Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Read online

  There were other parts to the program, of course. A young minister encouraged the graduates with the theme that “the sun will come up tomorrow, no matter what happens.” The senior speakers were refreshing and challenged their young colleagues to seek significant tasks to the greater glory of mankind.

  For me, however, the pinnacle of that program will forever be the performance by those two young women— especially the one who didn’t stop to think of the possible embarrassment of walking down a long aisle from the back of the church to rescue her sister. Because at that one gleaming moment in their family history, the only thing that mattered was that her sister needed her, and she was prepared to answer the call and claim the victory of that moment.

  Rita Billbe

  5

  THE POWER

  OF A WOMAN’S

  PRAYER

  Women, if the soul of the nation is to be

  saved, I believe that you must become

  its soul.

  Coretta Scott King

  Divine Intervention

  God, make me so uncomfortable that I will do the very thing I fear.

  Ruby Dee

  I’ve always considered Southern California my home— a place where you can visit the beach to soak up the sun and catch a wave, and swoosh down the snow-packed slopes of Snow Valley all in one weekend. Besides the places to go and things to do, it was a wonderful place to raise our son, Shawn. My husband and I were amazed that our union in marriage created such a tiny, beautiful baby.

  For the first time in my life, I felt whole. Our life was like a fairy tale that wouldn’t end . . . “and they lived happily ever after.”

  Unfortunately, our fairy tale began to decay and so did our relationship and my life. Shawn and I left, under duress, and we returned to my roots in New Orleans where most of my family lived.

  For the next few years, Shawn and I lived in an apartment we called home. It was small, but it was our castle.

  Shawn was close to the elementary school he loved and all the activities that came along with it for a ten-year-old. I worked in the admittance department at the local hospital, and two nights a week I attended the community college within walking distance, pursuing a license in radiology—a lifelong dream.

  Iwas amazed at howcircumstances that I had considered painful and embarrassing turned into God’s plan of placing me, literally, in the path of a life that he preordained.

  Just when the period of adjusting was over and we had accepted the fact that New Orleans was now our home, it seemed the path we had been set in was not exactly what we thought.

  News came that Hurricane Katrina was threatening to hit land in thirty-five hours. New Orleans appeared to be directly in its path.

  Most of us didn’t think much of it at first, but as the news continued to urge us to evacuate, my family decided staying wasn’t worth the risk. We packed up the car with our most immediate needs and each other and hit the road—along with almost everyone else.

  “I can’t believe we’ve been in gridlock for the past hour,” Mama said abruptly.

  We’d been mostly silent as we sat enduring the heat, inching forward a car-length at a time. I think we were all lost in our own thoughts and fears.

  “We’re only about twenty miles out of the city. Alexandra is usually three hours away without traffic. We probably won’t get there ’til ten tonight,” Dad interjected.

  We nervously checked the clock and the drive time against the predicted arrival of the hurricane. None of us wanted to be stuck in the car on a crowded highway when the storm’s fury hit.

  Mama spoke sullenly, “I guess we weren’t the only ones with leaving on our minds.”

  The sound of a blaring horn from the car in the rear snapped me to attention. Traffic finally picked up a little.

  As we passed cars and they in turn passed us, I saw faces of fear, despair and numbness. Although they were young, old, black, white, brown and yellow, their faces indiscriminately showed the emotions of our shared plight.We all wondered what would become of our homes and our neighbors. If this storm was as big as they predicted, chances were strong that life as we knew it would never be the same. On the other hand, we wondered whetherwewere running fromnothing. Itwasn’t as though we hadn’t seen storms before. We couldn’t help but wonder if the weather service was crying “wolf,” and we were the silly ones who were running. Fear, questions, doubts and extreme temperatures all put bad moods on the rise.

  As I looked closely, I saw children in the back seats of every make and model of vehicle imaginable, doing the things they do best—from playing with toys or watching cartoons on monitors, to laughing and irritating one another. They seemed oblivious to the seriousness of our predicament. I found myself envying their innocence.

