Brothers and sisters. On the rock of God we stand. All other ground is sinking sand.
All other ground is sinking sand, the congregation intones. Stella is numb and silent.
And we come here today as sinners. Sinners. Believing in the Redeeming Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for us. There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Immanuel’s veins. And sinners
Sinners, the congregation repeats after him.
Sinners plunged beneath that flood—lose all the guilty stains. And we believe
Stella hears the first quaver of emotion; he quavers on the second syllable of be lieve.
in the resurrection of the body, and that these dead will rise again at the latter day. The corruptible will be made incorruptible
Here, Stella notices, is emphasis and vibrato on the first syllable of in corruptible, but immediately he drops the quaver. She will pay attention—to everything. If there’s any solace in his message for her, she wants it. Cat! Christine! Arcola! And Charles!
and the crooked straight, and
With falling emphasis.
the lame shall leap for joy.
And Stella can’t bear it. Oh, he cannot help but glance, just the quickest movement of his eyes, she knows she would, at Cat’s coffin, because she was the lame among us. The congregation audibly breathes together. In spite of herself, Stella thinks, We bond and become one in understanding. Mr. Fielding puts his arm across her shoulders.
I’ve seen you before, haven’t I, brothers and sisters? We saw each other when four little girls attending church on Sunday were killed by a bomb hidden in the church, here in Birmingham. And I seen you in Jackson, along the highway, didn’t I? When somebody started shooting from ambush—you were there, weren’t you? And I was there. We were there in Detroit, Michigan, and we were there in a place named of all things Liberty, Mississippi, when Herbert Lee was murdered for helping voter registration. We been here before, haven’t we, brothers and sisters. We know this place. Yes, we know it. This is the place of the skull.
Stella sees Gloria is out of her chair. She’s standing up, short and proud, and she’s singing in her own pure voice like a stab that pierces Stella’s heart and comes out the other side: “Were you there?”Was she? Was she? Stella’s heart accuses. I should have been. Guilt comes to knot itself with grief, and the two constrict and contend with each other, and the pain in Stella’s heart is excruciating. Gloria sings out and through and above and beneath the entire congregation, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?” Gloria cannot stop herself till the room is full of her beautiful voice.
Were you there?
Lionel Parrish repeats.
He takes up her words and now his speaking voice has surrendered to the full grip of inspiration, soft, low, and trembling.
Yes, I think you was. But I’m here before you today for a very special reason. I’m here because one of these dead, dying in my arms at the White Palace, said to me, “I liked you from the beginning, Mr. Parrish. Preach it for me.” That’s what she, or he, asked: “Preach it for me.” No, it doesn’t matter which one. I’m not going to say which one asked it. That’s not the important thing.
We been together in grief before. Us here. We don’t have enough of anything else,
So quietly, he speaks.
but grief. That, we are well acquainted with. But brothers and sisters, it’s hard
His voice rises and will rise; Stella waits for it to lift her above the coffins of her family, of the four girls, of Kennedy’s bier, of these heart-dear friends coffined before her. Lift me!
it’s hard, it’s hard to see you again.
The congregation all stir in their seats; they are uncomfortable; they know what’s coming; the introduction is over. Even Mr. Fielding and the white people shift their weight. All try to prepare to face the facts here at the front of this church. He starts low and gentle, again. He must climb the hill again. Stella wonders How many times must we climb it? But she is thinking of the myth of Sisyphus, not Golgotha. Gloria seats herself.
Dearly beloved (his eyes circle the tabernacle: all are included; the walls disappear), we are gathered here at Joseph Coat-of-Many-Colors A.M.E. Church to mourn the passing of four young people—and I name them in alphabetical order by last names—Miss Arcola Anderson, Miss Catherine Cartwright, Mr. Charles Powers, Mrs. Christine Taylor. Bless them.
Bless them, everyone says.
We standing at the skull. Crying.
Crying.
And as they say the word, people sob and thrash, and weep afresh.
Wishing we could have them back.
They groan with mourning.
And yet if we believe in Jesus, if we believe in Jesus, if we believe—
And the cadence falls, as Stella knows it must. One cannot build and build, one must fall back, then build again, lest somebody’s heart be left by the wayside. This is the rhythm that catches all in its net and none will be left behind alone. But does Stella believe? How can she?
He whispers his inevitable question, like a hiss.
—then how can we want ’em back?
How can we want them back? If we believe.
