Tag Archives: Church

The Forgotten Purse

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Sister Brenda got off the church bus tired and sleepy. With her big black tote, she walked into the restroom then got a hot chocolate from Dunkin’ Donuts. She was thankful for the mini break.

When she got back on the bus she sat comfortably. Everyone was eatting and the lights turned off. The bus driver, Deacon McCloud, left the rest area and picked up the speed on the turnpike.

“I left my purse!” Sister Brenda yelled frantically.

“You did what?! Sister Brenda?!”

“What was in it?”

Everyone begin to ask her questions as the bus inched over the George Washington bridge.

“Did you have money in it?”

“How much?”

“My iPad is in it -with all my memories!!” She sobbed.

The questions stopped and everyone begin to brainstorm. Finally, someone got the number to John Fenwick Service area. But no one picked up.

“Let’s pick it up on our way back.”

Sister Brenda wasn’t happy but what could she do? She tried to stop worrying about it. The weekend came to an end and the church trip ended. All the people hugged. “Peace Be!” The church family climbed the bus while the saints in New York waved.

Sister Brenda went to sleep. Everyone went to sleep but Deacon McCloud. Thoughts about the past weekend was heavy on everyone’s mind. The sermons, the conversations, the food, the songs…

The bus left the Bronx. It breezed pass what was left of the city and rolled into the George Washington Bridge. It hit traffic. It sped up. Then, it slowed down again. New Jersey vanished as well as the service area, John Fenwick…

“My purse!!” Sister Brenda yelled with hope. “My Purse!!”

People near her woke. Others repositioned their bodies. Deacon McCloud looked into the rearview mirror with blood shot eyes. He gripped the wheel and asked in his most patience voice.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Remind me earlier? I’ll swing the bus back.”

Sister Brenda stood up this time. Fighting sleep. She watched the driver make a wide turn.

“This is not the station.” she said matter of factly when he creeped up to it. “It is too!” They began to banter about which service station she left her bag. She never got off the bus because she was now confused. “My bag” she whispered. She went back to her seat.

The bus driver drove the bus back to the south. As the people awoke, they were surprised she still didn’t have her bag! They begin to brainstorm.

“Can’t someone who is passing the station get the purse?”

“There are other buses.”

“The bus going to Virginia will get it!” Someone hung up their phone.

“Nope, Virginia already passed the station too!” Someone else hung up their phone.

“The bus going to South Carolina will get it!” Another person in the back chimed in.

But the South Carolina bus couldn’t describe the bag well enough. They left.

A week passed and Sister Branda thought about her iPad. She focused on all her pictures she took and songs she wrote. Imagining each song help to drown out the voices of doubt. There were plenty. Some whispered and other voices said it loud and clear.

“You can always get another iPad.”

“You probably won’t get your bag back.”

“You know how big that station is!?“

Then she got a call. A couple who lived in New Jersey and attended the conference got the news. They lived right next to the station! It was nothing for them to casually stop by. And it was nothing for the service station to hand over the big black bag with all of Sister Brenda’s belongings. Her money she forgot she had and the iPad with all the memories.

It is Well with my Soul

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(This image is from a NYT article dated June 2022 and is drawn by Sammy Harkham)

I am currently reading, Four Hundred Souls: A Community History of African America, 1619- 2019 edited by Ibram X. Kendi and Keisha N. Blain. While reading part seven of the collection, I came across, Reconstruction, by Michael Harriot. The essay reminded me of Sunday morning service and thinking of Sunday’s service made me write the following post.

The except that inspired me reads:

The hero of this drama is Black People. All Black People. The free Blacks; the uncloaked maroons; the Black elite; the preachers and reverends; the doormen and doctors; the sharecroppers and soldiers- they are all protagonists in our epic adventure.

Spoiler alert: the hero of this story does not die.

Ever.

This hero is long-suffering but unkillable. Bloody and unbowed. In this story- and in all the subsequent sequels, now and forever- this hero almost never wins. But we still get to be the heroes of all true American stories simply because we are indestructible. Try as they might, we will never be extinguished.

Ever.

Harriot continues his essay describing the fight for life, and political freedom during this tumultuous time in America. He tell us of the many murders that took place, and about the three major attempts to put an end to the Klansmen.

Somewhere inside of my psyche, Harriot’s historical account and my experience on Sunday made a connection.

Before I tell you about Sunday, I must tell you about Bis (changed his name for confidentality). We met as children. He is the 15th child of his family and I consider him a little brother.

Outside of being handsome, he’s an extremely kind person and very brotherly. He’ll open the door for sisters, carry heavy boxes, and greet everyone with a charming smile. What I enjoy most about his character, is that he is one of those brothers who can sing and isn’t afraid to do so. And chile, he can saaang. It is not a surprising fact because; mostly everyone in his family can sing. (Not even kidding- one of my close friends who came to church was mesmerized by his mother’s voice).

