The whole room rustled as people got out of their chairs, and the keyboard offered a few quiet chords. Kat felt a poke in her side as she and her friends stood up too. “Bet we made a real good first impression on that lady,” Nick murmured.
Kat just rolled her eyes at him.
The worship leader opened her Bible. “Listen to the Word of the Lord from Psalm 8: ‘O Lord, our Lord! How majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens! From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise . . .’ ”
Kat saw Brygitta quickly turn pages in her own Bible to follow along, but Kat closed her eyes, letting the words flow over her, into her.
“ ‘When I consider the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, who are we—mere men, women, and children—that you should care for us? . . .’ ”
At least this psalm was somewhat familiar, even though Kat hadn’t started to read the Bible seriously until three years ago.
“ ‘You made us ruler over the works of your hands; you put everything under our feet: all flocks and herds, and the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea . . .’ ”
Now Kat squirmed. Where was that woman going with this? Seemed like some people used the biblical mandate in Genesis to “have dominion” over the earth as an excuse to exploit it. “Rape it” would be a better phrase, she seethed. This psalm could be taken the same way—that phrase, “under our feet,” was practically an invitation to trample over God’s creation.
Kat’s thoughts were pulled back as the worship leader finished with a ringing, “ ‘O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!’ ”
“Amen!” several people responded, hands lifted high. “Glory!”
The room quieted. The worship leader’s face was wet with tears. “I don’t know about you, brothers and sisters, but God spoke to me through this psalm this morning. I was being pulled down by concerns pressing in from several sides all at once—”
“Lord, Lord! Know what you’re sayin’!” someone said from the back of the room.
“My praise was all locked up,” the woman at the mike continued. “Lead worship this morning? Are you kidding, Lord?”
A laugh tittered through the congregation. “Keep it real, Avis!” a wiry black woman called out. “Keep it real!”
“But as I read this psalm, I was reminded that coming to church isn’t about me. It’s about God! It doesn’t matter if I’ve had a good week or a bad week! We’re here to give praise to the Lord of all creation! The King of kings! The Name above every name! And as we focus on Him, our concerns will take on perspective. Of course God cares about the problems we face! And He’s going to work them out, people. Whatever’s weighing on your heart right now. That’s His job. Our job is to come before Him with awe and adoration and thanksgiving! Because Satan—that dirty trickster—can’t mess with us when our hearts are full of praise!”
By now, cries of “Praise God!” “Glory!” and “Hallelujah!” were ringing from every end of the room. Kat stole a glance at Brygitta and Olivia, who looked a bit like cornered mice.
But at that moment the praise band—a keyboard, electric guitar, drum set, bass, and saxophone, as well as several singers—launched into a lively song, one the CCU students sang in chapel services at the university, though not quite like this. Kat’s former thoughts faded as she felt herself swept in with the rest of the voices around her: “Lord, we lift your name on high . . .”
Two hours later, after an hour of singing, clapping, and praising, followed by a thoughtful teaching by one of the pastors—a tall, rail-thin white man they called Pastor Clark, who seemed well past retirement age and rather frail—Olivia leaned over and pulled Kat’s sleeve. “I didn’t know the service would go so long. I’ve got to get back to school and study. Finals are coming up, you know!”
“Shh!” Kat hushed. “They’re welcoming visitors.”
“. . . stand and tell us your name and where you’re from?” The woman in the plum suit had come back to the mike. A few people stood up—somebody’s parents, an older white couple from Indiana . . . a black teenager who’d brought her cousin . . . a man who spoke in halting English and said he’d just been walking by and heard the music, so he came in.
The congregation clapped and called out, “Welcome!” after each introduction.
“Anyone else?” The attractive black woman at the mike looked directly at Kat.
Kat popped up and waved the others up too. “My name is Kathryn Davies—most people call me Kat—and this is Nick Taylor, Brygitta Walczak, and Olivia Lindberg. We’re all students at Crista University and”—might as well say it now—“we brought a couple boxes of still-good lettuce and broccoli that we’ll put out after the service. Free for the taking!”
She heard a quiet groan from Brygitta as the four of them sat down again. “I can’t believe you did that.”
Fine. So Brygitta was embarrassed. How else was she supposed to let people know the food was available? There was a table in the back, they could just put it there.
“Did we miss anyone? If not, we want to invite our visitors to join us at the coffee table right after the—”
“Hold on, Avis, now.” The wiry black woman Kat had noticed before scurried to the front and took the microphone from her. “We got us an announcement you don’t know about, so . . . no, no, don’t you go sittin’ down. You stay up here. And where’s your man? Peter Douglass! Get yourself up here.”
Kat craned her neck. A distinguished-looking, middle-aged black man with touches of gray in his close-cropped hair was pushed up to the front to some general laughter—which turned to clapping when he put his arm around the waist of the woman in the plum-colored suit and gave her a teasing squeeze.
“That’s right, that’s right, you give that lady a big hug, ’cause we fixin’ to celebrate Avis and Peter’s sixth wedding anniversary, right here at SouledOut Community Church, right now. Hey, Jodi and Stu? You comin’ out with that thang?”
