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Authors: Michelle Stimpson
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daughter.
Camille sat straight up on her couch now. She closed her eyes and spoke into the air. âOkay, Momma. I know you didnât mean for me to use your advice in a bad way, but you also said that God lets everything happen for a reason.
âI donât know all the reasons, but Iâve got to go for it. Singing wonât go away, Momma. I have to do this.â
CHAPTER 7
H ours at the Medgar Evers center yielded a list of the top-ten churches in the Dallas area, by enrollment. The Kingâs Table, pastored by a man who was probably a household name at that point, ranked number one, with a combined total of twenty-four thousand in attendance at its two Sunday services. Camille scoffed at the idea of attending church twice on a Sunday. If memory served her well, she could barely keep her eyelids apart during the main message every week. And Wednesday night services were even worse with Mother Jackson beating that tambourine all offbeat.
Second on her list was Northeast Christian Church. Nineteen thousand. One service. But from what Camille gathered on the Web site, the congregation was mostly Caucasian. Sheâd send John David a text: Does the church have to be black?
His reply: Yes
Camille: Think Kirk Franklin. He crosses over races.
John David: HEâS A MAN
Okay, you donât have to holler. Camille X-ed Northeast off the list.
Next up, Grace Chapel Community Church. They had only fifteen thousand people coming every week. Camille did the math. If fifteen thousand people bought one of her CDs at thirteen ninety-nine each, sheâd make only about seventeen thousand dollars after John David took his cut. Barely above full-time minimum wage, annually. Surely, sheâd have more than fifteen thousand people buying her music, but the home base needed to be at least twenty thousand to move her into a new tax bracket.
With The Kingâs Table, she could at least hope to bring home close to thirty thousand dollars with each release.
After having performed her calculations, there was no way on earth she could join a church with less than twenty thousand members who actually came to church.
The Kingâs Table it is.
Sunday morning, Camille flicked through the clothes in her closet, looking for something eye-catching to commemorate her walk down the main aisle when she joined the church. No time like the present to start making an impression on the congregation. She selected a black shirt dress with four-inch open-toed, shiny black pumps. Cleaver-ish, yet stylish enough to cause some degree of speculation about her income bracket. The front lace wig would have been over the top, so she decided to sport a sophisticated, black ponytail that bobbed just a little with every step.
Those pumps, however, proved to be a total nightmare. Camille had underestimated how far sheâd have to walk from her parking space to a trolley pick-up stop. Even after the driver cleared the vehicle at the front entrance, she still had to walk up another flight of stairs in a swarm of people who obviously had no respect for corns.
Once she passed through the arenalike doors into one of the main seating areas, Camille gasped at the sheer magnitude of the sanctuary. The Web site photographs didnât do this church justice. Oh my God! This place is crazy! It might as well have been a rock concert, except rock fans wouldnât assemble themselves at eight oâclock in the morning no matter how famous the singer. Shoot, I donât even get to work this early!
Rows and rows, columns and columns of people with Bibles, hats, and notepads found their seats next to fellow members and, presumably, a number of visitors. Though the cushioned seats were covered with bright red cloth, few of them remained visible. The church was nearly packed except for the nosebleed seats, and service hadnât even begun.
An usher escorted Camilleâs bunch of church-goers to one of the last empty sections in the
Camille sat straight up on her couch now. She closed her eyes and spoke into the air. âOkay, Momma. I know you didnât mean for me to use your advice in a bad way, but you also said that God lets everything happen for a reason.
âI donât know all the reasons, but Iâve got to go for it. Singing wonât go away, Momma. I have to do this.â
CHAPTER 7
H ours at the Medgar Evers center yielded a list of the top-ten churches in the Dallas area, by enrollment. The Kingâs Table, pastored by a man who was probably a household name at that point, ranked number one, with a combined total of twenty-four thousand in attendance at its two Sunday services. Camille scoffed at the idea of attending church twice on a Sunday. If memory served her well, she could barely keep her eyelids apart during the main message every week. And Wednesday night services were even worse with Mother Jackson beating that tambourine all offbeat.
Second on her list was Northeast Christian Church. Nineteen thousand. One service. But from what Camille gathered on the Web site, the congregation was mostly Caucasian. Sheâd send John David a text: Does the church have to be black?
His reply: Yes
Camille: Think Kirk Franklin. He crosses over races.
John David: HEâS A MAN
Okay, you donât have to holler. Camille X-ed Northeast off the list.
Next up, Grace Chapel Community Church. They had only fifteen thousand people coming every week. Camille did the math. If fifteen thousand people bought one of her CDs at thirteen ninety-nine each, sheâd make only about seventeen thousand dollars after John David took his cut. Barely above full-time minimum wage, annually. Surely, sheâd have more than fifteen thousand people buying her music, but the home base needed to be at least twenty thousand to move her into a new tax bracket.
With The Kingâs Table, she could at least hope to bring home close to thirty thousand dollars with each release.
After having performed her calculations, there was no way on earth she could join a church with less than twenty thousand members who actually came to church.
The Kingâs Table it is.
Sunday morning, Camille flicked through the clothes in her closet, looking for something eye-catching to commemorate her walk down the main aisle when she joined the church. No time like the present to start making an impression on the congregation. She selected a black shirt dress with four-inch open-toed, shiny black pumps. Cleaver-ish, yet stylish enough to cause some degree of speculation about her income bracket. The front lace wig would have been over the top, so she decided to sport a sophisticated, black ponytail that bobbed just a little with every step.
Those pumps, however, proved to be a total nightmare. Camille had underestimated how far sheâd have to walk from her parking space to a trolley pick-up stop. Even after the driver cleared the vehicle at the front entrance, she still had to walk up another flight of stairs in a swarm of people who obviously had no respect for corns.
Once she passed through the arenalike doors into one of the main seating areas, Camille gasped at the sheer magnitude of the sanctuary. The Web site photographs didnât do this church justice. Oh my God! This place is crazy! It might as well have been a rock concert, except rock fans wouldnât assemble themselves at eight oâclock in the morning no matter how famous the singer. Shoot, I donât even get to work this early!
Rows and rows, columns and columns of people with Bibles, hats, and notepads found their seats next to fellow members and, presumably, a number of visitors. Though the cushioned seats were covered with bright red cloth, few of them remained visible. The church was nearly packed except for the nosebleed seats, and service hadnât even begun.
An usher escorted Camilleâs bunch of church-goers to one of the last empty sections in the
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