Boaz Brown (2 page)

Mother Moore, however, believed that Brother Pruitt was “sweet” on me. She’d pulled me aside a few Sundays ago after church and whispered into my ear with her rickety voice, “I think he’s got his eye on you.” That was all I needed to know. I figured I’d just steer clear of him until whatever it was that Mother Moore saw brewing in him faded away. I didn’t want any ill feelings between Pruitt and me. And I didn’t want him wasting any time pursuing me, missing out on his Miss Right.

His headlights blinked on and off.
 
Now I’ve got to speak.
 
I casually looked back over my shoulder and said good night to Paul as we both opened our car doors. We spoke our last words over the roof of his car.

“How did the tutoring go tonight?” he asked.

“It went very well.” I put my foot inside my car.

“That’s great! Keep up the good work!” Then he nodded, got into his car, closed the door, and started his engine.
 

Mental note: Mother Moore is not the authority on sweets.

Coming through the door that night, I kicked off my low-heeled shoes at the doorstep and dropped my bags on the leopard- print chaise—the finishing touch that made my living room look like something straight out of Africa. Miniature giraffes, elephants, and cheetahs lined the mantel, adding to the overall safari motif in my formal living room. Candles filled the room with strawberries, despite the label’s warnings that I shouldn’t burn them in my absence.

In the kitchen, I emptied the dishwasher and loaded in my breakfast dishes: a bowl, a cup, and a spoon. It would be a while before the dishwasher filled up again. There was a peaceful silence about my home—except for the swish of my pantyhose as I walked through, picking up things that I’d haphazardly misplaced during my morning rush out of the house. Everything remained as it was when I left: toiletries strewn across my bathroom counter, the ironing board standing in the hallway, and the windbreaker that I’d quickly traded for a leather coat upon opening my front door at six a.m. and meeting Jack Frost face to face. It was still early November, but it’s impossible to predict the weather solely by a calendar in Texas.

I rotated the gold-toned faucets clockwise and felt my tensions ease at the sound of rushing water. I’d looked forward to this bath all day long. The midweek tutoring followed by regular service was wearing me out, especially on the nights when I had to work late because of some sporting event at the local middle school, where I served as vice principal. But it was well worth the sacrifice. The church kids’ grades were up, their parents were optimistic, church attendance was higher, and more children heard the gospel. Well, some of them didn’t have any other choice because they’d hitched a ride with someone who stayed through service, but that was all right. They were there, and I’d done my part to bring them to the Word.

I inched into the tub, controlling my reaction to the splendid heat that soothed me while stinging me simultaneously. Resting my head on the inflated tub pillow, I closed my eyes and began thinking. My birthday was just around the corner. My soul could only look back in wonder at the years past. So many blessings and so much favor that I couldn’t even begin to explain. My mind began drifting down the path that only opens up in complete inner and outer silence. I was in my right mind. My soul was free. But I was alone.

Thirty had come and almost gone without
 
as
 
much as a little poof. Thirty-one wasn’t far away, which would make me officially
 
in
 
my thirties. Being
 
in
 
my thirties, I’d reasoned, was different from being thirty. Thirty said that I was still a little wet behind the ears, just getting over the twenties. But
 
in
 
my thirties was different.

Somebody
 
in
 
the thirties could be anybody from a newlywed to a grandmother.
 
On the upside of youth or the underside of senior citizenry.
 
Either way, it was time to reevaluate some things; carefully consider how to expend my time and energy. I was too young to be worried about getting married, yet too old to take for granted that my body would cooperate fully with pregnancy.

But
 
me
 
pregnant at my biological peak would have been a nightmare. At my biological childbearing peak, I’d been running myself ragged, doing everything from people-pleasing to conducting my very own search-and-rescue missions, looking for love in the most desperate dead-end relationships, abusing my body and my faith in the process.

Now,
 
in
 
my thirties and with roots that had grown deeper in the knowledge and wisdom of God, there was a part of me that had begun longing for companionship again. I’d been blessed with many accomplishments educationally and professionally, but I was quickly falling out of ladder-climbing mode. Rather, I wanted to enjoy the rung I was on—to live the thirties without chasing the forties. I wanted to rest in the fact that God was the head of my life, my constant source.

Stepping out of the tub and onto the cream-colored bathroom rug, I caught my reflection in the mirror and took a long look at my body.
 
Is this what
 
in
 
the thirties looks like? Not bad.
 
