Authors: Michelle Stimpson
“Now,
we don’t want to impose on you—we’re perfectly fine with staying in a
hotel.”
“Well,
I ain’t,” she insisted. “No family of mine’s gon’ be stayin’ in a hotel when I
got two bedrooms to share. I’m not gon’ let you block my blessin’, you hear?”
“Yes,
ma’am. We’ll see you Friday.”
Amani
grew as restless as a 5-year-old sitting in the back seat on the way to
Peasner. “How far is this place?”
“Two
hundred and sixty loooooong miles,” Sharla answered. She’d propped her elbow on
the side panel and set her fist against her temple about a hundred miles ago.
Mark
ignored their unpleasant comments. Once they got a taste of something or
another from Mama B’s oven, they’d thank him later. Growing up, he had spent
anywhere from a few weeks to a whole month in Peasner with his cousins Son,
Debra Kay, Cassandra, and Otha.
There
were always a bunch of kids at Mama B’s in the summer, so many that Mama B
would have to sit them all down and explain how they were related to one
another. Mark’s grandmother and Mama B’s mother were sisters. Mark and Otha
always had a hard time wrapping their minds around the fact that, although they
were nearly the same age, they were in two different generations.
Seeing
everyone that weekend would be a welcome break from the stress of things in
Houston. By then, some of them had probably heard about the wanna-be scandal,
but they were the people who had scraped knees and run from dogs with him;
they’d been through a few things together. If anyone asked, he’d tell them the
truth and they (or at least Mama B) would say a prayer, then Otha would
probably crack a few jokes about it and take another piece of pie.
Finally,
they approached the exit to Peasner. “Thank God,” Sharla sighed.
“Ditto,”
Amani grumbled.
“Alright,
enough,” Mark declared. “We’re here now. Let’s get rid of these bad attitudes
and have a good time with our family this weekend, okay?”
There
were three cars filling Mama B’s driveway already, so Sharla had to park next
to the curb. “My car better not get any scratches on it,” she fussed at Mark.
“Just
be thankful you have
possession
of your car right now,” he spoke over
Amani’s head.
Mark
could hardly wait to get into the house. He grabbed the heaviest bag with his
left arm and told Amani to get the other ones. Together, they walked toward
Mama B’s door.
“Hey,
y’all! It’s Tugga!”
Like
a pack of bees, several cousins swarmed to the wooden porch. Someone announced
that a preacher was in the house, and instantly a foot-stomping, hand-clapping
gospel beat ensued. “Can’t nobody,” Son started. The impromptu congregation said,
“Preach like Tugga, can’t nobody do you like him, can’t nobody preach like
Tugga, he’s my friend!”
Mark
couldn’t contain his laughter. Nothing had changed. They always teased him
about being a preacher. He knew it was their way of showing him they were proud
to have a preacher in the family.
Once
on the porch, he was surrounded by hugs and pats on the back. His family
pounced on Sharla and Amani as well, remarking on how well they looked.
“Where’s
Mama B?”
“She
in there cooking up a storm, as usual,” Debra Kay said, pursing her lips. “We
can’t get her to sit down for anything.”
“She’s
just nervous,” Cassandra defended.
“Who’s
this man she’s marrying?” Mark asked.
Son
relayed, “He’s alright. Good people. A doctor.”
“Mama
B done got her a doctor, eh? Watch out there now!” Mark slipped into the
dialect he always picked up when he spent a little time in Peasner.
Sharla
and Amani looked at each other as though they didn’t know that country man.
“Come
on in, Tugga,” Otha guided them inside.
A
mixture of complementing aromas swirled up Mark’s nostrils. “Now that’s what
I’m talkin’ about.”
He
noticed Sharla’s slight grin. She had to be hungry, too, since they—well,
she
—had driven four hours from Houston non-stop. “It does smell
good.”
Amani
gave in, “If she asks me if I’m hungry, I’m going to break the rules, Mom, and
tell her that I am.”
Otha
assured Amani, “You don’t have to be all proper here. You’re with family now.
If you’re hungry, just say the word.”
“The
word,” Amani joked.
“Boy,
you’re about as goofy as your Daddy,” Otha snickered, punching Amani’s
shoulder. “Y’all go on in and say hi to everybody. I’ll take your suitcases to
the back rooms.”
Mark,
Sharla, and Amani stopped to greet other family members strewn across the
couches, mostly people who had married into the clan, from what Mark could
tell. One asked about his arm. Mark simply replied, “I was in a car accident.”
