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It never fails. Daddy always finds a way to make morning service extend well into the afternoon, even after he promised heād keep it short. Today, during his sermon, he took twenty minutes to really drive home the point that Jesus helps those who help themselves. Like, he repeated that sentence over and over, broken up by heavy gasps, performative joy, and call-and-response praise from the congregation.
And itās not just him either. Bertha, our choir director, and Miss Annabelle, our lead singer, are in on it. I swear, they try to turn every Sunday into an episode of Sunday Best. Not every song should be ten minutes long, and I promise you, they shouldnāt all end in an elaborate praise break.
But thatās partly Domās fault. With him on the drums and his best friend, Terrence, on the bass, together theyāre always egging on the congregation, summoning the Holy Ghost, trying to get Sistah Betsy to jump up and down in the aisleābut really theyāre just trying to get her wig to fall off again. Iāve told Dom Iām sure sheās found better ways to secure that thing on her head after how embarrassed she was that magnificent Sunday. But he thinks thereās still hope.
Daddy has already āopened the doors of the church,ā weāve already done the last offering and final announcements, but for some reason Daddyās trying to start his sermon back up. I donāt have time for this. At this rate, I wonāt get to straighten my hair before Dom picks me up for our date tonight. Today is our two-year anniversary. I stressed that to Daddy before we left the house this morning. I said, āDaddy, tonight is important. We have to get out on time. Please.ā But he kept saying, āYou canāt rush praise, Mo-Mo, but for you, Iāll try my best.ā
Really, Daddy? Is this your best?
āIt donāt matter who,ā Daddy shouts into the microphone, closing out the service with his familiar chant. Thank God, weāre almost out of here.
āIt donāt matter what!ā Heās got a big smile on his face, sweat dotting his forehead. This is his favorite part of the week, his favorite part of the day, his favorite part of everything. He loves being in this church more than he loves working on the deck in our backyard, and he loves doing that a whole lot.
I know that being pastor of this church is his greatest joy, but I donāt get it. Just, like, how? Doesnāt this get old? Itās the same thing every single Sunday, ever since he was a kid. But somehow, when he was a young, poor boy in the eighties, he came to this ancient building, with its stained-glass windows, haunting Jesus paintings, and funeral flowers, and was like, Yeah, I like this a lot. How can someone that young appreciate the rules and the politics and the āshhh, pay attentionā and the āyou better close your eyes when you prayā that comprises every Black Baptist church in the South? How does anyone of any age fall in love with that?
But itās hisāthe church and the congregation and the titleāhanded down to him after Pastor B. D. Jackson died. I was only five then, but at the time, the congregation was unsure about Daddy. Since he was so young, they worried he would be flaky. At least, thatās what he tells me, because all Iāve ever seen is their adoration for him. They worship the ground Pastor T walks on, while I do everything I can just to keep my eyes open every Sunday.
I love my daddy, but I hate church.
The only good thing about coming to this place, sitting on the front pew beside my no-nonsense tyrant of a mother, is Dom. His drums are set up below the pulpit, so heās literally sitting in front of me at all times. Heās the reason I canāt ever keep my eyes on my Bible.
As the congregation shouts back, āYeah,ā Dom joins in with a kick to his bass drum and a few taps on his cymbal, then his eyes lift slowly to mine.
Dominic Hudson is my daddyās protĆ©gĆ©. Heās really good at performing in church. But heās also really good at sports, so everyone in town knows who he is. And despite the fact that heās more involved in church than me, the pastorās daughter, he doesnāt have that unbreakable reputation of being a Christian kid. Probably because heās a lot different when weāre not in church, and when adults arenāt around to hear him cuss.
Domās my dream boy. Heās gorgeous, popular, sweet, and really into me. When he holds my gaze, nothing else matters. My daddyās voice and the accompanying praise fade out. My heart lurches, beating faster than his kick drum. Iām so lucky to have him. Thatās what everyone says. Iām so lucky to have captured The Dominic Hudsonās heart. And theyāre right. He treats me like my daddy treats my mom. Like a queen. Like a gem. Like his.
Dom smirks at me and nudges his head over to Deacon Hanson, whose eyes are closed and whose face is pointed up to the ceiling, as if heās wrapping himself in Godās word. Dom rolls his eyes to the back of his head and moves his mouth up and down like a fish. Heās so goofy, and he knows exactly how to make me laugh.
But then, amidst my snickering, my mother snaps her fingers in front of my face.
My stomach clenches, and the butterflies inside go poof. Looking at her is like looking at Medusa. Her dark, narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils turn me to stone. Thatās the second time sheās caught us playing around today. She leans into my ear. āDonāt make me get onto you again, Monique, or I promise you wonāt be going anywhere tonight.ā
She straightens her back and crosses her legs at the ankle, pasting a pretty church smile back on her face. Itās not like my mom is ever a sweet person, but in church, sheās extra, extra callous. She wonāt have me embarrassing her in front of all these people.
Ever so perfect and elegant, my mother is exactly who you picture when you think of Southern Black Women. She carries herself like a queen, and in this tiny town with only about ten percent Black people, we kind of are royalty. My daddy is the pastor of the only Black church in town; heās a mentor to all the Black athletes and friends with all the coaches. Everybody knows him, and everybody knows my motherāpastorās wife, first-grade teacher, three-time first-place winner of the Annual Fall Festival Pie Baking Contest with her famous sweet potato pie.