  My own son, Shawn, tried to change the conversation in a positive direction. “We can listen to CDs!” he said cheerfully.

  He pulled a CD case from the side compartment on the door.

  “Let’s listen to this one.” He opened it and slipped the CD into the player. Soothing music filled the air, creating a semi-tranquil atmosphere.

  I smiled and responded, “Good choice, little man.”

  Maybe some of Shawn’s optimistic vibe was rubbing off on me.

  As I listened, I recognized a song I hadn’t heard in a while, one from what seemed a lifetime ago. As the familiar chorus of “California Dreamin’” began, my mind drifted back, fondly, to my California days.

  I must confess I’d never planned to stay in New Orleans. I’d thought about moving back to California. I missed the weather, gazing at sunsets over a watery horizon, watching pedestrians take their daily walks.

  I missed my friends, my sister and her family. And Shawn had not ceased talking about California since our visit over Easter. Ah, but we were settled here now; I had a job; we were both in school; we had a home, our “castle.” No . I turned my thoughts away from my dream and focused back on the road I was currently on. I knew in my heart that I didn’t have the guts to make such a big move and take such a big risk right after getting settled. If that was God’s will, a very clear sign would have to be delivered, otherwise I was staying put.

  Once we finally arrived at our destination, we listened spellbound to the news as Hurricane Katrina battered our city—and beyond. We watched in horror at the devastation, with an odd numbness as if we were watching a sci-fi movie with amazing special effects. This couldn’t be our city. These couldn’t be our neighbors. We were left to our imaginations as we wondered if one of those homes under water could actually be ours. We just couldn’t believe it. It was so surreal and painful and devastating and scary.

  A week later, Shawn and I anxiously returned to our castle hoping to find that this really was just a bad dream and not reality at all, only to find that the few earthly belongings we took to Alexandra were the only things untouched by Katrina. Nothing was salvageable. The receding water left mud, mold and missing possessions that we assumed were carried away in the flood.

  I couldn’t stop the streaming tears. I felt so completely defeated. All we had worked for, all we had acquired, all we had built, washed away.

  My little man matured a little that day when he grabbed my hand and said, “It’s all right, Mama. It is going to be all right.”

  It was then when my previous thoughts returned.

  Hadn’t I declared just days ago that if God wanted us to move, he would have to give us a very clear sign? Now, we not only had to go, we could not stay.

  I smiled slightly through my tears, grateful for his tender touch and optimism, and said to Shawn, “So, how do you feel about California?”

  “Does California have hurricanes?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  That was all he needed to hear.

  When my family voiced their objections, “Where will you go? What will you do?” I smiled and said, “I’ll place my life in God’s hands,” knowing that the “master plan,” no matter how difficult, is alway
s perfect.

  Now, less than a year later, I’msitting on the Huntington Beach Pier in California overlooking the Pacific Ocean, counting my blessings, and watching the plan unfold.

  Michelle Cummins

  Holy Ghost Filled

  Sister Baker stood in front of the church, ready to sing her solo. She was sharp! It was obvious she wore her Sunday best; the diamonds in her ears glimmered, and her white suit was flawless. She was the kind of churchwoman that I hoped to be: elegant, spirit-filled and beautiful.

  “Good morning, Church. I’m going to sing a song that the Lord has put on my heart. Please, pray for me,” she said in her gentle voice.

  “Amen!” and “Sing that song, baby!” darted out from the congregation.

  She started off slowly, holding on to each word, demonstrating the talent she had was truly a gift from God, “III looveee the Looooooooooooordddd. . . .” She went on bringing the congregation to the edge of their seats as she played with the tune.

  After Sister Baker finished her song, she lifted her hands and cried out, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”

  Pastor Reems sat in his chair, nodding his head. “Yes! Yes! Well! I said, well!” he said in a deep, slow voice. “Jesus sho’ is alive this mornin’!

  The Church responded in unison, “Well!”

  “Church, I said, Jesus sho’ is alive this morning! I said I once was lost, ah. . . .”