We want them back for their lives, for the living they ain’t done.
Yes, Stella agrees. She joins the church in its mourning. Cat, my precious Cat! Stella joins everyone present, in grief, if not in belief. Arcola! Charles! Christine! And with that last name the rafters of her mind ring. Four angels from four corners blast those names against her head, their trumpets pressed against her skull, and she is afraid of fainting and falling.
That’s why we mourn. (His quiet voice stills the ringing of her head.) That’s why our hearts is heavy. In spite of belief in Jesus, we got to mourn these four young people for the living that passed on. For Arcola Anderson—if you knew her, you loved her. Always having a joke, Arcola, always making things smooth and friendly. Also working hard at her studies, getting ready to go out in life well educated. That’s lost. That’s gone now. Her daddy and her mama—Jesus will comfort you. Jesus is with you. Christine Taylor, mother of these three young children here. She trusted those children, trusted ’em over, to Sister Agnes and Brother TJ that day. But Christine won’t get to play with ’em again or see them grow to be fine adults. But Christine did this! She made her statement. So that all children could grow up in a world that would be more fair. More equal. So white and black could sit down together. Like we are now.
And I mourn, I mourn for Catherine Cartwright. With all my heart. She was a natural teacher. She was dedicated to teaching. And she got to teach a little bit. But what a waste, what a waste, brothers and sisters, that we won’t have Cat. She had a great friend, Miss Stella Silver, who came out to Miles College to teach with her, and Miss Silver and her friend is here with us to mourn, and Cat’s brother and her father. And I know you’ll all want to extend the right hand of fellowship to them.
I mourn Charlie Powers. Mr. Charles Powers. A young man, making his way in the world. It was my privilege to see how he was changing, how he was becoming a steady man. And he didn’t forget his mother or his little sister or three little brothers, after he left home. He visited them, shared what he could, showed what it was to be a man. He was with Christine, in May 1963, when Bull Connor turned on the fire hoses and let loose the dogs. But Charles Powers valued education, just like these three young women, and he went on from protest to be a pupil in the night school.
But that’s over. That’s all over. For all of these. Black and white.
We’ll miss ’em.
We’ll miss ’em.
We miss ’em today; we miss ’em tomorrow; we miss ’em forever.
Stella catches his fearless allusion to George Wallace, who vowed, just so, that segregation would be unending. The congregation breaks up into separate utterances, shocked out of unity.
That’s right. Tell it. Lord. Lord, help us. Preach it. Preach it right.
George Wallace, he try to tell us ’bout yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Let him wave the flag of Old Dixie and the flag of segregation, but I tell you, I tell you, I tell you. Together today; together tomorrow; together forever. One world! God didn’t make but one world. And he didn’t send but one Son.
They are stirred, and he lets everyone settle. Stella knows:he wants us to settle again. He wants his people to settle once again. And again he drops back into his quiet voice; he is not a preacher who shouts all the time, instead he makes music of a sweet and low and startling trumpet blast. Lionel Parrish’s bandaged hand waves out wounded and white, but it is not the badge of surrender. Not now, not ever.
Let me explain about Time. There be eternity. God’s time. There be change. Our time.
I think I miss loved ones most at change of season. Then I think, if only they could see this. See the coming on of autumn, the way the leaves from the mighty oak trees fall down and curl on the ground. And then when we lift our faces, how blue the sky is through the bare branches. I don’t think white people realize sometimes what a comfort the mere blue of heaven is to poor folks. And then when the colors of spring come on. The many colors, bright and various as the colors in Joseph’s coat, the coat his brothers made him before they sold him into bondage—
When the colors of spring arrive and the dogwood blooms, I wish the dead could open their eyes, could open their eyes and see Nature, see what he’s gave us here on earth, to enjoy. Yes, I’m sad when the seasons change. Change. I think change is the essence of our lives here on earth.
I don’t want to stagnate. I want to develop myself, and I know they wanted to develop themselves—Charles and Catherine and Christine and Arcola. And it makes me sad to see any change in the season that those whom we love and who have passed on would have enjoyed.
But now summer is a-goin’ on. Without these dead. The robins still here; bluejays still screaming “Thief! Thief.” Up in the trees, the seed pods from wisteria hanging like grapes. Remember how we breathed in that wisteria aroma last spring? We’ll try to smell it in the air when we go out of here. Because we remember springtime and resurrection. If the fall comes, so, surely, will the spring. And let’s appreciate the beauty of the earth, and take comfort in it. Dahlias—so bright and cheerful—dahlias blooming in everybody’s yard, and zinnias so round and perfect you want to take ’em to the fair. Jesus loves us.