While Iām just their daughter. Which means people at school tend to be careful around me. They tend to watch their language, neglect to invite me to parties because they know I wonāt be allowed to go anyway, and act like Iām some Goody Two-shoes snitch, even though Iāve never snitched on anyone in my life. I wish I was afforded the same benefit of the doubt that they give Domāeven though heās practically the pastorās son, heās still cool.
āAmen,ā Daddy says, calming the congregation, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. āPraise God. Now, as you know, every first Sunday I like to have our closing prayer led by one of the youthssss,ā he hisses, amplifying my anxiety, because then Mom lays her hand on my back and starts pushing me forward.
No. I will not get up in front of all these people and pray. With literally every Black kid who goes to my school watching? Nope. Not only will that be terrible for my already ingrained reputation as a church girl, but Iām also just really bad at it. Daddy says praying is as simple as having a conversation with God, but itās obvious that thereās a cadence to it.
āAnybody?ā Daddy asks, looking around the church.
āGo,ā Mom says, pushing harder, but I donāt move. And I know thereās a chance sheāll forbid me from going out with Dom tonight if I donāt get up there, but thereās an even bigger chance sheāll disown me if I go up there and choke. She needs to ask herself, whatās more embarrassingāme not volunteering, or me choking in front of all these people?
Before she can drag me up by my hair, Sasha Howser, Terrenceās little sister, stands and goes to the frontāsaving me and burying me at the same time, because sheās always the example Mom uses when critiquing my behavior. Why canāt you do this like Sasha or do that like Sasha? Now Iāll never live this down.
Iāve never seen someone so young be so committed to Christ. And I, honestly, have never hated anyone more than I hate her. Sheās always got her nose tucked in her Bible, always has her fingers clasped tight during prayer.
āCome on up, Sasha. Give her a hand, church,ā Daddy says, making his way to the edge of the pulpit to hand her the microphone. The congregation claps for her and praises her for her initiative. Mom reluctantly removes her hand from my back to join in on the praise.
Sasha walks up in her modest bag of a dress with a smile pasted on her pretty face. Microphone in hand, she says, āThank you, Pastor T. Everyone, please bow your heads and join me in prayer.ā
I bow my head, but I donāt join her in prayer. Iām fuming. This might actually be worse than me going up there and choking. I just know all the way home Mom is going to go on and on about how Sasha is so much better than me.
āFather God, we come to you, humble and grateful for another day to give you the glory. You didnāt have to spare us, but you did, Lord. Touched us early this morning, filling us with the breath of life.ā
āYes, Lord,ā my mom whispers beside me.
Iāve got my head bowed and my hands clasped in my lap, like a good pastorās daughter, but then I feel a vibration on the pew. My open eyes widen and still, my gaze freezing within the cracks of my knuckles. Itās not my phoneāI know that immediately. Itās Reggieās.
I almost forgot that he was sitting next to me. Heās been unusually quiet and well-behaved, up until now. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. The screen says āLaserā as it buzzes in his hand. I can feel my momās nerves getting worked up, feel her body getting stiffer with every second that he doesnāt decline the call.
Then, oh my God, while Sasha prays into the microphone, and as the congregation throws in āYes, Lordā and āAmenā and āThank you, Jesus,ā Reggie answers his phone.
āYo, Laser.ā Then he laughs.
My mom scrambles, pushing against my shoulder as she reaches across me.
āNah, man, Iām gonna have to call youāā
Mom snatches the phone right out of his hand, scowling at him in utter disbelief.
My body burns with embarrassment. And Iām not exactly sure what Iām embarrassed about. That everyone is looking at us? Yeah, but also how my mom has no shame in disciplining a child who isnāt even hers. I know that while heās at church, Reggie is our responsibilityāweāre his ride here and backābut still.
He looks at my mom, aghast at her audacity, then he looks down at me, like I have the power to do anything about it. I donāt. So I slowly duck my eyes back down to my lap, clasp my hands a little tighter, and mentally thank God for what just happened. Nothing Iāve done today compares to what Reggie just did. Mom wonāt even remember having to get onto me and Dom. She wonāt remember that it should have been me up there praying, instead of Sasha, because Reggie answered his phone in the middle of church.
Heās not from here. And he, apparently, hasnāt gotten his fill of my momās vengeful glares, because every Sunday he makes a scene. Last Sunday, he was caught singing, āMy God is awful,ā instead of the classic, āMy God is awesome.ā The Sunday before that he actually tried stealing from the offering bowl, which is kind of ironic, because stealing is the whole reason heās hereāin our town and in our church.
From what Iāve heard, Reggie used to live in Huntsville, just one town over, but he allegedly got expelled for breaking into his school and stealing a bunch of dumb stuff, like those crappy TVs that teachers wheel in when they donāt feel like teaching. You would think heād have learned his lesson. But lessons slide off this boy like bald tires on black ice. Nothing fazes him. Especially not Daddy praying for him at every family dinner, forcing him to be here every Sunday, or making him do volunteer work around the church, as if just being in this building will change his heart. H...
