Stand by Me (22 page)

“
Mm
, hadn't thought about that. Pastor Cobbs would be the sole pastor.”

The voices lowered but still carried. “Well, we can't let that happen. Nothing against Pastor Cobbs, you understand. I like him well enough. But we need more white people in leadership so things don't, you know, get too far off.”

“Too black, you mean.”

“Exactly—Oh, we better go. Service is about to start.” The outer door was pulled open, the voices faded, and the door slowly wheezed shut.

Avis felt as if her blood had stopped moving. Her mind reeled.

There was no way she could get up front and lead worship this morning! Not after hearing two of her white “sisters” worry about the church becoming “too black.”

Chapter 20

W
iggling her fingers and grinning good-bye at the cute two-year-old in Josh Baxter's arms, Kat scurried after her friends into the second-to-back row, which had become their usual “pew.” Livie and Bree preferred sitting in back where they didn't feel in the spotlight, but the very last row was reserved for parents with babies and toddlers. Kat would've preferred sitting closer to the front, but at least from the back rows she was able to see who all was there without turning around and staring.

But today her mind was on their brief conversation with Josh Baxter and his wife, Edesa. So
she
was his wife. An interracial marriage. So cool. She'd been surprised at Edesa's Spanish accent though. Kat had assumed she was African-American—glowing warm skin, a head full of tiny black braids caught back with a brightly woven headband, and that megawatt smile. But obviously not.
Wonder where she's from?

Wait
. Didn't Ms. Vargas say she knew someone here at SouledOut named Edesa? It must be her!

The praise team was still tuning up. Kat leaned across Nick and whispered, “So what do you guys think? About Josh and his wife inviting us to come to the cookout with the teen group at the beach tomorrow. It's Memorial Day. No classes.”

Livie groaned. “Yeah, but I still got a ton of homework before Tuesday.”

“We all do, Livie. But it'd be a good chance to get to know some of the kids. And it'd be fun!”

“I'm not ready to sign on to help with the youth group,” Brygitta whispered. “We've only been coming here a month.”

“Hey, can we talk about it later?” Nick cut in. “It's time for the service to start.”

Kat settled back in her chair. The clock on the wall already said 9:35, but the praise team seemed to be waiting for something. The man at the keyboard—at least midthirties, light brown hair combed over a bald spot, wearing glasses and an open-necked dress shirt—stepped over to Pastor Clark sitting in the front row and whispered something. Both of them glanced toward the double doors on the far side of the room. Were they waiting for the worship leader? No one was up at the main mike. Or maybe they were waiting for Pastor Cobb. Kat hadn't seen him yet this morning, or his wife. They usually sat on the front row with Pastor Clark, regardless of who was preaching.

Then she saw Mr. Douglass leave his seat and slip out through the double doors on the far side that led to the kitchen, office, and classrooms. A few moments later he came back and conferred with Pastor Clark and the keyboard guy. That's when Kat realized Mrs. Douglass wasn't in her usual seat. Had something happened? She'd been in the car with them on the way to church, but . . . Kat swiveled her head. She didn't see Mrs. D anywhere.

Kat hoped she hadn't gone home. Principal of an elementary school! She never would have guessed. But Kat's thoughts were already racing. Maybe she could get a job there next fall if they needed teacher aides. Or maybe even—

Just then the man at the keyboard played a few opening chords and spoke into his mike. “Good morning, church! Let's stand and sing this song from Psalm 27, letting the words of the psalmist sink deep into our hearts. ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?' ” He beckoned to someone. “Terri, sorry to put you on the spot, honey, but can you come up here and sign these words for us?”

Chairs scraped and a rustle filled the room as everyone stood—and by now Kat knew they wouldn't sit back down again for another thirty minutes. Minimum. She watched curiously as a thirtysomething woman with short brown hair came to the front. (He'd called her “honey.” Was she his wife?) She'd never seen anyone do sign language to music before, and the woman's motions were almost . . . lyrical in their beauty. Several people in the congregation did the motions along with her, creating a dance of hands. Kat wanted to do them too, but she felt self-conscious. She still wasn't exactly used to doing anything more than clapping to praise music—and she'd never even done that in her so-called home church growing up.

Kat was so busy watching the sign language for
Lord
and
light
and
strength
and
afraid
that she hadn't noticed Avis Douglass appear. But as the last phrase of the song died away, there she was at the mike with that big Bible she carried around. “The Word of the Lord from Psalm 56,” she said in that strong voice of hers. “ ‘Be merciful to me, O God, for people hotly pursue me. All day long they press their attack! My slanderers pursue me all day long. Many are attacking me in their pride . . .' ”

Was she the worship leader today? Kinda odd to come in late. She'd gone from “missing” to reading the scripture with a kind of . . . fierceness.

“But—” Mrs. Douglass's tone shifted slightly as she read. Calmer, not as fierce, but still passionate. “ ‘—when I am afraid, I
will
trust in You. In
God
I trust; I
will not
be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?' ” The worship leader shut her Bible and held it against her chest. She was silent for a long moment, her chin tilted up, her eyes closed. The room hushed. Then she spoke. “Say these words with me, church: ‘When I am afraid, I will trust in You.' ”

“When I am afraid, I will trust in You,” a chorus of voices repeated.

“In God I trust, I will not be afraid!”

“In God I trust, I will not be afraid.”

Twice more Mrs. Douglass had them repeat the words. “
When
I am afraid,
I will
trust in God! . . . In
God
I trust, I will
not
be afraid!”

The back of Kat's neck prickled as the voices around her rose, speaking the words forcefully. She'd read through the Psalms a couple times in the last few years but had never noticed the power of those two juxtaposed phrases, not like this. A few people around her seemed to be crying. She heard, “Thank ya, Jesus!” from one side of the room and “Yes, yes, I trust You, Lord!” from another, as if the psalm spoke to some real and present fears.

