Tides of Truth [03] Greater Love (9 page)

“Yes. Do you want to go with me?”

“No, thanks. I’m helping with the middle school kids’ class at my church in the morning.”

“That sounds more intimidating than Sister Dabney.”

“It’s not too bad.”

“Thanks again for being with me today,” I said. “What time do you want to leave for Athens?”

“I want you to stay here.”

It was such a sweet comment that I didn’t know what to say. I looked across at Zach. He put his hand on mine. I didn’t pull away.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night.”

Inside, I found Mrs. Fairmont dozing in her chair in the den with a college football game on TV. I touched her on the shoulder. She opened her eyes.

“Did you have a nice time with Vince?” she asked, blinking her eyes.

“I was with Zach. We drove to Tybee Island and walked on the beach. Then I went by the office and accepted the job at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter.”

“That’s nice. But it’s too cool to go to the ocean.”

“The sun warmed up nicely, and we walked all the way to the south tip of the island. We had the beach to ourselves. Later, we ate dinner at the French restaurant on Greene Street.”

Mrs. Fairmont stared at me for a second. “Tami, you look like a woman in love.”

I wished for a mirror so I could know what that looked like. I felt myself blush. I decided to change the subject.

“Would you like a cup of hot tea before going to bed?” I asked.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING,
M
RS.
B
ARTLETT SURPRISED ME BY CALL
ing the house shortly after Mrs. Fairmont came downstairs.

“Make sure Mother is ready by ten thirty,” she said. “Ken and I will be by to pick her up.”

“Ready for what?”

“Didn’t she tell you? Ever since this summer she’s been insisting we go to Sunday morning services. Half the time I’m not sure she stays awake through the sermon, but she seems to enjoy the choir. It’s a hassle to fit into my schedule, but she’s nagged me about it so much that it’s easier to go along than try to get out of it. Something came up, and our friends had to cancel our planned trip to West Palm Beach this weekend, but she knows there won’t be any church for her next Sunday unless she can get someone else to take her. I have a trip planned to do some early Christmas shopping in Atlanta. A close friend and I have booked a couple of nights at a new hotel and spa in Buckhead. They’ve got a staff of Swedish masseuses”—Mrs. Bartlett paused—“is that how you say the plural of masseuse?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Will you be joining us?”

“No, ma’am,” I said in shock. “I’ve got to go back to school.”

“You’re leaving this morning? I thought you’d spend most of the day in Savannah. Mother would like having you with her in the pew.”

I realized my mistake and laughed.

“I’m going to a church I attended a few times when I was here last summer.”

“The one with the woman minister located in the poorer section of town?”

I was surprised Mrs. Bartlett remembered Sister Dabney and the Southside Church.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you driving Mother’s car?”

“Yes, if it’s okay with you.”

“All right, but make sure you lock it. It may be Sunday morning, but I don’t trust that neighborhood. Did you know they’ve had to hire private security guards to watch the parking lot at Mother’s church? And it’s not in the middle of a ghetto. Thieves have figured out that cars at churches will be unattended for at least an hour.”

“Or longer, if the service doesn’t end at noon.”

“That would be a nightmare. At least Reverend Harwell knows how to tell time. He ends the service on the dot. Where is Mother now? Has she come downstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s drinking a cup of coffee in the den.”

“Don’t let her dillydally or fall asleep in her chair. I want her dressed and ready to go when we get there.”

Mrs. Bartlett ended the call. I went into the den. Mrs. Fairmont was sipping her coffee and watching a religious show on TV.

“Mrs. Bartlett says she’s going to take you to church this morning.”

“She has it backward,” the older woman answered, turning down the volume. “I’m the one who’s been taking Christine and Ken. He’s started listening to the sermons. Christine fidgets worse than she did when she was a little girl. I started back, thanks to you and the young man who came with you to the hospital to pray for me—”

“Vince.”

“That’s right. If you get a third boyfriend, I’m really going to get confused.”

“Vince isn’t a boyfriend. It’s Zach and I that are courting.”

