Avis slipped the navy blue rayon dress over her head and let it fall softly just below her knees. Delicate silver filigrees decorated the scoop neck and three-quarter-length sleeves, complimenting the silver buckle on the navy belt. She’d already gotten two phone calls that morning wishing her Happy Mother’s Day. The first, from her youngest daughter, Natasha, in D.C., had gotten her out of bed. “Oh! Sorry, Mom! I keep forgetting about the time difference!” The second, from her oldest daughter in Ohio, was cut short by Charette’s nine-year-old twins clamoring for a chance to talk to “Grammy.” They were growing so fast. She and Peter should really go see them sometime this summer.
No call from Rochelle. She closed her eyes a brief second, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. She couldn’t let that cloud her whole day. She had a lot to be thankful for.
Peter poked his head into the bedroom as Avis slid the post of a silver hoop into the nearly invisible hole in her earlobe. “You ready, honey? I put your dish for the potluck in the car already.”
“Mm-hm. Thanks. Just need to get my coat.” She turned around for him, showing off the dress. “Look okay?”
“Mm, very nice. Gonna turn a few heads at church, I’d say.”
“Oh, stop.” Avis felt her face flush at his compliment. “You’re the only one whose head I want to turn.” She reached for her Sunday purse, making sure she had her wallet, hand cream, cell phone, tissues—
“By the way, did you ever find the ruby earrings?”
He said it casually—too casually—and she tensed, but slowly shook her head. “I’ve looked through everything. I . . .” Her eyes suddenly misted and she reached for the tissue box on her vanity table.
“Hey, hey, baby. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Peter came to her side and gently massaged the back of her neck as she dabbed at her eyes. “It’s just so odd. You’re not the type to misplace things. But maybe I can help you look this afternoon. Do you remember when you last wore them?”
Avis pulled away. She didn’t want his touch right then. But it was a direct question. “Valentine’s Day, I think . . .” I know.
“Huh.” He frowned as if pondering for a moment, started to say something, and then seemed to reconsider. “Well. That’s a start, anyhow. But we better get going now. I’d like to get there a few minutes early to pray with the pastors—something the elders decided would be good to do before Sunday service.”
Avis nodded, blew her nose, and busied herself getting her coat. But a sense of dread settled into her stomach as they locked the front door and headed down the stairs of the three-flat. If Peter thought about it very long, he was going to end up at the same place she had when reviewing the events of last Valentine’s Day.
The same day Rochelle had shown up at their place, sobbing, upset, and as irrational as a jilted lover, barricading herself in their bedroom.
At the front door of SouledOut Community Church, Jodi Baxter’s son Josh, his wife, Edesa, and their two-year-old adopted daughter, Gracie, were handing out red and white carnations to all the women and girls in honor of Mother’s Day. Red if your mother was still alive, white if your mother had passed. Avis accepted a white carnation and a kiss from little Gracie and gave a hug to Edesa. “Happy Mother’s Day yourself, dear sister,” she whispered in the young woman’s ear. Such a sweet family.
Clutching the white carnation, she found her way to her usual seat in the second row of chairs arranged in a semicircle. Avis always chose a seat on the far right aisle if possible, so she had room to worship—body, soul, and spirit—without bonking someone else on the head or stepping on their toes. And—Thank You, Jesus—she wasn’t scheduled to lead worship this Sunday. It had been a stressful week, and she was grateful for a few minutes to just sit and pray by herself before worship began.
Make that a few seconds.
“Avis! We missed you at Yada Yada last Sunday. Jodi said you were looking for your daughter. Did you find her?”
She looked up into the angular face of Leslie “Stu” Stuart, the willowy social worker who lived upstairs in the Baxters’ two-flat. Single and just turned forty, Stu still wore her faded blond hair long and straight—a style Avis wasn’t sure was appropriate for a middle-aged woman. But so be it. Stu was Stu, still wearing short skirts and tall leather boots. She held a red carnation.
“Thanks, Stu.” Avis smiled wanly. “No, haven’t located her yet. Keep praying.”
Stu crouched beside Avis’s folding chair—padded folding chairs, at least, thanks to Stu’s single-minded Chair Fund fund-raising a few years back—and lowered her voice. “Maybe I can help. I could put out her name through some of the social service agencies, see if she’s applied for any kind of assistance lately.” The praise band was sounding the notes of the call to worship. “Think about it. I’ll talk to you later.”
Stu gave her a quick hug and slipped into another row just as Peter appeared, squeezing past Avis’s knees and sinking into the seat next to her. He leaned toward her ear and murmured, “Pastor Clark doesn’t look good to me. We spent most of our time praying for him. The man should really take a sabbatical.”
Avis glanced toward where the two pastors were sitting in the front row on the left side of the room. Pastor Hubert Clark, in his early seventies, had been the pastor of Uptown Community Church, the mostly white church that had merged with New Morning Christian—mostly African-American—and their pastor, Joe Cobbs, to form SouledOut Community Church. The two men, as different in personality and preaching styles as day and night, had somehow managed to work together as a team in surprising ways, each complementing the other’s strengths. They’d had a scare a couple years ago, though, when Pastor Clark had a heart attack, but the man was nothing if not determined to die with his boots on. Avis wasn’t the only one who appreciated the older man’s gentle wisdom and pastor’s heart.
“Don’t think you can convince him to take a sabbatical,” she whispered back, as that week’s worship leader—a young man named Justin Barnes—invited the congregation to stand. “He’s only preaching once a month now, isn’t he?”
But Justin diverted their attention. “Good morning, church! It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood—I grew up on Mister Rogers, you know.” That got a laugh, because Justin wasn’t the only one who teased Pastor Clark that he had to be the TV icon’s twin brother. “But even that spring sunshine out there can’t compare to the beautiful day in here, because we’re going to get down and get ready to have us some church. Amen?”