“Aw,
man. You gon’ be all right?” Cassandra’s husband wanted to know.
“I’m
still standing!”
“Amen
to that,” from Son’s wife, Wanda.
In
the kitchen, Mama B was on the phone, but she immediately dismissed herself
from the conversation when Mark and his family entered the kitchen. “Tugga! Oh
my goodness! I can’t believe you made it! Come here, all of you!”
Mama
B pulled them all into a hug, planting a kiss on all six of their cheeks. “My
goodness! Is this Amani?”
Sharla
beamed. “Yes, ma’am. Thirteen years old.”
“My
Lawd! He ‘bout to pass you up, Tugga. And so handsome!” Mama B gushed. Then she
looked at him above the rim of her glasses. “Now, you listen here. Don’t you
let no little girls get you in trouble, you hear?”
“Yes,
ma’am,” Amani smirked.
“You
hungry?”
“A
little,” Amani said.
“Nonsense.
You a growin’ boy, you starvin’. Y’all always are. Look up in that cabinet and
get you plate,” she pointed to her right. “We got plenty in the oven and in the
refrigerator. Help yourself. And you can go on out back with the other
teenagers.”
She
didn’t have to tell him twice to fix his plate.
Two
little boys who couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old ran into
the kitchen and attempted to reach for the cookie platter on the table.
“Na-ah!
Wash your hands first,” Mama B stopped them. The taller one reached up and
turned on the faucet. They splashed around for a second, wiped their hands on
their shirts. By that time, Mama B had already separated four of the smallest
cookies from the stash. She handed them two each. “Now, don’t try to eat no
more until you finish supper tonight.”
They
nodded. “Thank you,” one of them minded his manners. Then they both took off
toward the loud chatter in the living room.
Mama
B, turned to Mark. “Tugga, you betta be teachin’ him right; don’t, this
good-lookin’ boy gon’ break a lot of hearts,” she warned Mark.
“Aw,
he just turned thirteen.”
“The
enemy don’t care nothin’ ‘bout him bein’ thirteen. He take ‘em at ten if you
let him. Don’t fool yourself, this boy need you every step of the way,” she
lectured. “You betta come out from around that pulpit sometime so you can keep
up with him. He’s a good boy. Special to the Lord.”
Really?
Did I come all the way from Houston
to hear the same song?
He avoided eye contact with his wife.
Sharla
hugged the elderly woman again. “Ooh, Mama B, I am
soooooo
glad we came
to see you. And you look so good! Haven’t changed a bit since the last time I
saw you.”
“Thank
you, sweetheart. I tell you what, though, I done picked up a few extra gray
hairs plannin’ this weddin’. They done added so much stuff—seem like you
spend more time plannin’ on stuff to thank people for comin’ than the actual
weddin’ itself! My goodness!”
“Well,
if there’s anything I can do to help, you just let me know,” Sharla
volunteered.
“As
a matter of fact, we got to finish decoratin’ the church tonight. That’s where
we havin’ the party tomorrow,” Mama B took Sharla up on the offer.
“Be
glad to.”
Somehow
in less than five minutes, Mama B had managed to win both his son and his wife,
while giving Mark a good tongue lashin’ by revelation of the Spirit—there
was no way she could have otherwise known the particulars of his household.
Leave it to somebody in tune with the Lord to read him like a book, in love.
Sharla
made a plate for herself and Mark. They joined the cousins out on the front
porch again. Mama B’s flowers added a pleasant fragrance to the early evening
air. The citronella candles worked overtime to keep the mosquitos away,
emitting a light stream of repelling smoke from buckets.
Though
they were all sitting within ten feet of each other in a circle of chairs and
swings, the volume level escalated with each speaker, each new recollection of
the good-ole-days when they used to go fishing and when Otha caused them all to
get a whippin’ because he wouldn’t admit to swinging the stick at the rock that
broke the back windshield of Uncle Albert’s Monte Carlo.
“Hey,
I hit the rock, but we were all outside hitting rocks with sticks! It could
have happened to any one of us!” he deflected.
“But
it was
you
!” Mark hollered.
“It
was just a matter of time before
somebody
did it!” Otha screamed back.
“You
know that’s how Otha was. He didn’t take the blame for anything he did wrong,”
Debra Kay blasted, laughing. “That’s why I didn’t feel bad when I used to lie
on him and he got in trouble. It was just payback.”
