Diary of a Mad First Lady (3 page)

As I sat at the breakfast nook of our kitchen with the plantation shutters open wide, I took in all that God had blessed me with on this beautiful Sunday morning. I hurried to finish eating because it was nearing time for me to start getting dressed. Because I missed going to the first service so often, I was never late for the second. My husband, being the prolific and astounding preacher that he was, enticed the crowd from the first service to stay for the second. He and the board members had been in constant talk about possibly going to a third service, but Darvin wasn’t hearing it. He was determined not to let the preaching gift be the cause of his early death.

I finished my food, put the dishes away, and then went into my oversized closet and contemplated what I was going to wear. Thankfully, my clothes were still behaving as they should, in spite of the pregnancy and slightly expanding waistline. I passed a row of St. John knits, a section of Donna Vinci, and stack of Manolo Blahniks to make my way to the “jean section” of my closet. I eyed the jean outfit that I was about to wear and laughed to myself. I was known for not being your traditional first lady, and I couldn’t care less that everybody expected me to be sharp every single Sunday. I also laughed because I knew that the deaconess was going to have a natural fit because I wasn’t wearing white today. It was first Sunday, communion Sunday, and this first lady was wearing a jean outfit. Like it. Love it. Leave it.

I trucked to the bathroom, took a shower, got dressed in a jean skirt that had a spray of rhinestones cascading down the right side, a black camisole, a matching jean jacket, and applied my makeup. I took one final glance in the full-length mirror next to my vanity, admiring the way the jean skirt tugged at my thighs, just enough for my husband to notice that my shape was still intact, and not enough for the “Mothers in Zion” to start the I-can’t-believe-she-calls-herself-a-preacher’s- wife gossip. Once again, I laughed to myself, because it wasn’t like I cared anyway.

Later on in my car, I opened the sunroof to my Navigator as I merged onto I-75. Spring was definitely in full force. The wind was blowing, the birds were singing, and I felt good.

I turned up my radio to hear the sounds of Kirk Franklin blaring through my radio. “Imagine Me” had become one of my favorite songs, and I couldn’t help but reflect over my own life each time I heard it. That song was followed by a song written by the praise and worship maestro in his own right, Mr. Fred Hammond.

I was jamming to the beat of Fred when I pulled into the parking lot of Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church. By the looks of the already full parking lot, you would have thought that I was a couple of hours late. Parishioners had already filled every empty space, and the parking attendants were directing traffic into the empty lot across the street that was being preserved for the next part of our building phase, the Mount Zion Youth Development Center. I drove to my own reserved parking space, remembering when the parking lot used to be only half full. Those were the beginning days, when we were struggling to keep members.

Darvin’s innovative approach to ministry had ruffled more than a few feathers and had ultimately sent people scattering to find a more traditional church. Darvin and I persevered, and two years later, we had the fastest growing ministry in South Atlanta.

The parking attendants greeted me with warmth as I maneuvered my way into the space, and before I could turn off my engine, my armor bearers (known to some as amateur security guards) were already rushing toward me. I smiled, because while most first ladies saw this as an opportunity to take advantage of someone’s servanthood, I actually respected my armor bearers as being critical components who ensured that my worship experience was uninterrupted from the time I stepped foot on the grounds.

“Good morning, First Lady,” Chanice, my newest assistant, said.

Twylah, my armor bearer for the last two years, came right behind Chanice’s greeting.

“Good morning, ladies.” I put on my “first lady smile” and exited the truck. Thankfully, today was a good day, and my first lady smile was real.

“First Lady, Pastor is waiting on you in the back. Are you going to need anything before the second service begins?”

I looked at Chanice and admired the beauty of her humbleness. She had only been at the church for six months since moving from New Orleans, but she went to endless measures to make sure I didn’t need a single thing. God must have had me in mind when he made her, because she had definitely been a God-send. However, I didn’t miss the disgusted look on Twylah’s face.

She and Chanice had been having problems as of late, each trying to vie for my attention.

“No, Chanice. I won’t need anything right now.” They opened the doors to the sanctuary, and the cool breeze that caressed my face was welcomed, because either the blaring sun was hotter today than usual, or the pregnancy hormones were really kicking in.

My armor bearers and I went to our private area in the back so that I could greet my husband. When he’d left earlier that morning, I’d been so sleepy that I barely heard him leave. Now, I was fresh and in my right mind, and ready to see the man that made my heart skip a beat. Even though I knew that he was getting ready to go into the service, I had to steal a kiss from him.

As we were walking in, he was walking out. His two armor bearers dwarfed him in size and made me and my two assistants appear as midgets.

“Hey, darling,” I said in my most cheerful voice, and kissed him dead on the lips.

“Hey, baby,” he said in a tone that only I knew and understood. That “hey, baby” was more than just a greeting. It was a promise for later.

