by Fantasia
Praisin’ God with song is the main reason for bein’ in the Holiness Church in the first place. Holiness is the only way I know how to be. When someone feels the presence of the Holy Spirit, they need to let it out! Sometimes, the spirit makes us run up the aisles of the church; sometimes it makes us sit still and cry; sometimes it makes us faint. I have fainted. But most of the time it just makes me do my dance, the BoBo.
People who have never experienced Holiness often ask me, “What is it like?” I get that question a lot. Holiness is not somethin’ that I can easily describe, but because I’m tellin’ it all, I’ll try my best.
When I walk into the church, I’m always moved by the sense of order in the room. Church is the only place that people seem to act like they have some respect. Everyone is always dressed neatly and modestly. The walls of the sanctuary are starch white, like new Easter clothes. The mahogany pews are always polished in anticipation of the high emotions that will fly around them, wetting them with sweat and tears. The same wooden cross that was part of that first basement church is hangin’ right there at the pulpit. It’s draped with the same purple velvet that Grandma saw in her vision. The pulpit is small, with six white upholstered chairs arranged in a semicircle where the ministers sit. The choir sings below the pulpit when they are called. The church has an impressive sound system and features a bandstand, which shows that music is a part of my family’s ministry and is a part of every aspect of our family’s life.
Once I sit down, I carry on—shoutin’, praisin’, and doing my BoBo. I always carry on that way when I’m in church. It’s the only place that I feel free enough to let myself loose. The wood pews are a comfort to me when I fall in exhaustion at the power of the spirit in the church.
During the praise and worship service, people who are feeling somethin’ come up and speak about what had happened to them during the last week. They discuss a health problem that has been resolved or a new diagnosis that has scared them and talk about how they are afraid that they’re goin’ to die. They mention family members who are in trouble, sick, or who have died. Most importantly, they speak about what God had done for their life in the last seven days. They talk about the ways that God has healed and solved a problem and had strengthened them to handle whatever it was.
At that point, I always cry. Everyone in the congregation, including me, listens and agrees with the power of God. Hearing these stories relieves my stress and everyone else’s. It makes me feel that I’m not alone in my struggles. It makes me feel the need to say something out loud. Some say, exuberantly, “Yes, God!” or “Praise the Lord!” I say in agreement, “Yes, He did!”
Within several minutes, after the opening songs have been sung and the visitors have been welcomed, the feeling in the air escalates and everyone is thinkin’ about how God has helped them or healed them. Everyone in the room is thinkin’ of their own miracles that God has performed. My mother used to tell me that she would always think about me and how God had shown me and our whole family favor, despite the mistakes that we have made.
Looking around the sanctuary and seeing women and children cryin’ and grown men runnin’ up and down the aisles of the church as if they were runnin’ for their life—or runnin’ from their demons—always moves me. It shows me how fragile we all are. Graying women put down their crutches and jump up and down as though they were exercising. Women sitting next to me begin to shake and quake. I would see them tumbling to the ground. Beads of sweat drench everybody’s foreheads. A woman in a white nursing uniform once pushed me aside to comfort a fallen woman, while I yearned for the breeze of the white blanket to be fanned over my wet head, too.
People scream and shout around me. There are clusters of people behind me repeating: “Yes, Lord, yes, Lord, yes, Lord…” as though they are under a spell. Another chorus from the front is chanting, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord.” A younger woman two rows ahead of me is repeating “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” The musicians in the front of the pulpit are playing a tune that is hyper and jubilant, yet everyone is cryin’ and fallin’ down. I hear unintelligible phrases coming out of my own mouth—that is me speaking directly to God, but others call it “speaking in tongues.”
People are losing their balance all around me. Some are humbled and on their knees. Others are sitting in their seats upright and calm. A young girl is waving her arms like she will fly away. I feel myself going in and out of consciousness. I stand up with new energy and find myself running in place, with my shoulders hunched and my arms in the running position. My fists are balled up as if I’m beginning to box. I have a smile on my face that is blinding. I am doing the BoBo.
The minister, my grandma Addie, comes to the center of the pulpit with the comforting clouds that she had painted above her as an imaginary “Heaven above.” She is calm and serene and says these simple words, “The Holy Ghost is in the house! Amen.” And she waits until the Spirit takes its time and tames itself.
That is how it is in a Holiness church.
This is the place where the BoBo lives.
Whenever I go to church, I think hard about what God has done for my life and how he continues to appear in my life, like a daily miracle. I think about the dreams and visions where He came to me and told me the things that I needed to hear. I think about how I got into theIdol audition when it wasn’t even possible. I think about Zion and how she turned my “bad” act into a blessing. I think about my mother and how she has stood by me through everything. I think about how blessed I am to have her. I cry every time I think about my cousins, Kima and Kadijah, who don’t have their mother, Aunt Rayda, anymore, because she was murdered. I think about my father and how he built my career by leading all of us kids to music. I think about the small, lopsided three-bedroom house at 511 Montlieu Avenue with all its memories of music, family, friends, and hunger…and how far we all have come. I think about all the places I have been to around the world. I think about how amazing it is that my singing got me out of High Point and out into the world. I think about the anointing I have with my voice and how powerful it is for others.
