building. She sat next to a woman whoâd been smart enough to bring a jacket. And a Bible, which Camille didnât own, but sheâd put that on her list of things to get. Sheâd have to ask John David if she could write it off as a business expense.
Camilleâs feet had barely recovered when some old man dressed in African attire approached center stage with a huge horn-looking device the size of a five-year-old child. He raised the instrument to his lips and blew. The all-encompassing sound was followed by a rousing, almost deafening praise from the congregation. These people obviously had supernatural lung capacity.
He blew again, and another round of praise circled through the building. By this time, everyone was standing. Camille refused to stuff her feet into those shoes again. The people sitting on either side of her probably didnât matter one way or another as far as her music was concerned. No worries. Sheâd let those heels rest until her debut church-joining waltz toward the main platform.
After the call to worship, five people walked out with microphones in hand, and lights hit the band as well as the robed choir behind them. The audience applauded as a man Camille guessed was the worship leader, a heavy, bald-headed guy dressed in a traditional Sunday suit, asked the question, âAre you all ready to go higher in the Lord this morning?â
âYes!â the crowd roared.
âAre you ready to give the Lord some praise?â
âYes!â
âHas He been good to you?â
âYes!â
âI mean real, real good to you?â
Louder, âYes!â
This was great. Obviously, not much had changed since the days her mother led congregational hymns at their old church. Camille knew all this church jargon like the back of her hand. Leading worship would be a piece of cake.
âCome on, praise team, one, two, three, four!â Pillsbury dough man cued up the band.
Camille took note of this designation. Praise team. She listened for the harmony. One soprano, two altos, two tenors. These people must be better singers than the average choir member. This brought things to a whole new level. Being in the choir wasnât good enough. She needed to get on the praise team. They had their own microphones. More camera time, too, evidenced by the five giant monitors strategically placed throughout the edifice. The media team alternated between faces and words, guiding the audience through songs.
The only problem so far was the women wearing dresses. Was it a coincidence or would she have to wear a dress, too?
Two songs later, the male alto took his turn at the center. âSaints of the most high God, take one minute to just glorify Him!â
A whole minute! Camille waited impatiently while the mass of people worked themselves into an emotional frenzy. Again, familiar territory. She had seen people shout, cry, fall out. None of that fazed her. The same people did the same things at the clubs she used to frequent shortly after Sweet Treatsâs downfall.
Church folk were probably the same everywhere, in her opinion. The only real Christian sheâd ever seen was her mother. But she was dead. After all the times Camille had walked into her motherâs room to find Jerdine bent over the foot of the bed in prayer, all the gallons of blessed oil Jerdine had slathered on her familyâs foreheads, and all the forgiveness Jerdine had given Bobby Junior, sheâd still died a laborious death at age thirty-nine.
Godâs motive for taking Jerdine so early hadnât made sense when Camille was a junior in high school, and it didnât make any sense now. So while all this whooping and hollering taking place around her might make people ecstatic, Camille had her own truth. God might be powerful and He might have His mysterious reasons for doing things, but He sure wasnât in the business of making people happy.
The minute passed, and a man erupted in
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