potential membership.”
Pastor Harris clapped his hands and the sound system helped him send a deafening reverberation through the sanctuary. “Now,” he shouted, “let’s get some Word into our systems.”
Those words had not left his mouth good before the entire room went up into an unprecedented cry, unlike any Job had ever heard. Not at a concert. Not at a ball game.
Pastor Harris cupped the thumbnail mic on his headset. “C’mon, saints. We can get excited over everything else.” He began a strut that, in steady rhythm, evolved into a high-stepping march. “We go crazy over things that can’t help us, things that don’t matter. Then let’s get excited about the Lord and what He’s done. C’mon, c’mon!”
The congregation’s response didn’t seem to get louder, but thickened, broadened. The musicians added to the fury with chords and cymbal crashes.
“Be seated, if you can,” Pastor Harris said. The congregation began to mellow and a scriptural text was given.
“I want to speak to each of you today about breaking new ground. All of us live in what we call the desert, barren ground. Phoenix and Scottsdale are physical places where we reside, our domicile,” he paused, ironing the side of his slacks, “but I’m now talking about where our spirits live.”
The congregation was prompted to turn their Bibles to Ezekiel, thirty-sixth chapter. Pastor Harris began reading from the ninth verse. “‘For behold, I am for you, and I will turn unto you, and ye shall be tilled and sown.’ You see saints, the Lord used this prophet to talk directly to us. He’s saying that God is with us. No matter what the trial. No matter the circumstance. He—I’m talking about the Lord,” he paused for the sporadic Amens to wane, “is allowing us to be turned or plowed under and for new ground to show. Amen?”
Job heard shouts and affirmations from different directions.
“Then,” he bobbed his hand up and down,
“God wants us to know that He’ll plant us. This means we have the Master placing us in good ground, with good seed. C’mon, somebody.”
“Say it, Pastor,” was one of many expressions from the congregation.
“Then ... well, look at verse eleven near the last part of the verse,” he commanded. “‘And I will settle you after your old estates, and will do better unto you than at your beginnings.’ Stop,” he shouted.
The reading ceased for a moment, but the praise started all over again.
“Hey now, let me finish,” he commanded.
“This means that what you had in the beginning, is nothing compared to what God is about to bless you with now; heah!”
Job consumed himself in a thought. If this man said “boo”, would they shout off that? He pitched his eyes toward Monica, believing he could get an are-you-thinking-what-I’m-thinking glance from her. Instead, she had her hands raised, eyes closed and her head bobbling like she was disjointed at the neck.
Pastor Harris bellowed, “God, thank you. Thank you for your provisions. Thank you for your caring. I know you will do better for me now than at my beginnings!” He whipped a finger out to the congregation. “That’s the Word for today my people. Be blessed. ’Cause, when you’ve said all you know—”
“It’s time to go!” the congregation chorused.
As if on cue, the musicians broke into a postlude while Pastor Harris exited.
The congregation praised and disbursed. Larry reached for an offering envelope as Fontella rose from her seat and moved to hug Monica.
Job sat in amazement. “It’s over?”
Fontella stopped hugging, leaned against a seat in the row in front of them. “What were you expecting?”
Job creased his forehead. “Well, a longer sermon than that.”
Fontella chuckled in a way that didn’t make Job feel brainless, but embarrassed. “You heard songs of praise, testimonies, prayers, scripture text, a sermon. You need something more?”
“Well, I—”
“It doesn’t take all day for the Holy Ghost to do His work,” Fontella interjected with a smile.
Job looked at Monica, who had one eyebrow higher than the other. He was losing the battle in the Holy Ghost discussion, and she appeared to be waiting to see what came out of his mouth next. She’s no help at all. “We should get something to eat,” he said.
Larry insisted that he and Fontella take them out for Sunday brunch. He asked what they had a taste for. They had no preference.
He chose the Sheraton Crescent Hotel on W. D
unlap, telling the Wrights that it was known for their eggs Benedict, their Southwestern omelets, and the best Arnold Palmers in town. It was a twenty minute drive there from the church.
Their orders were taken and they were well into the meal when Fontella asked, between bites of a Belgian waffle, “Well? What do you think of Chapel in the Desert?”
Job, hoping that Monica would explain for both of them, glued his mouth shut with a forkful of Southwestern omelet.
“Oh my goodness. What can I say? The service was wonderful, and I’m glad you invited us,” Monica said.
“Our worship experiences are always unique, always blessed. I hope that the approach of our church service doesn’t hinder you from wanting to come back.”
Job did an internal snicker, thinking back on how different the service was from what he had always known. It was unique all right. To tell you the truth, it was strange. “If the church service is always that short—”
“They are,” Larry cut in.
Job sighed. “Then, we’ll definitely be back.” He could tolerate anything for that short amount of time. He would attend, for Monica’s sake.
Fontella asked, “Did you get what you needed ?”
Nosy. Job was beginning to believe that she was as fond of digging into people’s business as that stubby little Isabel they met when unloading the moving van. He figured Fontella’s curiosity must’ve been in remission that day. But now, it had come out of hibernation. “Get what I needed?”
“To me, church isn’t about the shouting, although, I guess, some people need that release. Or that’s just how they praise.” Fontella took her fingertip and circled the top of her glass. “For me, church is where I come every week with a question. That question is an actual need.”
“Every person should take that approach. I know I got what I needed. This move has been a little stressful, but today’s worship service made this last week worth it,” Monica said.
Larry’s eyes had been ping-ponging from one person to another with an intent look. He said, “It is good to see another married couple in the neighborhood. And possibly, coming to our church.”
Living Right on Wrong Street Page 6