Thinkin’ about all these things, I start to feel full. I feel full of pain and joy all at once. I feel regret for those who don’t know about God’s love. I feel proud that I do know His love firsthand. I think that there is evidence of Him everywhere. These thoughts and feelings come up like a wave. It’s unexpected and I feel more tears coming. I feel my mouth twisting up to hide the wail inside my soul. These thoughts cause me to shake with excitement and gratitude. I think of my amazement at all the blessings that have come to me, a girl who was undeserving so many times, but God continued to give me chances time and time again. I feel a tightness in my body. I feel like I’m going to burst with joy and gratitude. These feelings cause me to rise out of my seat. I start to shake myself away from earthly concerns and worries. Standing in the church, my mind travels to a private place and I feel like I’m no longer there.
What brings me back to the church is the young people who seem bored and uninterested in church. Many young people who I have met and even some of my old friends seem ashamed to show off their faith in God, which has always been so natural to me that I can’t really understand them. They seem embarrassed to flaunt their relationship with God. Most young people would much rather talk about their relationship with a man or a woman. Most people would rather flaunt their new clothes or their new bling-bling. I always wonder why God is not worthy of praise and acknowledgment? Why are young people ashamed to show their faith? Take it from me—faith is really all you have.
Through lots of patience, God has shown me how to use my precious gift of music. It was a difficult journey just to find the gift that God had already placed inside of me. He has done the same for you—he has given you an extraordinary gift. You just have to have faith and he will lead you to it.
MY MOMENT OF
FAITH:WHAT I LEARNED
For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be
much required.
LUKE12:48
Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing.
PSALMS100:1–2
I believe that there is a God, the man who wakes up every morning and puts breath in our bodies. He is the creator and He is an awesome and mighty God. He can do anything. He is an on-time God. He may not come when you want Him, but He will be there.
I like to go to the ocean and see the miracles that God has created. It reminds me of His power. He can do anything, like pulling me up from where I came, taking me through what I have been through, and bringing me to this point—the point where I prayed to be my whole life.
I have been praising God since I was five years old. I continue to thank Him and bless Him every day. I could have given up long ago. God has a hand upon my life. God has put me here for a reason. Maybe He has put me here to share what it means to recognize the gifts that God has given you and hold on to them with everything you have. God’s gifts are real.
Music has been in my life and in my mind and in my body from the very beginning. It is and continues to be my most sacred form of expression. By acknowledging that music was my gift, I was able to lean on it and rely on it when there was nothing else.
Everybody gives God praise in his or her own way. Find your BoBo! In whichever way you want to thank God, you can, but just be sure you do it.
2.You
Made Your Bed,
NowLie in It
Looking for your giftcan be painful. It’s a journey that requires that you go through things. I must have been looking for my gift for years. Even though people were constantly praising me about my voice, I wasn’t listening. I was searching for my gift but didn’t know it was as simple as it being my singing voice. I was like a dog chasing her tail. I knew it was there, but I couldn’t hold it in my hands.
So I made some mistakes in order to find my gift and find myself. They were big mistakes because I was sittin’ in High Point with nothin’ to do, no money, no plans for the future, no role models of people who had left High Point, and only the “borin’ ” reminder that God and church were always the only thing to do for the rest of my life. Like most twelve and thirteen-year-olds, I was restless, and going to church four days a week was wearin’ thin. By now, my brothers had left home and left the singing group and I was lonely in every way.
My heart was empty and seeking somethin’ to do. I cried a lot because I could feel God’s spirit pulling me toward Him and boredom pulling me toward trouble.Trouble won.
It was a feeling too overwhelming to describe. The confusion of curiosity and possible danger mixed with God’s pull on me made me weepy and sad. The heat of being frisky and “grown” just took over me and made me feel like cryin’ even more. Although I had been anointed when I was five, I didn’t realize that my anointing was God’s special gift. I took it for granted. As I got more curious about the world, God’s grip was loosened and His mysterious ways started to kick in. And little by little I could feel myself beginning to change—and not for the better.
Let me go back a little. When I was a child, I was always so skinny and I had big lips. People teased me about it all the time. I used to go home to my mother and cry and tell her that everyone thought I was ugly. It’s lonely when you feel like you’re not good enough. When I got a bit older, I started imitating the girls I admired. I wanted to be like the girls who had it “goin’ on”—the ones with fingernails, makeup, and cell phones. The girls who got their hair done. I thought that if I was like them, I would be happy. Happiness was my gift, I thought.
