It was my turn next. The mood had been everywhere, so I figured I should focus on my own thoughts. I went up to the microphone and said, “Hi, I am not a poet by any means. But I was inspired to write a couple of poems and I wanted to share them. This is called ‘Au Naturel,’ and I wrote it at a time when I was down and was searching for something or someone to pick me up. I looked within and this is what I came up with:”
I am Au Naturel.
Of the Earth and like the Sun.
My brown skin darkens with each outside excursion.
I am the essence of dirt, the grass, and the trees.
I reflect the light’s rays and beam so bright.
My possibilities are endless.
And I can do all things through Christ that strengthens me.
I took a long deep breath and looked at the crowd. And they clapped and snapped their fingers.
“Thank you very much. I don’t know if this next one is a poem or not, but I call it ‘Maybe.’”
Then I closed my eyes and said:
Nobody knew how much I needed to be loved.
Because I didn’t know how to show it.
Maybe God sent you to show me the possibilities.
To show me how nice it feels to see goodness in someone you find so sexy.
To hear positivity come from someone’s mouth who makes you dizzy.
And to talk to someone you find so intelligent and attractive and strong . . . Maybe.
I opened my eyes and dabbed the corner where a tiny tear threatened. I smiled and looked at all the smiling faces staring at me. They nodded. Maybe they got some truth out of it too. As I walked back to my seat, Mr. Hawaii raised his eyebrows and gave me a thumbs-up.
You Make the Call
W
hen I got in the door, my answering machine was blinking, so I pressed the button.
Beep.
“Hi, uh, Chantell, it’s me, Eric, again. Hey, you didn’t call me back, and so I was trying to catch you at home. Look, Chantell, I still love you, and I’m not seeing anybody right now, and I wanted us to talk . . . I was thinking maybe we could do some of those things that we always talked about. You know, like rent a limo and ride to Napa Valley. Anyways, I miss you. Call me back.”
I looked at the phone for a moment, then picked up the receiver and dialed the number that showed on the caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Eric.”
“Hi, Chantell. How are you?”
“I’m good. What about you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. You know me, I am just chillin’.” He laughed nervously.
“That’s good.”
I thought about the day that I struck him in my bed when he told me we weren’t getting married, and then again at the lake.
“Hey, Eric, I just—”
“Chantell, I—”
We laughed.
“You first,” I said.
“Nope, ladies first.”
“Okay, I wanted to apologize for the day at the lake. And for any other times that I put my hands on you or was rude. I was way out of line.”
“It’s okay. I was out of line too. You think maybe we could get together and talk later on? You know, about us?”
“Eric, that’s not a good idea,” I said while I twisted my fingers up in the curly cord of the phone.
“Why, you got a man?”
I stopped twisting. “No. I don’t—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Eric.” I sat back in the dining room chair and said, “In my heart, I know that our time has passed.”
“Oh, I see, it’s a God thing. Okay. I’ll wait for you.”
“No sense in waiting, Eric. We had some fun times together, but you’re right. It is a God thing. He’s working on me. I will always hold a special place in my heart for you, but I want to let our past stay in the past.”
“Whaaaat?” he said with a sudden attitude. “Like that? Dude at the lake must have really put it—”
“Stop it, Eric. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice getting louder. “Look, I will always care about you. Take care of yourself, okay?”
“Chantell—”
“Bye, Eric.”
He sighed. “Yeah, whatever.”
Sealing the Circle
W
hen I opened my eyes that Sunday morning, the sun, which had been warming my face, seemed to wink at me. Good morning, Lord.
I got out of bed and made myself a cup of chamomile tea, a bowl of that new cereal with the strawberries in it, and two pieces of chicken apple sausage, a treat I’d found in the grocery store the day before. More at peace with my decision and myself, I was five pounds lighter, and my green pajama bottoms hung off my hips.
I took a bite of sausage, then I grabbed the phone and dialed Tia’s number. Ron was away on a business trip and wouldn’t be back until Wednesday. Their phone rang.
“Hello,” said a groggy voice.
I set down my tea and said, “Good morning, heifer.”