On Sunday, however, when Bis begin singing; his voice was that of an old man who smoked for many years. I turned around to see who was singing and was shocked that it was him. He must be in pain, I thought. I looked into his eyes. His young, carefree spirit seemed to be holding on to something greater than himself.

I cried and cried and I can cry some more if I think about it all.

He started singing Your Grace and Mercy by Frank Williams. I heard Bis’ mother singing along. She was lining out each word with a motherly wail; which made me cry even more. His beautiful sisters surrounded him, singing and crying too.

The song ended and he shared his testimony with the congregation. He arrived at his doorstep and while entering his building, was shot in the neck. God kept him alert and aware of everything in the moment.

He knew he was shot.

He knew he should seek help.

He ran for his life in the direction of the hospital. On the way, he spotted an ambulance truck. He banged frantically on the door and on the side of the truck. The two sleeping EMS workers took one look at him, and didn’t inquire or offer to help.

He tried talking with his hands. Making symbols.

Heart!?!!

Shot!!!!

Gun!!!!

But, nothing would do. They wouldn’t open their doors.

He gave up on them and ran the rest of the way to the hospital- Ten NYC blocks.

They rushed him into the emergency room. They told him the bullet traveled to to his shoulder, and eventually to his back. But- he had very little bleeding. Already his body was growing around the bullet and fighting off the new intruder.

“You’re a lucky man”, the doctor said to him.

“The bullet”, he was told, was “a stray cop bullet.”

A cop bullet? I looked around at others. Most people had their heads bowed. There wasn’t much noise. No amens or hallelujahs. Nothing. The Holy Ghost Fiery church was listening… with sorrow.

I thought, how many innocent people a year are killed by cops? Is he really a lucky man? Will the cops be moved into a new community to practice getting their target? Did the target look like him? Will they find the gun, trace the fingerprints, and hold the person who pulled the trigger responsible? Or is he lucky to have the innocent bystander story of I was just walking into my building when I got shot?

Also, is any money being made on account of his luckiness in getting shot? Is he getting a huge sum that will pay for any damage? I know the doctor is getting paid, the the ambulance drivers are getting paid and the cops are also getting paid; but what about his mother and her now new job of having to care for this young man and his days of missing work?

Is this all luck? Is luck to be Black and not die from a stray bullet? Blacks die from stray bullets and have been dying from their stray bullets since the beginning of the war they started in 1869.

After struggling for his life, Bis was released home. He is still recovering and rejoicing for another chance at this thing called life.

Everyone was impacted by his testimony and the mood of the sanctuary was now changed. The ex-cop who sat behind me held her head down. Not just down, but her entire torso was bent over and grunts could be heard as Bis spoke.

Young sisters thought of the safety of their brothers and brothers thought of the safety of their sisters because who’s exempt from a stray? No one was ever exempted from the noose. No one is exempt from a stray.

Mothers. Mothers. Black Women. Their pain was uncovered as Bis spoke and spoke.

What a powerful testimony, one mother said as she resumed her seat by her husband. She stood frozen by the entrance. Listening.

Bis spoke of his worry of being able to use his limb, his nervous system, his respiratory system…systems. Will his body ever be back to normal?

I thought of another brother who was also shot. I was sympathetic to his personal tragedy. He said he had two bullets in him which sounds frightening. The word lucky never came to my head. However, feelings of anger came to me.

While Bis was sharing his worries with the church, I remembered the agility of the other brother and was comforted to know that perhaps Bis will be okay in the long run.

The service continued and the Minister called on Sister Williams. She started singing the 1871 hymn by businessman Horatio Spafford. Spafford needed comfort in his situation of mourning the death of not only his son who had passed due to the Great Chicago Fire but also the death of his four daughters who had died the following day while trying to escape the fire engulfing their community. Once again, young people trying to escape fire. It was as if God himself was using the same Spirit to calm the fears of the congregation.

When peace like a river attendeth my way/ When sorrows like sea-billows roll

Whatever my lot,/ Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

Her soprano reached up and called, and the church responded

It is well, It is well, with my soul.

In no account do I see luck or chance but a lot of fiery trails. A lot of running and a lot of people determine to live in-spite and despite of.

The essay by Harriot ends by telling us that even through it all, the most magnificent part is Black people in America still exist. Every imaginable monstrosity that evil can conjure has been inflicted on this population, yet they have not be extinguished. The hero remains.

Still.

And that is the most wondrous part of all.

Sunday I cried and cried and I can cry some more if I think about Sunday Morning service while reading Reconstruction by Michael Harriot.

A trek across the Bridge- without tech

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The young people in my church do not communicate with one another as I did with my peers growing up. One main factor is technology. Some of the children have the bad habit of scrolling (as adults) when around the temple. I didn’t realize it was an issue until I asked one child to call another.