So, after years of growing up in the church, I went astray. I left the church with the idea that I was going to fit in with all the other girls, the girls who were not in church but seemingly having all the fun. I was going to fit into the world.
By the time I reached the eighth grade and was going to T. Wingate Andrews High School, “sex, sex, sex” was all everyone was talking about at the lunchroom table every day. All the girls were talking about how fun it was and howgood it was. I didn’t have anything to say about it because I wasn’t “doin’ it.” I wasn’t even thinking about how sex would feel or what it would do for me. I started dating the pastor’s son, who I’ll call B. He was sixteen years old and I was fourteen. B. tried to convince me to have sex with him. He talked and I listened. All I was thinking was that if I didn’t have sex with the preacher’s son, he would find someone else who would be willing and he would leave me behind. Finally, he convinced me. I didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’. At best, I was “tryin’ to have sex.”
After we had done it, I was disappointed. It wasn’t anything like I had hoped. I thought sex would make me see fireworks and make my temperature go up. I thought it would change everything for me. And, I guess it did. Sex didn’t feel good at all. It just felt like loneliness. The next day I sat down at lunch and said to my girlfriends, “It was not all you said it was. It isn’tall that. ” I think my main disappointment was that B. really didn’t care anything about me. But I didn’t say that to them. I figured I just needed more practice.
I thought that I was in love. B. had taught meeverything I knew about sex, even how to French kiss. He was two years older than me and more experienced, so I thought he held the world in his hands. I was head over heels in love with him. I thought he couldn’t be bad: he was the preacher’s son.
After a while, I started to feel more independent and rebellious, like I didn’t want to hear anyone’s opinions or thoughts about my life. I didn’t want to hear from my mama about what I was wearin’. I didn’t want to hear from my daddy about what time to come home. I didn’t want to hear from anybody about how I was doin’ in school. The only person I wanted to hear from was B. Anything he said was OK. I wasgone over this guy. I used to follow him around. I was always calling him and going to the mall, where he and his friends were hangin’ out. I would show up just so that he could see me and be reminded that I was there. He never went looking for where I was unless we had planned it. And then he would be late or not show up at all. That should have been a sign to me that our love was one-sided.
I was so busy chasing B. around, I was messin’ up in school. Going to school became inconvenient for the chase. There were too many rules. I felt like an independent woman in the way I was dressing and in my actions. The people at my school just thought I was a bad kid. The boys at school didn’t think of me as a woman—they thought of me as a “ho.”
I hated having to be in school and hated having to be at class at a certain time. I hated the teachers and I hated not being able to spend all my time with my boyfriend. I thought that I was grown up and that I didn’t need any of this anymore. I felt this even stronger now that I was “in love.” I was frisky at the time, too. As the older women from church used to say, “I was smellin’ myself,” kind of like a female dog in heat. My body was hot all the time. I wanted to wear little clothes and get attention from boys. I remember one skirt that I made where I cut the hem so high up that you could see everything that I should have been keeping sacred.
B. and I continued to see each other every opportunity we had and slowly my thoughts on sex changed from disappointment toneed. I would sneak out every opportunity I got to be with him. I skipped school regularly so we could be together. The misunderstanding at that time was that I thought we were in love with each other and he thought that I was easy.
The next misunderstanding I had to deal with changed me forever. I was raped. I want to share this with you because if I can save one of you from having to go through this, like I did, this story is worth sharing. Girls, I know so many of you have had the same thing happen to you, which makes me so mad, sad, and worried for my daughter, Zion. But as long as I’m telling it all, I may as well be as open and honest as I can be. I don’t want to leave nothin’ out.
One day a popular guy in school gave me more attention than I wanted. I was seeing B., but there was always someone new
to flirt with and he was one of the guys I always wanted to notice me. It made me feel good to get attention from the guys. When I was wearing something short, I would make a point to go up to this one particular guy and wave, or brush against him by accident, or drop something in front of him. Finally, he noticed me. He raped me in the auditorium after school. I can barely recall the details. I just know that I shudder to think of how that single act changed me in a way that I didn’t need to be changed. I remember pulling myself together and going down to the girls’ locker room and hiding. I was thinking to myself that I was goin’ crazy. I could hear my own voice saying, “It’s your own fault. You was friskin’ around.” I was shaking like a leaf behind a wall of lockers hiding my face and speaking into my tear-drenched hands. I hid in the locker room until everyone had left the gym and the school. When I finally walked the long road up Montlieu Avenue, I went straight to bed. I didn’t get out of my bed for two days. When my mother asked me why I wouldn’t go to school, I said simply, “I’m not going.” I was too paralyzed to even wash the rape off of me. I feltfilthy.