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Authors: T. D. Jakes
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people say. All they say ain’t all He wants to be to you.”
“It’s not the Lord, Miz Ida. I would go to church, but I just hate all those people asking for money.”
Miz Ida laughed out loud. “Girl, now you know better than to pull my leg. You know you got to give me a better excuse than that.” She let go of Michelle, rose from the couch, and walked into the kitchen. Miz Ida opened the door to her refrigerator and started moving things around. “Let me see if I can fix you something to eat.” She pulled a pot from the refrigerator and set it on the stove.
She started laughing again, and laid her hand on her chest. “I don’t mean to laugh.” She doubled over. “Yes, I do. You know why I’m laughing? If that ain’t the biggest bunch of nothing.
I ain’t paying no man my money.
The people who say that are the same people that will pay all kinds of money for lottery tickets that got a million-to-one chance to win. They will pay twenty dollars a day for cigarettes and other stuff. When you pay for them, who you paying if not some man?
“When you go to church, you got the choice to pray and never give—you give cause your heart say so. Them other things—drinking, gambling, drugs, candy, whatever your poison is, just like me and all the sugar I put in my drinks—you know you got to pay to play. You gone pay for somebody to give you something that’s gone take life away or leave you worse off, but you don’t want to give back to something that’s giving hope.”
Miz Ida shook her head and laughed again, then waved Michelle into the kitchen area. “Now, enough of this. Come on in here and help me get this food on.” Michelle chopped lettuce, and then began to slice tomato and cucumbers. Miz Ida began to laugh again.
“
I ain’t gone give no man my money.
People gone have to come up with a new excuse.”
Chapter Ten
T onya made a left turn onto Wabash Avenue on her way home. In her soul and spirit, she kept the running prayer going—the prayer she prayed every day as she drove home. A prayer that God would just let her make it home safely, that the car she was driving—her mid-sized, I’m-only-five-years-old-but-if-you-don’t-keep-an-eye-on-me-I’m-going-to-break-down-right-in-the-middle-of-this-traffic car would just keep going a little bit longer. She prayed that her car would keep going until her change came, until things got better, or until she walked into her season.
The radio announcer said it was five-fifteen. In fact, he said it like everybody ought to shout
Hallelujah!
Then, just before the digital clock on her dashboard could register five-sixteen, he said, “Hallelujah! Everybody say
hallelujah!
”
Obediently, because she was nothing if not obedient, Tonya said, “Hallelujah.” Only if there was a praise meter in heaven, her accolade or jubilation probably registered less like
Hallelujah
and more like
So what?
Tonya had started off her day with the praise song “This Is the Day That the Lord Has Made” in her heart and in her mind. By the afternoon, her joy was gone. What remained was a kind of pained weariness that she felt on her face and in her chest. It was the tiredness that can be seen on some church folks’ faces when they don’t know anyone is looking. Tiredness that says they love the Lord, that they are committed to Him come rain or come shine, but that they have been through a season that has been mostly wind and rain.
It is a tired expression that goes away when they are serving or helping others. It disappears when singing their favorite gospel song along with the radio or a choir, or when they hear the Word being preached on Sunday morning. But sometimes, Tonya knew, when they are alone and thinking—when there is no one around that they need to uplift or encourage—they sink. It is the sinking of people who are waiting for a change that looks like it will never come.
The same sinking Tonya felt so often.
She understood. It wasn’t that they didn’t
“It’s not the Lord, Miz Ida. I would go to church, but I just hate all those people asking for money.”
Miz Ida laughed out loud. “Girl, now you know better than to pull my leg. You know you got to give me a better excuse than that.” She let go of Michelle, rose from the couch, and walked into the kitchen. Miz Ida opened the door to her refrigerator and started moving things around. “Let me see if I can fix you something to eat.” She pulled a pot from the refrigerator and set it on the stove.
She started laughing again, and laid her hand on her chest. “I don’t mean to laugh.” She doubled over. “Yes, I do. You know why I’m laughing? If that ain’t the biggest bunch of nothing.
I ain’t paying no man my money.
The people who say that are the same people that will pay all kinds of money for lottery tickets that got a million-to-one chance to win. They will pay twenty dollars a day for cigarettes and other stuff. When you pay for them, who you paying if not some man?
“When you go to church, you got the choice to pray and never give—you give cause your heart say so. Them other things—drinking, gambling, drugs, candy, whatever your poison is, just like me and all the sugar I put in my drinks—you know you got to pay to play. You gone pay for somebody to give you something that’s gone take life away or leave you worse off, but you don’t want to give back to something that’s giving hope.”
Miz Ida shook her head and laughed again, then waved Michelle into the kitchen area. “Now, enough of this. Come on in here and help me get this food on.” Michelle chopped lettuce, and then began to slice tomato and cucumbers. Miz Ida began to laugh again.
“
I ain’t gone give no man my money.
People gone have to come up with a new excuse.”
Chapter Ten
T onya made a left turn onto Wabash Avenue on her way home. In her soul and spirit, she kept the running prayer going—the prayer she prayed every day as she drove home. A prayer that God would just let her make it home safely, that the car she was driving—her mid-sized, I’m-only-five-years-old-but-if-you-don’t-keep-an-eye-on-me-I’m-going-to-break-down-right-in-the-middle-of-this-traffic car would just keep going a little bit longer. She prayed that her car would keep going until her change came, until things got better, or until she walked into her season.
The radio announcer said it was five-fifteen. In fact, he said it like everybody ought to shout
Hallelujah!
Then, just before the digital clock on her dashboard could register five-sixteen, he said, “Hallelujah! Everybody say
hallelujah!
”
Obediently, because she was nothing if not obedient, Tonya said, “Hallelujah.” Only if there was a praise meter in heaven, her accolade or jubilation probably registered less like
Hallelujah
and more like
So what?
Tonya had started off her day with the praise song “This Is the Day That the Lord Has Made” in her heart and in her mind. By the afternoon, her joy was gone. What remained was a kind of pained weariness that she felt on her face and in her chest. It was the tiredness that can be seen on some church folks’ faces when they don’t know anyone is looking. Tiredness that says they love the Lord, that they are committed to Him come rain or come shine, but that they have been through a season that has been mostly wind and rain.
It is a tired expression that goes away when they are serving or helping others. It disappears when singing their favorite gospel song along with the radio or a choir, or when they hear the Word being preached on Sunday morning. But sometimes, Tonya knew, when they are alone and thinking—when there is no one around that they need to uplift or encourage—they sink. It is the sinking of people who are waiting for a change that looks like it will never come.
The same sinking Tonya felt so often.
She understood. It wasn’t that they didn’t
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