What a Sista Should Do (24 page)
“What do you think it is? Am I supposed to be preaching or something?”
“I don’t know what God would have you do, Troy. That’s something you need to ask Him for yourself.”
“You mean pray?”
“Um, yes. Pray.”
“Come on now, Pam. You know that I don’t know anything about prayer. What am I supposed to do? Act like I’m talking to one of my boys?”
“Absolutely not! He’s the King of Kings. You can start by acknowledging Jesus as your Savior and repenting for your sins. Approach God like you would your father.”
“My father?”
“Well . . . no . . . not your father,” I say softly. “A loving father.”
“And then what? Wait for an answer?”
“Well, yes. But some of the answers you need are right in the Bible.”
“Um . . . yeah. I know I’ve got a Bible around here.”
“You do. Just be careful of the cloud of dust that’s going to fly up when you open it,” I tease.
“Ha, ha. Any suggestions on where I should start?”
“Absolutely.” I sit down next to him, feeling closer to him than I have in years. “Romans 10:9 says, ‘That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.’”
“What does that mean?”
“This verse is telling you to confess that you are a sinner and accept Jesus as your Lord and His death on the cross as your salvation. Are you ready to do that?”
Troy says emphatically, “Yes.”
Surprised and pleased, I hold his hand. “Then repeat after me: Lord Jesus, today I acknowledge that I’m a sinner.”
“Lord, I acknowledge that I’m a sinner.”
I continue, “And I repent of the sins I’ve committed.”
“And I repent of the sins I’ve committed.”
“I am ready to accept You today, Jesus, as my personal Lord and Savior.”
Troy’s eyes are shut tight, and his hand is trembling. “I am ready to accept You today, Jesus, as my personal Lord and Savior.”
“I believe that You died and were resurrected for my sins.”
“I believe that You died and were resurrected for my sins.”
“Lord, teach me Your ways and show me how to live my life for You.”
Troy is crying now. “Lord, t-teach me Your ways and show me h-how to live my life for You.”
I conclude, “In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen.”
After a moment Troy asks, “Now what?”
I am filled with love for my husband. I see now the man I fell in love with years ago. “This prayer of confession is just the first step in your walk with Jesus,” I answer. “He has much more for you. He wants you to be baptized, and He wants to fill you with His precious Holy Spirit.”
Troy smiles. “Okay, Pam. You win. I’ll go to church with you on Sunday.”
“Actually, Troy . . . you win.”
Taylor
I
love going to the farmer’s market in the summer. It makes me feel like a country girl instead of a city slicker when I pick my own fruit. They always have the juiciest strawberries in early June, and Pam said she was in the mood for some watermelon. I told her that I’d pick one up. The only problem with the farmer’s market is that Joshua can’t control himself, and I usually end up going home angry and without any fresh produce.
Well, my mother came to get her grandson this morning. She said that it was to give me a break. Since, number one, I had nothing planned and, number two, I have no money, I’ve decided to spend the morning at the farmer’s market. I’m picking through a delicious-looking pile of grapefruit when I see Brother Chad Monroe from the singles ministry. I get ready to yell over and say hi until I realize that he’s witnessing to two young boys.
There are two other church members with Brother Monroe. They must be a part of the street evangelism team. I’ve always been interested in what they do, but I’ve never gotten up the courage to join them on their prayer walks. I put my grapefruit down and walk over, trying not to interrupt anything.
One of the boys says, “If there is a God, He doesn’t care about me.”
Brother Chad replies, “He cares about you, son. He loves you more than you love yourself.”
“Then how come I gotta make the first move, huh? He knows what I need. Why can’t He just hook a brotha up?”
“He made the first move when He died for you, for the remission of your sins. Now it’s your turn.”
Both of the boys seem genuinely affected by Brother Chad’s words. The younger of the two is struggling hard to keep from shedding some tears. Brother Chad reads a few more scriptures, and then he has the boys praying a prayer of repentance.
The oldest boy says, “Thank you, man. I don’t really know anything about God.”
