Read Online Boaz Brown by Michelle Stimpson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michelle Stimpson
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that day, though. He was serious about his talk with Jonathan, and something in me was struck by Daddy’s desperate plea to my little brother. The fear and anger in his heart caused his voice to tremble. Jonathan listened intently as he never had before, and Momma stopped sloshing the dishwater. Daddy poured out his life’s understandings, and the heat of his words spewed out of his mouth like steam, thickening the room’s air.
“The hardest thing in the world is being a black man in America. Nobody will ever understand that but black men. The best thing we got going for us is our women and our families. You can go off into this navy and bunk up right next to a white man, but don’t ever think he’s got your back. ‘Cause if push comes to shove, and he’s got a choice between saving you and saving a white man, he’ll save the white man every time.” Daddy stressed every syllable by slamming his fist on his knee.
“Everywhere the white man goes, he destroys people. America is the greatest example of the white man doing what he does best. He killed off the Indians; he got the Mexicans over here to work the fields in World War Two, but now he’s trying to send them back with nothin’; and he worked the blacks to the bone for his own gain. And they’ve never paid any of us back. Now, you take this money they give you from the military and use it to help you and yours. But don’t ever turn your back on a white person, ‘cause sure as my name is Jonathan Smith Senior, they will stab you in the back every time.”
Those words were meant for my brother, but they seeped deep into my spirit.
* * * * *
Unlike workday mornings, I liked to get up in plenty of time to prepare for church on Sunday. I sprang out of bed, quickly prayed, and got ready for service. As I pulled up my loathsome off-black pantyhose, I let out an indignant sigh. I hated wearing pantyhose, but I knew that many of my children’s church students had been told that when they grew up, they would be expected to wear pantyhose to church. I didn’t want to cause any discord, so I suffered that nylon and threw on black pumps, a black skirt, and a sweater.
I still had to stop by the grocery store and get snacks for my children’s church class, so I rushed out without eating breakfast. Most of the R & B radio stations played gospel on Sunday mornings, so I gave my CDs a rest and listened to the latest in gospel music while driving to church.
Something about the drive to church always calmed me. It was as though I were going to an old friend’s house—a place I had always known and cherished. A place where I could be me, only better.
Sometimes, if I lay in bed too long, I would consider skipping a Sunday or two. And even if I did stay home for whatever reason, the part of me that longed to be in my Father’s house couldn’t rest well knowing there might come a time when I couldn’t get to a church and then I would regret all the times I’d lazed in bed on Sunday mornings. No, I had to be there.
Once at the church, I made a few copies in the front office and set up my classroom. I turned the lights on, listened to the buzz, and waited for the lights to pop on, one square at a time. It was my classroom, my canvas, the place I could paint perfect.
Since becoming a vice principal, I didn’t have the opportunity to stand before children and watch them discover and learn and love life the way I did when I was a classroom teacher. Tutoring on Wednesday nights was productive, but there’s also something blessed about presenting an actual lesson, looking down at tiny little brown faces and telling them how much they are loved. Teaching children’s church on Sunday mornings gave me the opportunity to use my gift as an educator for God’s glory.
As I filled the plastic cups with crayons and scissors for the project we’d be creating, I turned on the intercom and listened to the service going
“The hardest thing in the world is being a black man in America. Nobody will ever understand that but black men. The best thing we got going for us is our women and our families. You can go off into this navy and bunk up right next to a white man, but don’t ever think he’s got your back. ‘Cause if push comes to shove, and he’s got a choice between saving you and saving a white man, he’ll save the white man every time.” Daddy stressed every syllable by slamming his fist on his knee.
“Everywhere the white man goes, he destroys people. America is the greatest example of the white man doing what he does best. He killed off the Indians; he got the Mexicans over here to work the fields in World War Two, but now he’s trying to send them back with nothin’; and he worked the blacks to the bone for his own gain. And they’ve never paid any of us back. Now, you take this money they give you from the military and use it to help you and yours. But don’t ever turn your back on a white person, ‘cause sure as my name is Jonathan Smith Senior, they will stab you in the back every time.”
Those words were meant for my brother, but they seeped deep into my spirit.
* * * * *
Unlike workday mornings, I liked to get up in plenty of time to prepare for church on Sunday. I sprang out of bed, quickly prayed, and got ready for service. As I pulled up my loathsome off-black pantyhose, I let out an indignant sigh. I hated wearing pantyhose, but I knew that many of my children’s church students had been told that when they grew up, they would be expected to wear pantyhose to church. I didn’t want to cause any discord, so I suffered that nylon and threw on black pumps, a black skirt, and a sweater.
I still had to stop by the grocery store and get snacks for my children’s church class, so I rushed out without eating breakfast. Most of the R & B radio stations played gospel on Sunday mornings, so I gave my CDs a rest and listened to the latest in gospel music while driving to church.
Something about the drive to church always calmed me. It was as though I were going to an old friend’s house—a place I had always known and cherished. A place where I could be me, only better.
Sometimes, if I lay in bed too long, I would consider skipping a Sunday or two. And even if I did stay home for whatever reason, the part of me that longed to be in my Father’s house couldn’t rest well knowing there might come a time when I couldn’t get to a church and then I would regret all the times I’d lazed in bed on Sunday mornings. No, I had to be there.
Once at the church, I made a few copies in the front office and set up my classroom. I turned the lights on, listened to the buzz, and waited for the lights to pop on, one square at a time. It was my classroom, my canvas, the place I could paint perfect.
Since becoming a vice principal, I didn’t have the opportunity to stand before children and watch them discover and learn and love life the way I did when I was a classroom teacher. Tutoring on Wednesday nights was productive, but there’s also something blessed about presenting an actual lesson, looking down at tiny little brown faces and telling them how much they are loved. Teaching children’s church on Sunday mornings gave me the opportunity to use my gift as an educator for God’s glory.
As I filled the plastic cups with crayons and scissors for the project we’d be creating, I turned on the intercom and listened to the service going
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