Who him?

Yes! You see him every week and don’t know his name?!

Not all the children have a personal phone but all of them at one point or the other use the phone for recreational activities while in the temple. When school let out and it was time for the Youth Conference, I had one agenda: get the children to learn each other names. I planned a day trip to Brooklyn and got the parents involved. The morning of the trip, I asked the children:

Who can name everyone in the group?

No one could.

Great. This leads me to the next ask. I ask you all to leave your phones at the church while we travel.

What?! Not my phone!?

Yes, your phone. Leave it here. Challenge yourself to talk to each other and learn one another names.

It didn’t take too much begging as I thought it would. As a matter of fact, they did so willingly.

When I told the Little Flock we were going to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, they were ecstatic.

It’s a mile long to said to them.

Oh, that’s no problem! They said. One of them, Carter, told me of the time he and his dad rode their bikes over 5 miles!

The picture above is of them before the trek. Standing with them is Mother Grace. She’s excited as well.

Here’s another photo. This one really captures their joy. What you don’t see is the huge black cart I have filled with their bags and food. What they didn’t know at that moment was, I was NOT going to be responsible for pushing the food cart alone.

I warned them of the many people crossing the bridge and told them to stick with the group. I also told them about the many vendors and reminded them that the only food we were eating was in the cart.

We started out and there was so much to see and learn!

By the time we were half way across the bridge, everyone was looking for an exit, a way out, and even though I am smiling, I am too!

Mother Grace was doing a great job taking photos. As you can see, the cart is being passed around and now Ely is pushing it. He did so with the joy of a child which made him the official cart pusher until someone else got jealous and he happily passed the job on to them.

We reached the end of the bridge (finally) and you would have thought they never walked a block in their lives. I was weighed down by their lack of not wanting to walk anymore. They began to remind me of the itinerary for the day:

Are we getting pizza now? Where is the park? Can we get ice cream?

We got to the park and they ate lunch (from the cart) and played for almost two hours! I couldn’t believe that they couldn’t walk abut could play and play and play!

Soon it was time to get brick oven pizza but instead of going to a pizza parlor, we ended up at an ice cream shop that sold all sorts of ice cream even for lactose intolerant children.

Ely who helped the most and made it his duty to remember everyone’s name got a milk shake. He was the only one who didn’t have to spend his own money.

They laughed and talked garrulously.

The mall had some fun exhibitions to check out.

But pretty soon it was time to go back home and the first question they asked was-

Are we going back across the bridge?

Maybe. Why?

Because we are tired. We can’t walk across that bridge.

Well maybe we will take the train from here.

Please. Please. We beg of you.

I looked at them and laughed. We took the train instead of walking across the bridge. Everyone went to sleep on the long train ride back to the Bronx. Even I dozed off right before it was time to get off!

I was awaken by the little boy with the high pitched voice. Amir shouted in my ear and pulled my arm.

Sisstria! Sistria! It’s our stop!!

How he remembered our stop is still unbeknownst to me.

I jumped up and everyone followed. Scrambling. We got on the platform and I trudged along with the sleepy children. One little girl was walking with her eyes closed, holding on to my arm. We maneuvered through the crowed station until she cried ouch!! ouch!!

I looked down at her.

What happen?

I bumped into his arm!! Ouch, my eye!

I looked up at an embarrassed tall man who was standing akimbo. “Sorry”, miss, he mumbled. She walked smack into my elbow.

I quickly moved on.

How did you walk into his elbow? The child was holding my arm tighter.

My eyes are closed. I am sleepy.

But darling, I said, stopping to look at her face, you can’t walk on the platform with you eyes closed. I scolded as we continued walking and picked up our pace. “You can hang on to my arm but you must open your eyes!!” I thought of the irony of it all, here I am hoping they will get to know each other names and these kids seem to have an agenda of their own. The audacity, walking with her eyes closed!

We finally got out of the station and walked back to church. I thought they were going to be anxious about using their phones once we arrived back at the church; but they continued to eat and talk with one another (with their eyes wide open) until it was time to go home.

Candies in Church

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When I was a little girl, the ushers would walk up and down the aisles looking for people sneaking candy in church. If caught in the act, children would be forced to spit it out immediately. That’s when and where learned how to eat  discretely. Not in class. In church.

I remember, all children would enter the sanctuary with mini brown paper bags filled with peppermints, Choward’s Violet Mints, mini gummy hamburgers, mini gummy pizzas, war heads,  tootsie rolls (only chocolate), sour gum, winter-fresh, and the list goes on. The girls would hide the bags in their purse and the boys would place it in their suit jackets.

In those days, you only needed a dollar or two to fill a brown paper bag. Offering money went to the man at the store across the street (we never said corner store because it wasn’t on a corner and we had to stress that it was across the street because only certain children were allowed to cross the street). If you were like my friend Angela who could not go across the street, then you went to Mother Woods who was the alternative. She ran her own candy store inside the temple. Which was where you got more for your money. She supplied everyone with candy for Sunday night service.