Mrs. Fairmont smiled. “Isn’t it amazing how terms come back in fashion? I never would have guessed that one would recycle. Hemlines go up and down, only now when they go up I’m not sure they know when to stop. I guess it’s the same with words. Your clothes have a classic look.”

My wardrobe had been called old-fashioned, dowdy, dull, and a lot of even less-complimentary terms.
Classic
was a new one.

“Thank you. It’s about modesty and neatness.”

“Two other words some people want taken out of the dictionary. What time is Christine going to be here?”

“She wants you ready by ten thirty. I’ll have to leave before that to make it to Sister Dabney’s church.”

“Who?”

“The lady with the rocking chairs on her porch.”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Fairmont nodded her head. “Those chairs reminded me of the ones in front of my aunt Abigail’s house in Vernonburg. Maybe we can all go to her church one Sunday.”

“Mrs. Bartlett would find that more unique than a trip to a Swedish spa.” I laughed.

I put on a loose-fitting dress. A light swipe of lipstick added a hint of color to my lips. Sister Dabney wore her hair in a bun, but her congregation was a polyglot group of poor people. I brushed out my hair and let it cascade down my back. Mrs. Fairmont was dressed and ready before I left.

“Have a good time,” she said when I left her in the den.

Sister Dabney’s church was a long, white, single-story building with a crooked wooden cross in front and a hand-painted sign that read: Southside Church—R. Dabney, Overseer. Next to the church was Sister Dabney’s home, a small brick house with low shrubs in front. There were about twenty cars in the parking lot. Some of the people who attended the church walked to the service.

Inside, bare bulbs illuminated cement-block walls painted a pale yellow. Rows of simple wooden pews stretched from the rear to the front platform. A thin gray carpet covered the floor. The music service had already started. A skinny woman was playing the piano, and the sound of enthusiastic voices reverberated off the block walls. The sanctuary could hold more than two hundred people, but only about eighty or ninety were present. Every color of skin was represented.

On the platform stood a rickety podium with a purple rocker behind it. Sister Dabney, an obese woman with gray hair wrapped in a bun and wearing a dark blue dress, was sitting in the rocker with her eyes closed. She wasn’t singing but held her right hand high in the air. I slipped into one of the rear pews and opened a hymnbook. The song was familiar, and I quickly found it. Sister Dabney’s hand shook and several of the people in the congregation cried out as the power touched them. I felt nothing.

The pianist began another song I recognized as the church anthem, an exuberant melody similar to some of the older songs we sang at my home church in Powell Station. My grandmother would have enjoyed it. The message of the lyrics was simple—the sinner’s desperate need and the Savior’s sufficient grace. Sister Dabney stood and began to shuffle around the platform. I’d not seen this before and wasn’t prepared for the congregation’s reaction. Most of the people rushed to the aisle and began dancing toward the front. Those able to do so jumped in the air. Even the older members bobbed and weaved. I didn’t move an inch. We had lively worship at my church, but dancing, of any kind, was off-limits. I was glad Zach hadn’t been able to come.

The dancing lasted for several uncomfortable minutes until the pianist played a more worshipful song. Sister Dabney sat down and continued rocking. The congregation returned to their seats. After the music stopped, the people transitioned into the prayer service without any prompting from the front. Everyone prayed out loud at once. This, too, was different from Sunday morning meetings at my home church; however, I’d been to informal prayer services where a similar pattern was followed. I joined in, thanking God for his recent direction for the future and praying that he would bless the unknown twists and turns of the path ahead. Then, as if on cue, the room grew quiet. My heart beat faster.

“Does anybody want to hear the word of the Lord?” Sister Dabney called out in an accent forged in the Appalachians.

A smattering of “Yes, Lord,” responses could be heard across the room.

Virtually the entire congregation streamed back to the front of the room. As I joined the group, I wondered what was happening at Mrs. Fairmont’s church. It was probably about time to pass the offering plates.