My light brown skin was still evenly toned and taut in most places. Breasts and behind still standing strong.
 
Stomach a little pudgy—nothing serious.
 
Time had done a number on my hips, but the curves were a welcome change, adding femininity to the body once referred to as a beanpole.

Next, I examined my face. I was truly blessed with clear, healthy skin. I didn’t wear makeup in high school or college, but after taking a professional job I decided to start wearing foundation, mascara, and lipstick. Every once in a while I did something with my eyes, but it never amounted to much behind the lenses of my glasses.

I glided closer to the mirror, running my hands along my cheeks.
 
That thirty-something face belonged to a single, African-American Christian woman.
 
My eyebrows were perfectly arched, and all other facial hair had been removed. My thick lips took on a life of their own with their natural outline and plump staging. I studied the outline of my face: high cheekbones, dimples, clearly defined chin, and slightly widened nose. It all played together pretty well, if I might say so myself.

After getting into my nightclothes, I walked down the center hall of my home to the guest bedroom, better known as my prayer closet. Though the small room was furnished only with a desk, a mauve halogen lamp, a painting of a richly brown woman braiding a young girl’s hair, and a daybed, it was completely filled with the soft reign of peace. Peace that settled on my mind like several feet of snow, insulating me from the noise of life.

I reserved this space, kept it free of clutter, for simple reasons. There, as I knelt down by the side of the daybed and folded my hands in prayer, I could feel His presence, as though He had been anticipating this time alone as much as I had. We had both been awaiting the time to sit down and talk, commune about the day. A time to receive instruction, chastening, share a word or a laugh.

Father, I honor
 
You
 
for who You are.
 
For being the sovereign Lord of my life.
 
I ask your forgiveness for being impatient today with a few students and colleagues. I thank
 
You
 
for covering me when I’m wrong and extending Your grace and mercy in every area of my life. And I thank
 
You
 
for leaving Your Spirit as a constant friend.

Now, Father, I pray that
 
You
 
would help me to rest in where I am
 
right
 
now. Humph, I’m in my thirties, Father,
 
help
 
me to trust in You all the more. My time on earth seems even more precious now. I thank and praise
 
You
 
for being at the center of my life. Now, as I prepare to study Your Word, show me what
 
You
 
want me to know. Speak to my heart and help me to be not only a hearer but also a doer of Your Word.
 
In Jesus’ name, amen.
 

Through divine planning, in the midst of my simmering anticipation, I could only laugh at where God placed me in my week’s devotional study on that night, right at Matthew 6:34:
 
Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself Each day has enough trouble of its own.
 

Thank You, Father. You always know.

I finished up my devotional time with a journal entry, making note of this special verse that seemed to have been written just for me tonight. As I placed my journal into the old cedar desk and twisted the gold, ribbed knob to extinguish the lamp, my thoughts reconciled themselves, lined up with the Word, lulled me into a drowsiness that I knew would bring about a good night’s rest.

Chapter 2

I
 
smoothed out my skirt, which I’d managed to get all wrinkled up in a game of hide-and-seek with the Sunshine Band kids, who’d just been released from their choir practice in the sanctuary. I’d joined in, claiming to help my little brother, Jonathan, find a good hiding place. But I really enjoyed the game even more than Jonathan and the rest of the kids.

Being twelve had its complexities: periods, perms, training bras. One minute I was laughing out loud at cartoons; the next, sadly, I was stuffing my bra. Every once in a while, however, I managed to squeeze in one of the last ounces of childhood.

Now, as Sister
 
Lacefield
 
motioned for the Purity Class members to come into the building and the older youth began arriving, the smell of firewood burning made me want to go back home and cuddle up in my bed. But I was Puritan now. Our practice lasted late on Saturdays. I rearranged my headband, dusted the leaves off my sweater, and hoisted my preteen aura back in position. Jonathan joined my mother in the car, and I was off to the fellowship hall for my turn to meet and practice for the Youth-in-Action Sunday morning program.

Dry leaves crunched beneath my feet as I walked toward the back porch of the church. The two steps leading to the back door were crooked and cracked, and a stream of ants was busy using the inadvertent shortcut to prepare for the winter. Inside the building, the smell of new carpet reminded me to go back out again and check my feet for mud. Mother
 
Bohanan
 
had said that we were to be grateful and respect the house of the Lord, especially now that the church had new carpet. And she’d already told us that she would pop anybody she witnessed chewing gum.