At that, the double doors leading to the back rooms pushed open, and two white women came out carrying a large decorated sheet cake between them. The wiry woman with the mike started to sing, “Happy anniversary to youuu . . .” which was immediately picked up by the rest of the congregation as the cake was carried carefully to the front, presented to the embarrassed couple, and shown to the congregation. The end of the song was swallowed up in a round of applause, laughter, and catcalls to “Kiss her! Kiss her!”—which the woman’s husband did by wrapping both arms around her, tilting her backward, and planting a big smooch on her lips.
Brygitta and Olivia sat bug-eyed and openmouthed, and Kat couldn’t help grinning. She’d never seen anything like this in church. All around them the room was practically convulsing with laughter and clapping. But somehow the self-appointed emcee with the mike managed to be heard over the hubbub. “Now don’t nobody leave till you’ve had some cake an’ coffee an’ given this fine couple a blessin’. Pastor Clark an’ Pastor Cobbs, you two wanna give the first blessin’?”
An African-American man—shorter and stockier than the other pastor and younger by a decade or two—came forward and laid a hand on the Avis woman’s shoulder, the other hand lifted in blessing over the couple as the first pastor offered a simple prayer: “Lord, we thank You for Avis and Peter Douglass, for the blessing they are to our congregation here at SouledOut Community Church. Pour out an extra measure of Your blessing on them in the coming year, on their children and grandchildren—”
The second pastor jumped in. “And we thank You, Jesus, for giving them a second chance at love! Bless them as they come in and go out. Bless them abundantly in ways they might never expect, because You are a good God, and they can trust You to look out for them, whatever the future holds.”
Kat wasn’t quite sure when the prayer ended, because other people jumped in with “Amen!” and “Yes, Lord!” But pretty soon the anniversary couple was ushered to the back to cut the cake and receive congratulations.
Kat nudged Nick. “Come on. Let’s get the boxes and put them out while everyone’s around the table back there.”
Nick grimaced as if he had second thoughts about the plan, but leaving their two friends to fend for themselves, he followed Kat into the kitchen, where they found the boxes of produce pushed into a corner, and walked them out to the coffee table.
The wiry black woman, her hair worn in sculpted braids, seemed to be in charge of the table. “Excuse me,” Kat said, trying to get her attention, “can we put this—”
“Florida!” Someone else got to her first. “Cut a piece for First Lady Rose an’ I’ll take it to her. She’s up front prayin’ with somebody an’ we don’t want it to be all gone before they’re done.”
Kat waited until the piece of cake for “First Lady Rose”—whoever that was—had been whisked away, and then she tried again. “Uh, the lady over there”—she pointed to the couple getting congratulations a few feet away—“said maybe we could put these boxes of food here so people can help themselves.” The coffee table would’ve been the perfect spot, except now it was covered by the large sheet cake, plates, plastic forks, and napkins.
The woman named Florida stared at her. Then at the boxes. “Where this stuff from?” She reached in and plucked out a head of broccoli. “Looks a mite yellow on the tips.”
Kat flushed. “Well, maybe a little. But it’s still good. I’m sure some people could make use of—”
“Well, girl, I know you mean well, but you can’t put it here. We’re a little busy having us a celebration this mornin’, know what I’m sayin’? ’Sides, not sure why you think anybody’s gonna want—”
“It’s all right, Florida. They asked me about it before church.” To Kat’s relief, the worship leader lady—Avis Douglass, they said her name was—left her husband’s side and approached them. “Of course, I didn’t know you’d planned all this!” The woman swept her hand toward the decorated sheet cake, which was rapidly disappearing as kids and teenagers snitched extra pieces.
“Whatchu think you doin’, Carla! You kids get on outta here. I know that’s your third piece!” Florida hustled back to the table, flapping her apron at the gaggle of kids, who ran off giggling.
Avis Douglass turned back to Kat and Nick. “But she’s right, there’s no room on the table for the, uh, produce you brought. Let’s see . . .” She looked around the room. “Why don’t you put the boxes on a couple of chairs right by the door, where people will see it as they go out. But I ought to warn you. What doesn’t get taken will probably get thrown out—unless you want to take the leftovers with you.”
Kat saw Brygitta and Olivia beckoning urgently. “Uh, no, my friends need to get back to school. So . . . well, we’ll just put it by the door like you said. Thanks.”
Drafting Brygitta’s and Olivia’s help, the students dragged a line of four chairs together, set the boxes on them, and opened the top flaps. “Do you think we should make a sign?” Kat murmured, thinking out loud.
“No! You made an announcement, for pity’s sake. Everyone will know. Now come on.” Brygitta flounced out the door, Olivia on her heels.
Kat hesitated. “Just . . . give me a sec,” she said to Nick and walked quickly back toward the coffee-and-cake table. The crowd around the anniversary couple had thinned. She waited until the last two people congratulating Avis and Peter Douglass had finished gushing and then stuck her hand out. “Just wanted to say Happy Anniversary to both of you. Also . . . I really enjoyed the service this morning. Thank you for, you know, helping us worship.”
Peter Douglass shook her hand. “Thank you, young lady. Glad you came today.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Kat saw her friends once again beckoning impatiently. “Well, I’d like to come back again and”—an idea flashed in her head like a neon sign—“I’d really love to talk to you. Maybe next time?” On impulse, she gave Avis Douglass a quick hug and then fled toward the door.