We ate so much candy, rules were created. Gum chewing was the greatest sin. Teens would chew gum and place it under the pew. Then, children would scratch the chewed gum off and place it in their mouths. If caught in this act, you were made into a laughing sport and everyone crossed their fingers and whispered cooties. This only lead to someone being escorted out of the service to be spanked.

There were also ways to pop candy into your mouth- act like you are coughing and then put the candy into your hand and place it in your mouth or bend down like the adults would do. And the instructions to how to eat a huge peppermint ball some still follow now.  Find someone with strong teeth (those days my strong person was Patrick ) and ask him to bite the mint. This rule was created because of kids choking on hard candies.

Finally, the demographics of the church changed and the new temple was built and just that fast, the store across the street went out of business.

I remember my last talk with the man across the street. I was now a teen and could go across the street anytime. He said to me, after your pastor died, not many people come anymore. Why?

I don’t remember my answer. But I remember a feeling of sadness being washed over me as I walked back into the temple.

A couple of years I stopped eating candy. This doesn’t stop people from offering or asking me for candy. Every Sunday after church, my purse has five more soft peppermints; which I save until Sunday night broadcast, for choir members who ask for candy.

 

A visit to Norfolk, Virginia

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When I was a little girl, my mom would send me along with my siblings to Virginia to spend time with her family. Those trips south ended too quickly and as an adult I have only a few memories.The memories are the ones my siblings and I spoke often about when we returned back home.

The most popular memory is of  my little sister telling my Grandma her spanking didn’t hurt. We were all stun when she spoke back after getting a spanking! And, we remember what happen afterwards, my Grandma got another switch from the tree outside. Somehow my sister became a hero of us all and we celebrated that story by reciting it to all who would listen. We didn’t care that she got another spanking, what mattered was, she was not afraid to talk back!

Another favorite character of our memories was The Eagle. For some reason, we were also obsessed with The Eagle. Our grandma would warn us not to wander far from her house (which was in the country) and told us of the bears and other scary animals which lurked behind the trees. We were most afraid of The Eagle that could come at anytime and swoop a child up from the ground.

One day her stories turned into a frightful event when she ran outside her house while we were all playing and told us to hurry back in. She could see The Eagle in the distance. We ran back inside and watched The Eagle land in her yard. We were all sitting on the couch looking out the window, our hearts beating fast. The only two not crying were my older sisters. But everyone was truly afraid.

When we arrived back in New York, our mom had a time telling us that The Eagle didn’t travel to the Bronx.

Then there’s memories that are very faint.

One of me stepping on my older cousin’s feet just to see him get mad and ask my grandma ‘What’s wrong with her? She keeps stepping on my feet!” But of course I don’t know which cousin it was? Andre, Raymond?

Then there’s one of my grandma telling us to come back inside. She had a swing set attached to a see-saw that was made out of metal. It was green and white and as a little girl, I thought it was very huge. Every morning after a hot breakfast, we would run outside to play.

I remember the clothes line and the wash machine at the back of  her little house. The clothes were always white and smelled of fresh lemon and grass. I would run back and forth between the white sheets until my grandma told me to stop.

I remember eating lunch and dinner. She would make mashed potatoes and ground beef with lima beans. That’s the only meal I could remember. I think it was my favorite.

And we always ate icys or ice cream for desert and snack. It was served to us at the diner table. The ice cream was always served in cheap, plastic bowls. The ones you’ll find at the dollar store. The icys were always on a stick. I remember us watching our grandma bite the icys without a care in the world. We didn’t know she could not feel the cold because of her false teeth.

Of course she took us to church services but I don’t remember much. So recently when my cousin drove me to the temple in Norfolk, I was certain it was my first time there until my aunt reminded me that I used to come to Norfolk as a child.

I did?

Yes. With your Grandma.

As she spoke, the memory of the layout of the church returned to me. I remember thinking how strange it was that all the pews in the sanctuary were not facing toward the pulpit, but some were on steps and placed against the walls. I remember running up those steps, thinking, a church with steps in the sanctuary is so cool!  I remember sitting with my older cousins, Shawn, Mona and Dina who had the best handbags filled with stuff to satisfy a little girl’s imagination. I remember being given money to go to the offering but then, that’s where the memory stops.

 

The Showers of Blessings Conference

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I had many high notes for the Showers of Blessings Conference. But the two that happened at the very end was having the opportunity to sing ‘Blessed Assurance’ with my 95 year old grandma and hear her tell me, God Bless You repeatedly. The next one was spending time with my church sisters, my childhood friends. We stayed up until three in the morning talking about Race and Men (doesn’t that sound like a book title?)!