It was a rare if not unprecedented sight for Faith Community Church. Every pew was filled. And then some. Folding metal chairs lined the perimeter, and what little floor space remained was packed with standing people. From their seats in the back corner, Chelsea and the kids witnessed the Homegoing Celebration of Desiree Faith Johnson.
During the rousing chorus of Desiree’s favorite hymn, Chelsea couldn’t take her eyes off Marcus. The young boy stood by Katrina’s Uncle Frank, who had generously used the reward money he had set aside for the router to pay for the funeral expenses. Through tears the boy lifted his voice. “I sing because I’m happy! I sing because I’m free! His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me!”
Through the life of Marcus’s mother, the Lord had indeed watched over the sparrows of the Lavaca neighborhood. From the stories of loved ones, Chelsea pieced together a portrait of a rare and generous soul.
“No one would take me in. But then I met Desiree . . .”
“I hadn’t eaten in three days, and then Desiree . . .”
“My husband was in prison. We had nowhere to go, not a prayer left to pray, but then . . .”
There it was again: Desiree, the turning point in each story. The loving embrace, the healing word, the generous gift. Desiree’s humble apartment was a crossroads for the needy and downcast.
Chelsea could learn from her example. And from the looks of it, she wasn’t the only one.
Tony stood behind the pulpit to offer the closing benediction. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn . . .” Tony glanced up from his pages of prepared notes. His eyes welled with tears as they met the gaze of so many mourners. At long last, his church was full, overflowing even. Though Chelsea guessed this was hardly the crowd he had imagined filling his pews.
Tony looked down at his notes and began again. “Blessed are those who mourn . . .” But once again he could not finish. Something was amiss. Gone were Tony’s comforting smile and practiced pastoral demeanor. Though he hardly knew Desiree Faith Johnson, Pastor Tony was undone with emotion. His head fell to the podium, and the sanctuary echoed with his sobs.
Sara approached Tony, placed her arm on his shoulder, and picked up where he had left off. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
Chelsea startled at the sound of someone pounding against the front door of her café. It was ten p.m., far too late for customers. She hurried down the stairs, her phone ready in case of emergency. When she flipped on the lights she saw Tony standing under a torrent of rain.
“Tony! What are you doing out there?” Chelsea rushed to unlock the door.
Tony entered, disheveled and soaking wet, though far more composed than when Chelsea had seen him at the funeral just hours before. “I’m sorry. I would have called, but I lost my phone sometime today. I wasn’t thinking when I left the house.”
“Are Sara and the kids all right?”
“They’re fine. I’m here for me, actually. I was hoping I could look at the God Blog. For myself this time.”
“Yes, of course. Anything you need. Coffee?”
“That’d be nice.”
Tony settled in at a tea table near the register while Chelsea prepared them both a mug of caffeinated comfort.
“Listen to this one,” Tony said, perusing his laptop screen. Chelsea sat across from her brother-in-law with their coffees and a few scones.
“Dear God (if this really is you), I hate the church. I hate religion and everything about it. It seems so obvious that religion causes more problems than it solves. It manipulates and separates people with fear. The church is nothing more than a place for people to pose as someone they’re not. How can you defend all this hypocrisy?”
Chelsea chuckled. “That’s from someone named Spencer, if I remember correctly.”
“You’re good,” Tony said.
“Dear Spencer, I don’t even try to defend hypocrisy. Now I have a question for you. Do you really think I started that? Don’t you think I’ve had my fill of worship charades, religious games, and fearmongering, as you and your friends say? You think I want this? No thank you.
Yet, Spencer, I haven’t seen much compassion out of you, have I? You pride yourself in authenticity, yet behave like everyone in your own circle. You make irreligion a religion. Leave the hypocrites up to me. And from time to time, look up. Focus on me. I think you might be surprised by what you’ll find. Love, God.”
“Not a bad answer, huh?” Chelsea said.
“Not bad,” Tony said.
Chelsea left Tony to himself while she deep-cleaned the curved glass of her pastry display case. After more than an hour of reading from the blog, Chelsea noticed Tony wiping his teary eyes on the sleeve of his already damp sweatshirt. She brought a few napkins to the table.
“So you still think I’m writing these pat answers?” Chelsea asked.
“No, of course not. I guess it could be God. Or maybe it isn’t.” Tony closed his laptop. He looked up at Chelsea, his eyes red and puffy. “What gets me the most is the questions—all the hopes, fears, and doubts. The needs! From people right here in my own backyard. And I’ve been raising money for new carpeting.” He stopped to dry his eyes once more. “Something tells me Desiree Johnson paid very little mind to paint colors and multimedia youth rooms.”
“She passed away before I could post her question to the God Blog.”
“ ‘Who will take care of Marcus when I’m gone?’ ” Tony recalled. “I’m glad you didn’t ask.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I hope to be the answer.”