I cooed on the inside, and Chanice and Twylah didn’t miss a single moment of the passion that passed between us in a simple greeting. I turned to see their reactions, and just as I expected, their smiles were as bright as the sun.

An open display of affection between us was customary around Mount Zion, and my husband always made sure to keep it up. When Darvin first accepted the call to pastor, certain females got a little carried away with their infatuation of the pastor, and Darvin had to set the record straight and let them know who the
only lady
in his life was.

“Are you going into the office to get a bite before you come down to the service?” Darvin asked as Elder Tyrone helped him into his jacket.

“No. I had a big breakfast before I left home, and we are fine.” I proudly rubbed my stomach. Once again, my heart warmed, but this time at the thought of bringing our baby into the world in five months.

A couple of years ago, I thought that the Daphne saga would destroy my marriage, but God had turned things around. I was now living my life like it was golden, and savoring every sweet moment of being Mrs. Darvin L. Johnson.

“Okay, baby, I’ll see you in service.” Darvin kissed me once again before disappearing down the corridor that led to the main sanctuary.

I watched him float away into the harmonious sounds of the praise team, who were getting people into the mind to worship. I strode into the office, took a quick glance into the mirror, and just to make sure that my makeup was still as flawless as it was when I left home, I applied another smooth layer of the M
A
C Studio Fix powder and a fresh coat of Spring Bean lip gloss. After deciding that I was satisfied with my appearance, we went out of the office in the same direction that Darvin had gone just minutes earlier.

I entered the sanctuary to find that we were yet again at seating capacity. As I took my seat next to my husband, I surveyed the audience and noticed that some people were standing with their hands raised, and others just simply bowed their heads as tears flowed from their eyes. The feeling of thanksgiving exuded from the churchgoers, and once again, I felt a peace come over me. I, too, worshipped God in my own way, and concluded that all was truly well with my soul.

As the praise team brought their last song to a close, the crowd was in an uproar, sending praises up to God. But I noticed one lone individual sitting in the back of the church. I could barely believe my eyes. It couldn’t be her. Sure, she looked a little different with her hair longer, but even from a distance, I could tell it was her. To those who were unfamiliar with her, she was like any other parishioner coming to the worship service; but to me, she was my worst nightmare.

The glee that had filled my heart just moments before was replaced by a twinge of hatred, just at the sight of her. I knew that it was wrong to feel that way, but nobody understood the hell this woman had put me through—and I was far from forgetting it. As a matter of fact, it might have been safe to say that I was still mad as hell.

My husband’s nudging sliced through my thoughts. I turned and glared at him because in that moment, I didn’t want to be jolted from my anger. Surely, this woman had come back to terrorize me. But this time, she would meet her match. This time, I wouldn’t pray as much as I did before, because when I prayed, God normally spoke some sense into me. I didn’t want any sense; I wanted to kick her butt, because I was one mad first lady.

Chapter Two

Michelle

My eyes were so fixed on the woman who had interrupted my flow of worship that my husband practically nudged a hole in my arm, trying to get my attention.

“Michelle,” he said as quietly as he could.

I jerked my head around and gave him the coldest stare. “What?” I shouted back through gritted teeth, and this time, a fake smile.

“What are you doing?” The puzzled look on his face matched my own, as I was trying to figure out why he was asking such a stupid question.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We are the only ones still standing.”

I followed his eyes to the congregation, and sure enough, we were the only ones who were not seated. The announcement clerk was reading today’s announcements, and I could hear a few people whispering among themselves, no doubt trying to figure out if something was wrong with us.

My legs were as heavy as steel, but I forced my limbs to slowly move backward as I sat down in my seat with embarrassment all over my face. I turned back to my husband’s questioning eyes, and I knew that I had to give some sort of explanation for my behavior.

“I’m sorry, baby. Believe it or not, Daphne is sitting in the back of the church,” I managed to get out.

“What? Daphne?” he said as his eyes scanned toward the back of the church. “You must be mistaken. She’s in a mental institution, baby. How could she be sitting in the back of the church?”

“I don’t know. If I knew that, I wouldn’t be so flustered,” I said. Suddenly, it came to me. Daphne’s two years in the mental institution were up.

“Baby, don’t worry about Daphne. Even if it were true that she was here, there’s nothing she can do to you here. Before she even gets close, an army of people will be there to stop her.”

Did he just hear me? She is here.

And, obviously, she couldn’t be stopped, because she was sitting in our church. I wanted to scream this to Darvin, but he had already turned his focus back to the service. I know it had been two years, but was I the only one who remembered just how subtle and conniving this woman could be? It was these traits that landed her directly into our lives.

Her desire to be intricately involved in the ministry matched our own need to have more volunteers. With her passion and willingness to work and make unending sacrifices, she quickly stood out from among the others.