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Authors: Kristofer Clarke
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on toes when she preached; however, made no apologies or regrets at the end of her sermon. The Lord is only using her to deliver His message. She speaks as the Lord commands. That was her motto.
“You know, church.”
She removed the microphone from the podium and descended the pulpit into the congregation.
“I woke up this morning, and I felt good. Do you hear me, church? I said, I woke up this morning and I felt good.”
“Amen, Amen,” s everal members of the church responded.
“ Because the Lord,” she screamed, “I said the Lord gave me another day to praise him.”
“Yes He did. Preach on Pastor,” Sister Grace Lewis shouted, wearing an oversized purple hat, and a white suite that flowed over matching purple shoes.
“And remember, church. This day was not promised. So I hope each of you gave Him thanks this morning.”
“Yes, we did,” t he congregation assured.
“Believe me w hen I tell you, many people… ” She paused. “Y ou seem quiet this morning, church. I don’t think you want me to preach.”
She turned, giving her back to the congregation. The church erupted in laughter.
“I said many people, church, did not get to thank Him this morning.”
After an electrifying sermon, most of which seemed too deep for the congregation to comprehend, Pastor Rockwell-Carter approached me with a look of concern I had never seen from anyone. What the hell did my mother say to this woman? I thought, trying to keep the perplexed look from a ppearing on my face. I knew how dramatic my mother can be when describing incidents to others. Sometimes I think she deserve Oscars. Be fore I could disconnect from my last thought, Pastor reached out her hands to me, then leaned over and kissed me gently on both cheek.
“I’m happy to see that the good Lord brought you through your horrific experience,” Pastor said, staring into my eyes, waiting for me to respond.
“Pastor Carter, this is my good friend, Jacqueline DeMai.”
I met Jacqueline while at Mt. Saint Christian Hospital. She wasn’t too involved in church, but I had con vinced her to come along with m e .
“That was a great sermon, Pastor Carter,” Jacqueline complimented.
“I’m glad you were here to receive His word. I hope to see you next week.”
“I’m sure you will, pastor,” Jacqueline said, with conviction, and looked at me , reading my thoughts, daring me to say something.
“It is good to see you, Dexter.” She paused
“That was a beautiful sermon...”
I tried to avoid the obvious conversation I knew Pastor wanted to engage in. This was not the place to attempt to describe my latest mishap. I was certain she had already been given all the details. Any of the missing pieces were probably already filled in by hearsay. Afte r all, this was church what is it that they do not talk about. I wasn’t in the mood to conf irm or deny any of what she heard.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THIS THING CALLED LOVE
Trevor
It’s 5 a.m., and while I should be asleep, like you and most of America, I can’t. I keep doing this to myself. I find myself anticipating your calls, and checking to see if you did call and I had missed it. While I occupied my time with friends, you assumed I was out doing other things. You know the latter is not true. I call to offer you an explanation but those calls went unanswered. Do I even owe you an explanation? We have both gotten so accustomed to saying “I love you” bef ore going to bed at least I had and I still expected that much from you. Maybe you feel those words are no longer needed.
I paused.
I held the pencil gently in my hand between tired fingers. I realized, as I lay in the dark unable to sleep, that what happened, what had happened so many times before, had become so normal for Kelvin. His phone calls were rare, and now, I might as well accept that all other methods of communication had become useless. There was someone else in Kelvin’s life, occupying his
“You know, church.”
She removed the microphone from the podium and descended the pulpit into the congregation.
“I woke up this morning, and I felt good. Do you hear me, church? I said, I woke up this morning and I felt good.”
“Amen, Amen,” s everal members of the church responded.
“ Because the Lord,” she screamed, “I said the Lord gave me another day to praise him.”
“Yes He did. Preach on Pastor,” Sister Grace Lewis shouted, wearing an oversized purple hat, and a white suite that flowed over matching purple shoes.
“And remember, church. This day was not promised. So I hope each of you gave Him thanks this morning.”
“Yes, we did,” t he congregation assured.
“Believe me w hen I tell you, many people… ” She paused. “Y ou seem quiet this morning, church. I don’t think you want me to preach.”
She turned, giving her back to the congregation. The church erupted in laughter.
“I said many people, church, did not get to thank Him this morning.”
After an electrifying sermon, most of which seemed too deep for the congregation to comprehend, Pastor Rockwell-Carter approached me with a look of concern I had never seen from anyone. What the hell did my mother say to this woman? I thought, trying to keep the perplexed look from a ppearing on my face. I knew how dramatic my mother can be when describing incidents to others. Sometimes I think she deserve Oscars. Be fore I could disconnect from my last thought, Pastor reached out her hands to me, then leaned over and kissed me gently on both cheek.
“I’m happy to see that the good Lord brought you through your horrific experience,” Pastor said, staring into my eyes, waiting for me to respond.
“Pastor Carter, this is my good friend, Jacqueline DeMai.”
I met Jacqueline while at Mt. Saint Christian Hospital. She wasn’t too involved in church, but I had con vinced her to come along with m e .
“That was a great sermon, Pastor Carter,” Jacqueline complimented.
“I’m glad you were here to receive His word. I hope to see you next week.”
“I’m sure you will, pastor,” Jacqueline said, with conviction, and looked at me , reading my thoughts, daring me to say something.
“It is good to see you, Dexter.” She paused
“That was a beautiful sermon...”
I tried to avoid the obvious conversation I knew Pastor wanted to engage in. This was not the place to attempt to describe my latest mishap. I was certain she had already been given all the details. Any of the missing pieces were probably already filled in by hearsay. Afte r all, this was church what is it that they do not talk about. I wasn’t in the mood to conf irm or deny any of what she heard.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THIS THING CALLED LOVE
Trevor
It’s 5 a.m., and while I should be asleep, like you and most of America, I can’t. I keep doing this to myself. I find myself anticipating your calls, and checking to see if you did call and I had missed it. While I occupied my time with friends, you assumed I was out doing other things. You know the latter is not true. I call to offer you an explanation but those calls went unanswered. Do I even owe you an explanation? We have both gotten so accustomed to saying “I love you” bef ore going to bed at least I had and I still expected that much from you. Maybe you feel those words are no longer needed.
I paused.
I held the pencil gently in my hand between tired fingers. I realized, as I lay in the dark unable to sleep, that what happened, what had happened so many times before, had become so normal for Kelvin. His phone calls were rare, and now, I might as well accept that all other methods of communication had become useless. There was someone else in Kelvin’s life, occupying his
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