Chad responds, “Don’t let it stop here. God has so much more for you. He wants to fill you full of His spirit.”
Brother Chad gives the boys invitations to church, and they promise to come on Sunday. I’m amazed. I would probably have never thought to approach those two boys. They looked like they might mug someone, but they needed Jesus.
I’m moved by what I’ve just witnessed, but not only in an emotional way. I feel a quickening in my spirit, as if this is what I should be doing. I should be out here spreading the gospel.
Chad turns to me. “Sister Taylor. How are you this morning?”
“I’m blessed. I’m really impressed at how you witnessed to those boys.”
“I didn’t do anything. If we lift up the name of Jesus, He draws the people. It’s easy.”
“Brother Chad, do you think it would be all right for me to join the evangelism street team?”
“Well, it’s not a decision to make hastily. We run into some people who need some strong deliverance. We prayed with a crack addict for over an hour this morning.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not trying to discourage you, I’m just saying to pray about it. And then when you feel led of the Lord, come to our training classes on Friday evenings, at seven.”
“Okay, Brother Chad. I’ll do that.”
I know that God is calling me to do this. I’ve never felt surer about anything else. It’s all coming full circle now. This is how I’m going to get anxious about the things belonging to the Lord. I will be obedient and pray on it, but that evangelism team will see me in their meeting on Friday. This I know.
Pam
W
hen Troy told me that his next show was going to be at the Rhythm and Blues Shack, I pictured a little raggedy juke joint with a dirt lot for parking. Imagine how shocked I am to see that this place is no shack at all. Actually, it is a pretty classy establishment with valet parking.
I walk in the door, and a young man dressed in a red sport coat takes my coat and shows me to the dining area. The place is beautiful, and even though I’ve got on one of my sharpest church suits, I feel a bit underdressed.
I take an inconspicuous seat toward the back of the dining room. I don’t want to draw any attention to myself, in case I have to get up and leave, although it’s kind of hard for a pregnant woman to remain inconspicuous. My belly barely fits under the table.
A girl carrying a tray of delicious-looking hors d’oeuvres walks past my table. I stack up two napkins full of the tasty little crackers, meat rolls and cheese puffs. I hope that I don’t look greedy, but I didn’t get a chance to eat after church and my baby is hungry.
I can’t believe how packed this place is, just to see one of Troy’s artists. He told me that Aria had a huge local following, but I thought he was exaggerating. What also gets me is the variety of people present. I see just as many thirty- and forty-somethings as twenty-somethings.
Finally, when nearly everyone is seated, the lights start to dim. A spotlight shines on the stage, and Aria is perched on a high stool, her long legs draped elegantly over to the side. She’s singing a melancholy song, about a woman who has lost her man to someone else. The longing that Aria is able to convey in her singing is so uncanny that it makes me want to cry. I’ve never had a song bring tears to my eyes except in church.
From the side of the stage that thuggish boy that visited my husband in the hospital appears. Malone doesn’t look very thuggish this evening, though. His outfit is as debonair as Aria’s is elegant. Malone’s voice rings out, and the notes seem to wrap themselves around Aria’s voice. The effect is mesmerizing, and the audience is held in a spell. Malone sings about what drove him away from Aria. His voice is also in pain because he thinks that she doesn’t love him.
By the end of the song the two lovers have reconciled and they are declaring their undying love. When the spotlight dies, everyone in the room stands, and thunderous applause envelops the room. Malone takes a little bow and exits the stage.
The next song is all Aria. It’s amazing how she can go from dejected to ecstatic in the time it takes to change chords. Now she’s singing about how good her man is to her and how she’s so lucky to have him. She’s singing, “They say some girls have all the luck, well, ah, I wouldn’t trade him for a million bucks, he’s mine, he’s mine, he’s m-i-i-ine.”
I find myself snapping my fingers and bobbing my head, because I sure can relate to that song. Aria makes Troy’s songs sound like masterpieces. It’s been a long time since I acknowledged his talent, but today it’s unmistakable.