Strange, Kat couldn't remember the last time she'd actually felt afraid—well, maybe on 9/11 when those planes crashed into the Twin Towers. But even that terrifying event had seemed so far away from her life in Arizona. She'd only been sixteen at the time, a junior in high school, didn't know anyone in New York. Mostly she'd just felt bad for the people who suffered so much trauma or lost family and friends in the disaster. But it hadn't touched her personally.

Had she ever really needed to trust God like that? In the face of real fears?

Giving a nod to the praise team, Avis Douglass stepped off the low platform and joined her husband. Kat saw him give her a quick squeeze with his arm as the praise team led into another song of worship.
Sweet
.

When the praise team finally sat down and the children had been excused to their Sunday school classes, there was another empty pause. Kat squirmed. Most Sunday church services moved along
click, click, click
. What was supposed to happen now?

After a few long moments, Pastor Clark stood up and stepped onto the platform. He gripped the slender wooden podium as Mrs. Douglass came back and stood beside him. She laid a hand on his arm and prayed that God would speak through this man of God and that the people would have ears to hear.

As she sat down again, Pastor Clark cleared his throat. “Thank you, Sister Avis. Good morning, church.”
Good mornings
came back in reply. “If you know me at all, brothers and sisters, you've probably already figured out that Hubert Clark is not exactly a spontaneous, seat-of-the-pants kind of person. I like order. I like schedules. I like advance notice.”

Friendly chuckles greeted his wry confession.

“So when First Lady Rose called this morning to say Pastor Joe had been up half the night with the flu and I'd need to fill the pulpit for him . . . well, the old, familiar stage fright set in. The cold-sweat, knees-knocking kind of stage fright. Maybe Sister Avis knows what I'm talking about, because our brother Justin, who was scheduled to lead worship today, also called in sick. So I did the same thing to our sister here. Put her on the spot and asked her to lead worship at the last minute.”

Murmurs of empathy. Well, that explained that, Kat thought.

“But what better time to talk about fear . . . or faith? It's easy to praise God, to be thankful, to have confidence in God when everything's going smoothly, when we're healthy, when the job's secure, when the money's good. But what about when we haven't yet seen the answer to our prayers? When our job gets terminated? When our kids are rebellious? Or when we're sick or someone we love is in the hospital?”

“That's right, Pastor! That's right.” A wiry black woman jumped to her feet, the one whose husband they'd prayed for last Sunday because he'd been injured on the job. “
Mmmm
. Lord, have mercy.” The woman sat again, fanning her face with a piece of paper.
Florida
. That was her name, Kat thought.

“But, saints, how many times did Jesus say, ‘Fear not! Don't be afraid. It is I.' ” Pastor Clark stopped, fumbled for a handkerchief, and coughed a couple times. A man on the front row jumped up and gave him a glass of water. But after a few swallows the pastor went on. “Brothers and sisters, praise itself is an act of faith. Why? When we're able to praise God
before
we see the answers to our prayers, we're saying, Lord, I trust
You
to work this out, according to Your purpose. I'm going to thank You now for what You're going to do.”

More
amens
peppered the room.

“And secondly, praising God strengthens
us
! The Bible says, ‘The joy of the Lord is our strength!' Say that with me, church. The joy of the Lord—”

“—is our strength!” the congregation echoed.

But even as Kat dutifully said the words along with everyone else, she realized something was wrong. Pastor Clark didn't finish the phrase. Instead he gripped the small wooden podium with both hands, wobbled . . . and suddenly, clutching the left side of his chest, he crumpled to the floor.

A nanosecond of disbelief. Then pandemonium broke out. Some lady screamed. Several people rushed to the low platform. A panicked babble of voices. “Somebody call 911!” “Is there a doctor in the house?!” “Pastor Clark! Pastor Clark! Are you okay?”

Kat lurched out of her seat and pushed herself through the crowd of people in the middle aisle. Was there a doctor in the house? She didn't know. But her father was a cardiologist, and he'd made sure every member of his family knew CPR, knew what to do if someone was having a stroke or heart attack, knew how to treat for shock.

Only vaguely aware that Mrs. Douglass was urging people to pray, Kat elbowed her way through the small knot of people huddled around the fallen pastor and dropped to her knees. The pastor's mouth gaped open, and she heard a gurgle . . . a gasp. Pressing two fingers to the man's scrawny neck, she felt for a pulse.
There . . . no, no, lost it
.

“Give me room!” she snapped. “He needs CPR.” For a brief second she considered doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation but remembered that compression-only was recommended when there was no pulse. The keyboard man was still slapping the pastor's cheeks and calling his name. Pushing the man aside, she straddled the pastor's long, thin body, placed both hands over his heart, and began to pump.
One, two, three, four
. . . Half a second for each one. One hundred chest compressions per minute.
. . . ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred
.

Again.
One, two, three, four .
. .

How many minutes had she been doing this? Damp tendrils of hair fell over her face. Her hands and arms ached. Sweat trickled down her back.

. . . fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five .
. .

Somewhere in the back of her brain she heard a siren.

. . . sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four .
. .

Then shouts. “Let 'em through!” “Thank God they're here!”

Kat kept thrusting the man's chest until hands took her by both shoulders and a voice said, “All right, young lady. You can stop. Paramedics are here.”

“No! Keep going!” one of the paramedics barked. She pushed again and again, huffing, sweat trickling into her eyes, vaguely aware of the pastor's shirt being ripped open as patches to a defibrillator and several strip leads were attached to his chest. A paramedic started an IV. Another placed a ventilation bag mask over the pastor's slack mouth.