“Mornin’.”
“Are you still going to church with me?”
“Oh, I was sleeping good. What time is it?”
“It’s after nine. C’mon, get your butt up and let’s go. You promised!”
“I am, I am.” She yawned.
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at ten-thirty.”
“I’ll be ready,” she grumbled.
When I arrived at Tia’s house not only was she dressed and ready to go, but she was chipper.
“Good morning!” she said.
“Good morning.”
She got in the car and we headed down the big hill.
“So, did you get an opportunity to speak to that man from the museum?” she asked, inquiring about my plans for my mother’s paintings.
“I did. In fact, I’ve decided that I’m going to have my mom’s work shown there until I can get Zarina’s Gallery opened.”
“What! Your own gallery?”
“Yep.” I smiled proudly.
“Look at you, Miss Entrepreneur! Do your thing, girlfriend! Are you looking at locations yet?”
“No, it’s still a bit too early, but I’m in the process of doing the business plan now, and I’ve already found a company to reproduce my mother’s work.”
Tia looked impressed. “Sounds a little costly, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I should be. It’s costing me all of my 401(k), plus I had to cash out all of my online investments, but I should be okay.”
“Well, it’ll be worth it. And you could always talk to Ron if you needed more cash.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that, Tia. Hey, I’m also thinking of starting a Web site and selling Zarina’s art online in a virtual gallery around the world.”
“Good idea,” Tia said. “I can see it now, ZestyZarinaArt.com.”
I looked at her corny butt and laughed. “Or how about just, ‘ChantellsGallery.com’?”
“Umph-umph. There’s no twang to that.”
“What? That’s catchy! And what is a twang? You speaking Ron-speak again?”
We laughed as I pulled into the church grounds.
Inside the church, the podium had its usual fresh floral arrangements all around. Tia and I sat with Molina, my friend from long ago in my early churchgoing days. We glanced back at the doors excitedly every now and then, anticipating the choir that would burst through the doors in a moment, singing as though their lives depended on it. In my mind, we were a big circle. The choir and the congregation. They sang and praised God, and it reached over and blessed us, and we in turn prayed to God for them and with them every Sunday, and I believed our prayers reached over and touched them. It was a circle that kept going and going like the bunny in the battery commercial.
I looked over to my right, and Pastor Fields was sitting in her usual oak chair. The pews were already filled to the brim. The young gentleman usher who led us to our seat had walked back to his place at the door. I looked in Pastor Fields’ direction again, and when I caught her attention I gave her a big smile, and she smiled back.
An announcer asked the congregation to rise to receive the choir. Everyone stood, and on cue the choir marched in clapping their hands in celebration. They sang about lifting their hands to God and dancing like David danced. They sang all the way up to the choir stand.
A lady two people down from me sat fanning her face with the schedule of the day’s program. She rocked from side to side in her checkered two-piece suit. Her matching black-and-white hat was tilted to the side like she was Foxy Brown. I knew she had just gotten married to a man who had recently joined the church. He was a bit shorter than she was, and always wore a suede jacket, no matter what the occasion. They were in their late forties and looked very happy together.
The church’s “Mothers’ Row” was filled to the brim with wisdom. They sat there looking like debutantes of the past, complete in hat and gloves, waiting for the service to begin. All the mothers wore their hair in various shades of silver. Most wore curls—either their own hair or wigs. That is, except for my favorite, Mother Sarah, who bleached her entire head platinum blond; she also wore a striking blue eye shadow.
The Sunday prior, Pastor Fields had said that we were going to partner with an organization that was building homes on donated land for the homeless. Now she asked us to put on some old clothes and roll up our sleeves and go with her to help them to build.
With my head straight and my eyes rolled over toward Tia, I whispered, “I’m going to do that.”
She murmured through clenched teeth, “I think Ron and I will too.”
I smiled. Tia hadn’t been to church in I don’t know how long. I looked around at all of the flesh tones that ranged from chalk to chocolate. It was a sea of richness, and if you really allowed your soul to settle down and absorb the physical aspect of the church, you could smell it. It was like a combination of light perfumes, cologne, and fresh flowers from the altar, sprinkled with baby powder, spit-up, and the beginning of heat and perspiration as more and more bodies nestled into the church. It smelled like life.