“Oooh!
I’mma tell Momma! You just admitted it!” Otha yelled.
“You
tell her and I’ll deny it.”
“Naw,
I got a neutral witness,” Otha said, pointing at Sharla. “You heard her,
right?”
Sharla
stuffed her mouth with a spoonful of potato salad. The entire porch erupted in
laughter.
“Aw,
naw! We kinfolk, Sharla! We kinfolk!” Otha tried to persuade her, to no avail.
Later,
Mama B led Mark and Sharla to their room. They transferred Amani’s suitcase into
the third room. “Cameron will be over here later on to keep Amani company.
Sounds like some of the other kids are gonna stay over tonight, too. Probably
playing video games ‘til the wee hours of the morning.”
“Oh,
that’s right up Amani’s alley,” Sharla said.
Mama
B left them alone to get settled a bit, saying she’d need help at the church in
another hour or so.
As
soon as she left the room, Mark asked Sharla, “When was the last time you said
‘up somebody’s alley’? You ‘bout country as they come!”
Sharla
muffled a smile and denied, “That’s not country. It’s just old school.”
“Yeah,
right,” Mark teased. He grabbed her from behind, interrupting her as she
attempted to hang their garment bag in the small closet.
“Mark!
We just got here.”
“We’ve
got an hour until she needs us,” he propositioned, wearing a mischievous grin.
Sharla
gawked, “Are you serious? There’s, like, a million people in this house.”
“A
million people who are all preoccupied with each other,” he said. He walked
back to the door, locked it. “You feel better now?”
“A
little,” she smirked.
“Well,
I want you to feel
a lot
better.”
“I
sho’ reckon that’s alright with me,” Sharla said in her most countrified twang.
Things
had been awkward with that arm sling, but he and Sharla worked around it, thank
the good Lord.
Then
it was time to join the relatives trekking to and from the church like ants
carting food to the anthill. Sharla had gotten herself involved with the
particulars in the kitchen with the women, while the men ran back and forth.
“Dad,
we’re having a party at a church, and the church is right behind her house?”
Amani mused, carrying a big platter of croissants as they walked across Mama
B’s back yard toward the sanctuary.
“Yep.
This is what you call a close-knit community. You don’t know nothin’ ‘bout
that. I apologize for not introducing you to the other side of the world, son.”
“The
dark
side of the world,” he croaked in a witchy voice.
“Nothin’
dark about Peasner, Mama B, or Mount Zion Baptist.”
Mark
wasn’t much use. The most consistent thing he could do was hold open doors
since he only had one arm available. Actually, since his rendezvous with
Sharla, he’d begun to feel a pinching sensation toward the wrist. Those pain
pills would come in handy, but he’d go as long as possible before taking one.
He didn’t want to miss one moment of fun with his extended family.
As
they approached the church the next time, Mark saw the backside of a car in the
front parking lot. He held the door for Amani to enter the fellowship hall,
then said, “You keep on. I’m gonna go around to the front and see who this is.”
“Cool.”
Upon
closer inspection, he saw that the car was an old, but well-kept Pontiac
Bonneville. When the door opened, he recognized its driver immediately. “Pastor
Phillips!”
“Ha-ha!”
the elderly man bellowed. “Look what the cat done drug in!”
Mark
gave his fellow clergyman a hearty hug. “So good to see you!”
“Right
back atcha!”
He
patted Mark on the back a little too hard, sending achy waves down his right
side.
“Now
you know Mama B’s family so big, I can keep track of faces, but I’m not so good
with names no more. Tell me who you are again?”
“I’m
Mama B’s nephew, Mark Carter. Everybody calls me Tugga.”
“Yes!
Tugga! You the one grew up to be a preacher, right?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Yeah,
I heard about your accident. God spared you for a reason.”
“Amen.”
Suddenly,
the car’s horn blew. Pastor Phillips flew to the passenger’s side. “My word. I
keep forgettin’. Gotta get back into the habit.”
A
full-figured seasoned woman with a baby-face unfolded herself from the seat as
Pastor Phillips opened the door for her.
“I’m
sorry, Ophelia.”
She
certainly wasn’t the woman Mark recalled as the first lady of Mount Zion. As a
matter of fact, he remembered Ophelia as one of Mama B’s best friends—not
Pastor Phillips’ wife. He’d have to ask Son about all that later. “Hello, Miss
Ophelia.”
“Tugga!