“Amen!” and “Say it, brother!” rang out from the rows of chairs, along with laughter and clapping, even as the double glass doors from outside opened and Avis noticed the four students from Crista University slip in and stand uncertainly in the back—trying to find some empty seats no doubt. All of them had taken red carnations.
She was surprised to see them back. The church was often visited by groups of students from this or that Christian college, sent by well-meaning professors to get a “taste” of Chicago’s cultural diversity. They usually came once and then moved on to the next “experience.” But what was it with college students these days? They still dressed in scruffy jeans like teenagers. And some were graduate students! The young man with the sandy-brown hair and wire-rim sunglasses was a seminary student, if she remembered correctly. Didn’t young adults ever put on some good clothes for church? The wear-any-old-thing mentality seemed vaguely disrespectful to her.
Avis shook off the thought. She was showing her age, brought up in another era when her mother scrubbed and braided and dressed Avis and her sisters in their best frilly dresses, Mary Jane shoes, and hair bows. Besides, she was here to worship the Lord, not worry about a bunch of curious white college students.
Closing her eyes, she let the words of the first worship song, taken from Psalm 42, sink into her spirit.
“As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul longs after You . . .”
Oh yes, Lord! Her spirit felt so dry and thirsty lately. Avis raised her arms upward, wrapping herself in the words of the psalm. Thirsty . . . thirsty . . . so thirsty, Lord . . .
After the children were dismissed to their Sunday school classes, Pastor Joe Cobbs took a text from Matthew 5, challenging people to consider what Jesus meant when He said we were to be “the salt of the earth” and “the light of the world.”
“Can anyone give me a definition of who Salt People and Light People are?”
“I thought Jesus said He was the Light of the world!” protested Pastor Clark from the front row. The room tittered. Everyone suspected Pastor Cobbs had told him to say that to provoke discussion.
A teenager took the bait. “Yeah, but if we let our light shine—living the way the Bible says—people will see Jesus.”
“That’s right, that’s right,” several murmured.
“Light People bring clarity, not confusion,” someone in the back piped up.
“Good, good,” said Pastor Cobbs. “What about Salt People?”
“When Salt People show up, the ‘flavor’ of the situation improves!” another suggested. That got a laugh.
As the lively sermon continued, Avis wrote in the back of her Bible, “When Salt People show up, the ‘flavor’ of the situation improves,” and “Light People bring clarity, not confusion.” She wanted to think about that. Her marriage could use a little more “salt” and “light” right now.
After getting everyone on their feet to sing “This Little Light of Mine,” the young worship leader invited everyone to stay for the Second Sunday Potluck after the service. “Any other commercials?” he deadpanned. “Announcements?”
There were the usual: Youth group at six, making plans for their Memorial Day outing. Elder David Brown and his family were moving next week and could use some help loading the truck. A key ring had been found, could be claimed in the church office.
Then one of the visitors, the girl with all that dark hair, bounced up and waved her hand. “Hi! I’m Kat. We”—she indicated her three friends—“were here last Sunday from Crista University. And we’re looking for an apartment in this area that we could rent for the summer. Or we’d be willing to house-sit if you know anyone going out of town. We’d be glad to take care of pets and plants and stuff.” She grinned. “If anyone knows any leads, let us know, okay?” She sat down.
Avis felt a flicker of annoyance. They wanted to move into the neighborhood? Which meant they were planning to hang around awhile. But . . . why this neighborhood? Were they intending to show up at SouledOut all summer?
So what, Avis? she scolded herself. Wasn’t her concern. It was just . . . they seemed so full of themselves. The girl, “Cat,” anyway. What kind of name was that? Sounded like a pole dancer.
But she forgot about the Crista students as chairs were moved out of the way and tables set up, and she joined the flock of women bustling in and out of the kitchen with steaming hot dishes. Soon the serving tables were loaded with beans and rice and macaroni and cheese—Avis’s standard potluck offering—as well as fried chicken, greens and ham hocks, pasta salads, large pitchers of lemonade, and pans of chocolate cake, brownies, and chocolate chip cookies. To her surprise, the student visitors set out a neat veggie tray—the kind grocery stores make up in the deli—and a plastic tub of sour cream dip. And the “Cat” girl unzipped her backpack and set out several six-packs of fruit-juice blends, which were immediately snapped up by the younger set.
Well, at least they were pulling their share.
Once the stacks of paper plates, plasticware, and Styrofoam cups arrived, Pastor Cobbs boomed a prayer of thanks over the food, including his standard, “. . . and remove all impurities from the food we are about to partake . . . Amen!”
As usual, the kids jostled each other to be first in line, until Florida Hickman swooped down on them like an eagle after its prey. “You kids! Where’s you manners? Let the parents with little kids go first—an’ the pastors an’ elders and they spouses. And if you’re a visitor to SouledOut, come on now, get in line. These kids can wait.”
Avis would have just as soon held back a bit, but with Florida directing traffic, she and Peter got their food and found seats at a long table with Debra and Sherman Meeks and Jodi and Denny Baxter. Peter, Denny, and Debra, along with David Brown, were the current elder board, each serving a staggered two-year term. Peter had just been elected at the beginning of the year, and she was proud of him serving in that capacity.
But a disturbing thought flickered across her mind, even as the table talk bounced from bemoaning the Chicago Bulls’ losing season to whether the economy would ever recover. How can Peter think about taking an extended trip when he’s just agreed to serve a two-year term as an elder? She shook her head. She and Peter were just dancing around this issue. They really needed to talk—
“Okay if we sit here?”
Avis blinked. Two of the Crista students—the “Cat” girl and the timid blonde—stood by two empty chairs across the table, holding their plates of food hopefully.