The church was filled, including the balcony. There was definitely a spiritual revolution going on, and I was still in awe of it. God was speaking and folks were listening. I was glad I had accepted God into my life. I looked over at my best friend and new Bible study partner and gave her a quirky smile. She shook her head and looked straight ahead. God definitely had a way of doing things on His own watch, and in His own way.
The speaker said, “Please be aware that we are sponsoring the Bone Marrow Drive on November twelfth at the Community Center Park in conjunction with the Oakland Raiders organization. This is a time to bring out your families, and your friends. Brochures and informational flyers will be out front for you to take with you. Please remember that though you agree to donate marrow, it is only if you are a match for someone in need. It doesn’t mean that you’ll actually be called to donate. And the chances of actually being called to donate are slim. But it’s great to be a blessing to someone! Amen?”
“Amen,” agreed the people.
“Our goal is to register a thousand people. So let’s show up on the twelfth. We could save someone’s life. Amen?”
“Amen,” went the congregation.
The choir did a selection. It wasn’t a lot of stanzas, just a few, but I really enjoyed the song. They sang,
“God will not forsake you. Never ever, no! Not ever!”
Simple and to the point. Then they looked at one another and asked,
“Don’t you know?”
They peered into the crowd and sang their answer:
“God will not forsake you. Never ever, no! Not ever!”
When Pastor Fields came up to speak, she said, “I love that song, because the words ring so true. God may not do everything that you want, the way that you want Him to do it, but He will not forsake you.” An attendant walked up to the side of the podium and set a glass of water next to where the preacher stood speaking.
“In the book of Hebrews, chapter thirteen verse five, God says He will never leave you. God will make provisions for you. Psalm 58:11 says that He will reward you.”
I nodded, because with Eric’s and my being over, and Mina’s and my actually speaking to each other, I knew that I’d definitely made some changes and I believed that God was pleased. I felt I was striving toward righteousness. This diva of the past had no regrets. I prayed every day that I might continue to have no desire to fight or to claw to hold on to things because I thought they looked good; and that I might resist immediately going into combat mode with every other woman I saw.
Pastor Fields went on, “First Corinthians three and eight says every man shall receive his own rewards. So understand that we each have our own life path. What God has for you is for you! I can’t receive what He has for you, and you can’t receive what He has for me.” I nodded—indeed.
Moments after Pastor Fields finished her message, a lady wearing a white-and-yellow-flowered dress and a big white flower in her hair went up to the microphone and smiled. She said, “At this time, we would ask our first-time visitors to please stand.”
Tia stood up with about twelve other people. The announcer then told them that they were welcome and that “we at the Faith Center hope that you will enjoy your visit and will come and visit with us again.” She then asked if anyone would like to say a few words.
A tall figure stood up in the balcony where we used to sit as children and walked down the stairway that led to the main floor. I was looking straight ahead, and Tia noticed him first. She leaned down and spoke out the side of her mouth: “Pssst, KT at six o’clock.”
“What are you whispering about?” I whispered.
She nodded at the long, lean figure walking down the steps of the balcony. He wore a black wool petticoat jacket, a gray, ribbed turtleneck sweater, and charcoal-colored trousers. I was trying to be calm, but the rapid pace of my heart kept reminding me that I was nervous. Pastor Fields nodded as he made his way to the front to speak.
The announcer smiled and said, “Brothers and sisters, this is our very own Dr. Keith Rashaad Talbit.”
“Hello everyone,” he said, “I’m Keith Talbit. A lot of you know me as Keith Rashaad. I’ll just be up here for a moment. I promise I won’t take up a lot of your time.” I looked up at him.
“I’m so happy to be in God’s house today, and to see so many familiar faces. I love all of you. You are my spiritual family, and although I am not here every Sunday, know that I walk in faith with you. I have something that I want to do and I wanted all of you to share in this moment with me.”