Mama B told me you’d be here. She’s so glad y’all made the effort to come
celebrate her wedding.” Ophelia plopped a kiss on his cheek and he returned the
gesture. “Look like you puttin’ on a little weight there.”
Old
folk sure had a way of pointing out the obvious. Mark sucked in his gut. “Yes,
ma’am. Working long hours at the church.”
“Well,
you need to get home at a decent hour so you won’t have to eat so late. Once
you hit forty, you got to cut back; don’t, you’ll be big as a house before you
know it.”
Was
this a conspiracy?
“Yes,
ma’am.” Mark was grateful Sharla hadn’t overheard his second reprimand. He was
starting to get the feeling that maybe Sharla wasn’t simply nagging him. She
cared about him and couldn’t turn off the God-given nurturing instinct. Like
Jackson said, it was part of their makeup. She couldn’t have turned it off if
she wanted to. Maybe she could tone it down, but it wouldn’t go away so long as
she was his helpmate.
“Can
I help you with anything, Pastor Phillips? Afraid I’m not much help with this
sling.”
“I’m
sure I can put you to work,” he laughed.
Ophelia
marched on over to the house while Mark followed Pastor Phillips into the
church building. They bypassed the hustle and bustle in the fellowship hall and
journeyed on toward the pastor’s office. The room had to be a fourth the size
of Mark’s office. Two walls were covered with plaques and certificates
memorializing his service to the members of Mount Zion and the community at
large. The pastor had tacked a number of phone numbers and reminders on the surface
behind the telephone. The last wall, a built-in bookshelf, boasted a gold mine
of books. Mark read as many spines as he could, recognizing the names of
well-known scholars and commentators in the collection.
“Pastor,
this is amazing,” Mark gasped. He had books on his bookshelf, of course, but
not the classics. Not the kind where you had to cross-reference with a
dictionary and two or three different translations of the Bible. Basically,
Mark read the Cliff-notes versions and stuck to the texts written in the
twentieth and twenty-first centuries. “I wish I had time to read so many
books.”
Pastor
Phillips cautiously lowered himself into his worn leather seat. “You got to
remember, I been pastoring almost forty years.”
Mark
parked himself across from the pastor in a hard wooden chair. “Yeah, but you’ve
got some
serious
books in here. How do you find the time?”
“Well,
now, nobody can’t
find
time or
make
time. You got to
section
off
time to study the word, you see.”
Mark
admired the pastor’s easy demeanor. “I hope that when I get to be in my sixties
or seventies, I’ll be able to slow down and enjoy good books, too. But right
now, my church is bursting at the seams. Well, once I get us past this little
mess we’re in right now. I think I’ve lost some of my members. But we’ll be all
right as long as we follow the plan.”
The
senior pastor raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s up to
you
to keep the
church on track?”
“I
have to. I mean, right now my other ministers are filling in until the media
finds someone else to rag on. Plus I gotta get this arm back on track. If I
don’t eventually take the reins back, my church will…I guess, collapse.”
Mark
figured he must have amused the pastor, by the way he laughed. Pastor Phillips
rested an elbow on the arm of his chair and pushed up the wrinkles at his
temple with his forefinger. He stared at Mark for a second. “You think the
entire church rests on you?”
“Of
course it does. I founded it—after God told me to, I mean,” Mark
corrected himself.
“You
threw that last part on there like you didn’t want to sound prideful, but you
really
do
think you founded
your
church and those men are
your
ministers and the people are
your
members. You in dangerous territory.”
Mark
couldn’t refute that those words had come out of his mouth only seconds
earlier.
“Who’s
your mentor?” Pastor Phillips demanded.
“Dr.
Kevin McMurray.”
“Yes,
Dr. McMurray. I’m familiar with his ministry. Powerful. You been sittin’ down
with him lately?”
Mark
shook his head, feeling somewhat ashamed. “No, sir. I’ve been so busy, you
know, running the church. He’s called me, has set up appointments. I had to
cancel the last two. I know I need to talk to him more. We’re both pretty
busy.”