  “Come on, tell it!” a voice rang out.

  “But Jesus, I said Jesssus!”

  “You betta preach, boy!” Another voice encouraged.

  His voice got higher and his words a little more emphasized. It was now time for the word, the sermon. My mom sat back in her seat along with the rest of the congregation. I sat back in my seat, too, held my baby doll and dozed off; it wouldn’t be long before I’d be awakened.

  The jazzy pitch of the organ ushered in the climax of Pastor Reem’s sermon. His baritone voice suddenly skipped up to extremely high octaves, octaves that I never thought possible for a man.

  He yelled, “And Jesssuuusss! I said Jeeeeeeeesus! . . .”

  “Hallelujah!” was shouted back by the Church.

  Pastor Reems stepped down from the pulpit and went back to his seat. Sister Baker walked back up to the microphone and began to sing.

  “Yes!” The lady in front of me stood up from her seat and began to wave her fan toward Sister Baker. In response to this lady, Sister Baker waved her hand toward the ceiling, toward the Lord. As she waved her hand, her diamond studded fingers sparkled.

  As Sister Baker came to the end of her song, she held the last note. It was a high one that seemed to be a stretch, even for her. She tilted her head to the side and stretched her arm out as if to say, “Jesus, help me hold this note!”

  In the middle of this last note, the church went wild.

  It was like homecoming game, and Jesus just scored another touchdown. The congregation shot up from their seats like rockets; it was Holy Ghost time. The drummer’s feet moved to a steady, fast rhythm as the organ followed along. Mother Jackson stood up and ran around the church, screaming. Two people beside me fell to their knees and cried, “Oh yes! Jesus!”

  I turned to my mother, and she started up, but her shout was a little different from everyone else’s. She just jumped straight up in the air; up and down, and then she started spinning in circles. Mother Jackson was still running around the church; I thought she might hurt herself because I’d never seen an old woman move so quickly. In fact, Mother Jackson had a cane.

  The Holy Ghost must be real powerful! I thought to myself as I watched, truly impressed.

  Sister Baker sang the people out of their seats, and I wanted to be just like her. Ushers surrounded my mother and the other ladies who had the Holy Ghost.

  Sister Baker started moving to the beat, first bouncing her head, then adding a sway, and then her sweet voice belted, “Cain’t nobody do me like Jesus!”

  The Church replied, “Cain’t nobody do me like Jesus!”

  This song was different from the one she sang earlier; it was even more upbeat. Everyone hopped around, clapping and singing call and response. Our faces gleamed; Sister Baker’s joy had been transmitted to all of us.

  I looked around; everyone was jumping, running and yelling. Sister Baker was now clapping her hands as she joined in praise with the rest of the church. Since she joined, I thought I’d join in as well. I stood up, placing my baby doll on the chair. The drums started playing, and the organ came in; this was the prime time for demonstrating your Holy Ghost–ignited praise.

  I lifted my hand up first, and then I began shaking it, “Yes, Lord!” I whispered, a little embarrassed. But as the drums continued, I felt more comfortable, and my feet started moving.

  “Yeesss, Lord!” I shouted this time, “Thank you, Jesus!”

  I jumped back and forth to the beat of the drums and enjoyed praising the Lord with all the other adults; I felt the Holy Ghost, and it was great! I danced up toward the front of the church in order to get a closer look at the amazing Sister Baker. She smiled at me; she was gorgeous!

  She waved her soft hand in the air and rocked back and forth as if the music controlled her. I moved even closer; I wanted to touch her. She glanced at me and motioned me toward her. She grabbed me and gave me a hug; I couldn’t believe that I was standing in front of the church next to Sister Baker. Her sweet scent encompassed me; it was like heaven. I danced and clapped, filled both with the Holy Ghost and with Sister Baker!

  Then I looked up.