When I reached the front Sister Dabney saw me. A slight smile creased the corners of her mouth. I smiled back, relieved that I didn’t have to worry about public exposure of any secret sin or open rebellion. Sister Dabney directed her attention to another area of the room and spoke to a woman about to be evicted from her apartment. The woman had never been to the church. After praying for her, Sister Dabney ordered the woman to stand in front of the platform and receive an offering directly from the congregation. People came forward and pressed small amounts of money in the woman’s hand while she wept in gratitude. I grabbed most of the bills from my purse and without counting them, gave the money to her.

Sister Dabney then pointed to a young man who’d remained sitting in a pew. In a loud voice she started naming the sins in his life.

“Stop!” the man cried out as he scrambled out and made his way to the altar.

A male member of the congregation knelt down and prayed with him. The young man’s back shook as he sobbed.

“Tami!”

Startled, my head jerked up. Sister Dabney was staring at me, her eyes flashing.

“See me after the meeting,” she said, then turned her attention to someone else.

“Yes, ma’am,” I managed in a weak voice.

I stumbled back to my seat. The rest of the service was a blur. I seriously considered simply leaving the building, but a mixture of curiosity and holy fear kept me glued to the pew. With Sister Dabney, it wouldn’t be enough to politely listen. The preacher’s words demanded a response. Accept or reject. Admit or deny. To corral my racing thoughts, I tried to pay attention to the sermon. Sister Dabney was preaching on the parable of the mustard seed from Matthew 13.

“The kingdom of heaven may start out small in your spirit,” she said, holding her fingers together, “but once it takes root in your heart, God’s will becomes big! Grow where God plants you! Reach out to those in need. Freely you’ve received, freely give. Who dares reject his purpose? Who shrinks back to destruction? Who treats salvation as cheaply purchased?”

A few people shouted, “Amen.”

“Don’t say that unless you mean it!” she thundered.

The room was completely silent. I was taking shallow breaths. Sister Dabney took something from the pulpit and held it up.

“This is a packet of mustard seeds,” she said.

Tearing open the envelope, she reached in it and then held up her hand.

“Can anyone see this seed?”

No one responded.

“So it is with you. The people of this world will not see the seed of God planted in your heart, but they won’t be able to deny the fruit when the plant grows to maturity. Cultivate that seed, and it will become a shelter and source of help for many.”

As the service ended my nervousness increased. Several people went forward to request prayer. I watched and waited. Sister Dabney didn’t seem to be in a hurry. When the last person turned away, I expected her to summon me forward. Instead, she walked slowly toward me.

“Come over to the house,” she said.

During the service Sister Dabney was so animated that it was odd seeing the difficulty she had walking. When we left through the building, she didn’t stop to lock the door.

“We have nothing worth stealing,” she said, answering my unspoken question. “And if someone did, the Lord would chase them down. Everything in the church has been marked as heaven’s property.”

“The same as the land,” I said.

“You have a good memory.”

We made the short walk across slightly uneven ground. Sister Dabney didn’t seem upset with me and my anxiety lessened.

“Does your family raise chickens?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Once a chicken hatches can it go back into the egg?”

“No, ma’am.”

I waited for the theological implications of her observation, but she didn’t add anything else. We reached the house. A blue rocker rested on the porch. It was the one Mrs. Fairmont sat in when we’d visited Sister Dabney.

“Bring that rocker inside.”

Sister Dabney held the front door open while I carried the wooden rocker inside. The living room was rectangular with an old red rug on the floor, a yellow rocker in one corner, and a red one in the other. Unlike Mrs. Fairmont’s home, it wasn’t suitable to appear in a homedecorating magazine.

“Put it beside that other one,” she said, pointing to an open spot to the left of the yellow rocker. “Then sit in the yellow one.”

“Why are the rockers different colors?”

“All you need to know about is the one you’re sitting in. God is about to shine light into your darkness.”

I glanced at the yellow arms of the rocker. Sister Dabney sat in the blue rocker and closed her eyes. My nervousness returned. I was sitting in a strange house with a stranger woman. Because Sister Dabney might be able to read my thoughts I frantically tried to think about something I wouldn’t mind her seeing. I quickly settled on reading the Bible in my apartment at school.

“A word for you has been building in my spirit since we met last summer.” Sister Dabney opened her eyes. “But you wanted me to wait before telling you.”