The
pastor nodded, seemingly ignoring Mark’s excuses. “Well, first things first:
you got no business running around like a loose cannon. How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“You
still a lad, far as I’m concerned. Numbers don’t mean nothin’ to God, we all
know, but there’s a reason Elisha had Elijah and Timothy had Paul. So I’mma
tell you like
my
pastor told me. Son, you got to recognize that the
church you’ve been appointed to shepherd is not
your
church—it’s
Christ’s
church. The
real
church ain’t in these walls no way.” He motioned toward
the ceiling. “The real church is the body of Christ. Some folk in the building
ain’t in the body of Christ—they just come to give the believers a hard
time. But that ain’t your business. Most time, them kind of folk don’t stay
around long no way. They can’t stand to be around a whole bunch of love. They
either get drawn in or find their own way out. God said He’d separate the wheat
from the tares in the end, anyway.”
Theoretically,
Mark understood the pastor’s roundabout way of telling him not to put himself
in God’s place. Yet, there was still the issue of his calling to preach and
minister to people, to bring them into the fold. “But Pastor, people’s souls
are hanging in the balance. If I don’t get up there and find some kind of way
to…keep them engaged and active in the church, they might end up in hell, and I
don’t want that on my record.”
Pastor
Phillips reached over to the bookshelf wall and grasped a large Bible from the
lower shelf. He threw it toward Mark. “John chapter 10, verses fourteen through
sixteen. Read it out loud.”
Mark observed the version on the spine – The Amplified
Version. He flipped to the scriptures. “I am the Good Shepherd; and I know
and
recognize My own, and My own know
and
recognize Me—even as [truly
as] the Father knows Me and I also know the Father—and I am giving My
[very own] life
and
laying it down on behalf of the sheep. And I have
other sheep [beside these] that are not of this fold. I must bring
and
impel those also; and they will listen to My voice
and
heed My call, and
so there will be [they will become] one flock under one Shepherd.”
“Who’s the Shepherd?” Pastor quizzed him.
“Jesus.”
“Who gives the sheep the desire to come in?”
“Jesus.”
“You doin’ pretty good so far.” The old man smiled.
Mark was beside himself with joy. Though Mark had, no doubt,
read the passage before, it took on new meaning that day in his heart.
“Now skip down to verse twenty-six and read to about
thirty.”
Mark obeyed, reading again, “But you do not believe
and
trust
and
rely on Me because you do not belong to My fold [you are no
sheep of Mine]. The sheep that are My own hear
and
are listening to My
voice; and I know them, and they follow Me. And I give them eternal life, and
they shall never lose it
or
perish throughout the ages. [To all eternity
they shall never by any means be destroyed.] And no one is able to snatch them
out of My hand. My Father, Who has given them to Me, is greater
and
mightier than all [else]; and no one is able to snatch [them] out of the
Father’s hand. I and the Father are One.”
“What
does that tell you?” Pastor Phillips reviewed.
“It
means that those who belong to Christ will always belong to Him,” Mark managed
to speak.
“Son,
your job—every believer’s job—is to follow the leading of the Holy
Spirit within. You should read books, listen to counsel, and heed advice from
your mentors, but at the end of the day, you got to know it’s a reason God
chose
you
to be the pastor at the church where he’s allowing you to
serve. You do what He says do, you preach what He says preach. Period. If every
person in your church gets up and walks out, so be it. He’ll bring in some more
who are thirsty for what thus sayeth the Lord. But you got to answer to God for
what you believe He told you to do!”
With
lowered eyes, nodding slightly, Mark replied, “Yes, sir.” He couldn’t help but
think that if he’d obeyed God’s directions in the first place, the predicament
waiting for him in Houston might not even be there.
“Of
course, you can’t rightly hear what He’s telling you to do if you ain’t talkin’
to Him. You got to get in His face, hole yourself up with the word, section off
time with Him—don’t let nobody intrude on it,” he continued passionately,
his jowls shaking with conviction. “I guarantee you, you spend time with God,
you teach the church to look to the head, Jesus, in everything, and He will
draw men unto Him. Not
you
, Him.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Now,
Mark, I’m gon’ pray over you,” Pastor Phillips said as he stood and circled
around to stand behind Mark. He put his hands on Mark’s shoulders. Mark kept
his head bowed. “Father, we thank You for the calling to preach, to share Your
word with a dying world. God, I thank You for filling this young man with Your
holy boldness and for bringing us together today. I ask a blessing on him and
the ministry You have given to him and his wife. Let him rest in Your strength
and Your power. Let him turn the reins over to You. Cover him with humility as
he steps down from trying to assume
Your
position so that Your power can
rest all the more upon Him for Your glory. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
And
with that prayer, the weight of the church lifted off Mark’s shoulders, over to
Christ’s, where he now realized it had always rightfully belonged.