  I saw my mother walking toward me; her face had quickly turned from a sanctified Holy Ghost–filled sister to an angry mother. I looked up at Sister Baker for some type of help. Fortunately, Sister Baker saw the fear in my eyes; she stopped my mother in the midst of her angry walk, grabbed her by the hand and said, “Come on and help yo’ baby praise the Lord!”

  My mother gave in, but I could still see the discomfort in her eyes. We stood in front of the church rocking, clapping and dancing. Sister Baker started singing again, “Cain’t nobody do me like Jesus!”

  Then she handed me the microphone, and without even thinking about it, I belted, “Cain’t nobody do me like the Lord!”

  I sang, and the congregation continued praising. My mom looked at me and her whole face changed. Her discomfort from before was suddenly replaced with a look of astonishment, and then a glowing smile.

  She lifted her hands up and exclaimed, “Thank you, Jesus!”

  As the song winded down, Sister Baker pulled me close and whispered, “The Lord has blessed you with the gift of song. Baby, you betta sing it!”

  Kiana Green

  God’s Will

  My relationship with God has always been quite simple: He’s the Father and I am a little girl always working to please him and be the dutiful child. For the longest time, though, that also meant that I didn’t bother him with praying for trivial things. I didn’t pray for my teams to win when I used to play in sports. I didn’t pray for boys to like me. I certainly didn’t pray for money. To me prayer was meant for life or death situations and that I was just supposed to follow my intuition and common sense (which are God-given gifts) and make my way with everything else, but that all changed for me recently.

  When I lived in New York City I used to live down the street from a store that sold candles, towels, bedding, accessories and the like. One day I saw that the store was going out of business so I went inside to shop for bargains. I noticed a sign: “More Downstairs—Furniture 50-60 Percent Off!” I never knew this place had a downstairs or that it had furniture so I went to check it out. There wasn’t much left. The walls had been stripped of all decoration and the room looked like a plain old basement under the blue fluorescent light. I wanted to leave, but one piece caught my eye: a chaise lounge. It was big (wide enough for two) and overstuffed, with fat arms all covered in a brown tweed upholstery. Now I had known of chaises as beach chairs and lawn furniture. I’d never seen one as indoor furniture.
/>   Well, I plopped down into that chaise and fell in love. I thought, This is the most amazing piece of furniture ever! It was functional, but entirely frivolous. I loved that there was absolutely no reason to have such a thing in a home other than for pure luxury. I started seeing myself sitting in the chaise in a home office and reading and editing pages with my feet up and a cup of tea by my side. The chaise felt great—my whole vision felt great—and I knew I wanted it.

  Unfortunately I found the price, about $1500, (and that was with the going-out-of-business discount) too steep.

  Also, while our apartment was larger than the average Manhattan apartment, I knew there was no space for it. It was silly for me to want such a thing and I reluctantly told myself as much and left the store.

  A few weeks later my husband and I were in the neighborhood thrift store shopping for shirts. While he trolled the racks, I looked for a place to sit down. There, near the front of the store with other secondhand furniture for sale was a chaise. It was narrower than the one I had seen at the other store. The white twill cover was dingy and the cushions thin. I sat down and ran my hand over its raised piping and checked out the price tag: $225. I could afford that! I started to think about where I could put it, but in my head I wasn’t seeing my apartment. I kept thinking about my vision and the only thing that made sense to me was that one day I would have a house with my own office and enough room for such a piece of furniture.

  Maybe I should just keep working toward that. Then another thought came to me, clear and undeniable: This is not my chaise.

  I held the thought in my mind and told no one about it.

  Not my husband, not my friends. It all seemed so silly. I had work that I loved, a wonderful husband and a great place to live. It made no sense to ask for more, especially something I didn’t need. I put the chaise down as something I’d buy for myself one day when I hit it big.

  Not long after this I got a phone call from my beloved friend Jenny. We used to do yoga together twice a week at her place, but I hadn’t seen her in awhile. There was a lot of work going on in her apartment because her great room was being redone by O at Home, Oprah Winfrey’s decorating magazine. That day on the phone she said, “Come over, I have something for you.”