sister.

i wrote this over the summer when i lived at the community in kc. i think it was one of the last sundays i was there, because i remember thinking that i probably wouldn't end up seeing sister again, at least not anytime soon. i miss that church. 

enjoy.

There was a woman at church today that I loved, Sister-something I think. We met because I hugged her. She had short bleached hair with the kind of curl that only black women have - the tight, thick, spongy kind. When I was 12 or 13 I saw a picture of a beautiful woman with high cheekbones, an enormous mouth, and tight, thick, spongy hair wrapped back in a tower of cloth behind her head. She looked elegant and a bit regal. I thought that her voice must taste like cereal milk.  Sister didn’t look like her at all, but that doesn’t matter.

She told me she was hurting today. She hurt so much that it spilt over through her eyes. And while Pastor Adrian was yelling, “Aaaal-aaaal-aaaalriiiight!” and while BJ and the other elders and deacons told Pastor to speak it and while the piano (and the Spirit) sent everyone into an honest fervor thanking God above, she walked to the front with that pain spilling from her eyes and sat in the chair for prayer. I don’t really remember her walking up or getting prayed for. I know Pastor Howard sang over her to God and Mother Howard wrapped her up like a child, but I don’t remember what was said and I can only picture little snippets of it in my head. It’s more like still photos than a running memory.

What I do remember was the feeling. I know the taste of that anguish. It’s been about a year and a half since I first tasted it and about 9 months since death left his mark full of it. Words don’t do much for that kind of anguish. It’s deeper than that. A body can convey it closer in the eyes and in the mouth, but it still doesn’t touch it. “Deep calls to deep,” says the psalmist. It was as if the depth of her heart called out and the depth of mine answered. So when everyone started singing the benediction, I bee-lined toward her. There were no introductions and no awkward pauses. We met each other and collided. When deeps touch self-determination is wonderfully destroyed and you have no choice than to love. Everything else gets stripped. So I drew her in the best I could and let the anguish in our deeps mingle.

Then she decided to speak.

She told me, “Life doesn’t get any easier, honey. Oh no, it doesn’t get easier. It’s hard, baby. It’s hard. Don’t pray for patience because the devil will throw impatience in your face. Pray for strength and you’ll get it. You’ll get what you need. These tears I have are also tears of joy. People don’t know that, but I’m bursting at the seams.”

Eyes wide and gleaming she leaned in and our noses almost touched, “Let me tell you a secret. I used to pray to God that I wouldn’t get up the next morning. Now that’s not a very good prayer. But He is good and He got me up. And I have sorrow, oh I have sorrow, but for the look of that beautiful smile on your face I would not have you share in that. Oh baby, thank you for coming to me. This is going to get me through the next week until I come and see your face again. He’s good, baby, He is good. And I have faith, and now I can lead. I might not be able to preach because I don’t have that in me, but I can teach Sunday School and reach out to those children. My faith is strong. He’s good, baby, He’s good.”

She hugged me again and another woman came up and wrapped her in her arms so I turned and walked away, anguish joined and abated, wondering at a God who creates such things. Now that I think back on it, it kind of reminds me of the taste of cereal milk, except deeper. I've always liked cereal milk. Must be a good thing.