After she finishes that song, Aria breaks into a medley of upbeat numbers. She is a true entertainer. Everyone in the room is smiling, snapping and tapping. How can I ask Troy not to go on tour with this girl? The whole world should hear her sing.
The show continues for over an hour, with Aria singing love songs and angry songs and songs to her mama. The audience can’t seem to get enough of her, and she does two encores before finally leaving the stage. I wonder if there are any record executives from Bonzai here today. They need to sign this girl quick.
Aria leaves the stage, and the lights come back on. Troy emerges from backstage and makes his way through the crowd smiling and thanking people for coming. When our eyes meet, Troy’s expression is a mixture of happiness and suspicion. I purposely didn’t tell him I was coming. I wanted it to be a surprise. He finishes his conversation and then comes to my table.
“Pam! You’re here. I can’t believe it! Did you enjoy the show?”
“Yes, Troy. I enjoyed it immensely. I didn’t think I would, but I did.”
“Didn’t I tell you that Aria is a star?”
“You were right, Troy. She’s amazing.”
“Yeah, she is. It’s too bad.”
“Too bad? What do you mean?”
“It’s too bad you won’t be able to go on tour with us. We’re going to bring the house down all over the country.”
I’m speechless. How could he bring up that hateful tour when things were going so well? I’d placed the tour safely in the dark recesses of my mind, and he goes bringing it back to the forefront.
I agree with Troy. It is too bad. It’s too bad that I have a husband who cares more about music than the birth of his child. And it’s too bad that I thought I could change anything by coming to one of his shows. What do I look like following Taylor’s advice anyway? I should’ve known better.
Yvonne
T
his morning I received a phone call from Luke’s attorney trying to confirm whether or not I’d be attending Luke’s sentencing. I didn’t give him an answer, because I don’t know yet.
Even as I’m getting dressed, putting on my makeup and combing my hair, I’m still considering it. This is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire life. My wicked flesh wants to see Luke prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
I want to call Pam and ask her to come with me, but I’m sure she doesn’t want to spend all day sitting on an uncomfortable courtroom bench. Taylor is out of the question. I don’t know how it would look to have her sitting there with me. It might actually hurt Luke’s case.
All of my indecisiveness and procrastinating has made me late, and rush-hour traffic is ridiculous. I wanted to get there early and find a seat in the back of the courtroom. That way if I change my mind and want to sneak out, I can do it without anyone noticing.
By the time I get to the courtroom, all of the good seats are taken. I end up sitting in the middle of a crowded bench near the front. There are a lot of people here from New Faith. I guess this sentencing was not a secret. Even Taylor is here. She waves at me from the back of the room.
Luke is walked into the courtroom in handcuffs as if he’s a dangerous man. I can’t stop the tears from coming. I wish I’d thought to bring some tissue.
Luke is scanning the room. I know he’s looking for me. When his eyes find me, a look of relief comes over his face. He smiles at me and then turns to face the judge. I’m glad he’s so optimistic, because I haven’t even figured out yet what I’m going to say.
Before I can gain my composure, I hear the judge calling my name. I walk up to a little podium, and I grip both sides of the wooden structure. Still, I don’t know what to say.
Lord, give me the words to speak to this judge.
The judge says, “And you are Mrs. Yvonne Hastings?”
“Yes.”
“And Luke Hastings is your husband?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“He attacked you?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge looks at me strangely and says, “And you’re here to speak on his behalf? Go ahead. I want to hear this.”
I clear my throat and say, “Your Honor, Luke and I have been married twenty years. I have no reason to think that he would ever attack me this way again. I have forgiven him, and I beg the court for leniency. That’s all.”
A few members of New Faith clap their hands, although I can’t find a reason for rejoicing.
I hear the judge telling Luke that he will be serving a minimum sentence of twelve months for domestic violence. I feel frozen, just like the day I found out that Joshua is Luke’s son. People are clapping, so I suppose this must be a fair sentence. But fair to whom? If I decide to stay married to Luke, should I wait around and lose another year of my life? I believe that is out of the question. I have not decided about the divorce, but I do know that I’m about to start living my life.