He lifts his arms and opens wide his hands, as though to embrace the four coffins and the dead within.
And where are they? Them? They lying in the coffin, you say?
And his preacher question comes to Stella, burrows into her secret mind, What can I believe? But it’s Gloria standing up and speaking out: “They with us. They in us,” and the question is irrelevant. Gloria opens her mouth wider, and her voice opens up, and she’s singing “Abide with Me.” And the piano so soft—Jonathan—knows her key, the piano comes to help her, and all sing, but Gloria’s voice leads clearest, and she becomes the leader she was born to be, and Stella sings, too, following the voice of her friend:
Abide with me: fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide!
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, the victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
Fora moment, Stella believes. She believes in love, the blessed community. In life, in death, there is love. Yes. That simple. And her heart overflows. She puts her hand and then her head on Nancy’s shoulder, and cries with complete abandon, cries down the years for those dear and lost. Nancy sobs with her.
I tell you. Birmingham can’t hold them. They left this city. They walking in the heavenly city, and I can see them there.
I see them, the congregation intones.
They walking on the streets of gold. They’re holding hands, all of ’em, like us, healthy and happy, walking, walking, walking to the throne of God.
Cat’s brother bursts into tears.
Throne of God.
And heavenly hosts—
Heavenly hosts—
Agnes screams, and TJ buries his face in both hands. Christine’s children yelp in terror.
But there’s Gloria, standing, shouting it out: “Freedom walking!”
And Mr. Parrish tells her, “Sing it out!”
Gloria shouts, “Freedom gonna come. Freedom gonna come. Lift up your soul, brothers and sisters. Lift up your voices”—her voice is loud and angry; she can’t help it. Stella imagines flames darting from Gloria’s eyes and ears. But the piano is starting to play while Gloria ignites. She flashes the mahogany of her skin, the green of her eyes, the bone of her teeth. And what is that tune Stella hears? Jonathan is playing the whole orchestra on the piano for the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel. Stella leaps to her feet. She rises to shout “Hallelujah,” with no notion of the content of belief, and the congregation becomes a cacophony of cries, each heart opening. Jonathan is beating the music out of the piano, and people are not singing but shouting in anger, singing in anguish.
But piano doesn’t want this to continue too long. Piano looks for peace. Gloria’s singing voice comes back, but she has to stamp her feet for a while to finish the frenzy. Then Gloria opens from her deepest heart. Stella sees Gloria’s shining face open and change and her being empty itself of hate. Gloria rises up from that dragon darkness that reached up from hell to grab her, and she will not be swallowed by hate.
Jonathan is playing beautifully now, big and ringing, triumphant, not angry, all over the keyboard. Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Mr. Parrish shouts Praise the Lord over the music, and everyone shouts Praise, praise the Lord, and all stamp their feet to let out the last of what needs to go. The retreating rumble of their feet is like dying thunder, and Stella recognizes the establishment of vacancy, and the calm approaching to fill it.
Finally Mr. Parrish raises his bandaged hand and speaks again in a voice that signals it is finishing. His voice goes ordinary. He soothes and seals then for the closing words.
From the platform, Gloria looks down for a moment into Stella’s eyes. What Stella sees in Gloria’s green eyes is peace. And more. The glitter of strength. Mr. Parrish has done his work. Something passes between Stella and Gloria. They sip the common cup.
“And so,” Mr. Parrish continues in his ordinary voice, “we go from the place of the skull, we go from the foot of the mountain, we go up from the fiery furnace, we leave the steel mills burning in the valley, we climbing up Red Mountain, we going to the top of the mountain. Flesh and blood, bone and skin of humanity take the place of the Iron Man.” He sounds again like a normal man, speaking in sensible tones. “We lift up our hand in compassion for all. All Birmingham. Black and white.” He takes a breath.
“We look down at sorrow—we left sorrow behind—we look down at injustice—we left injustice behind—and we look up at Love. Yes, my people, we look up at love and justice and mercy. Beyond Vulcan’s iron arm, beyond the high-sailing clouds, and even beyond the starry firmament.”
Amen, amen.
“Lift your hand and bow your heads,” Mr. Parrish exhorts. “O Lord,” he begs, “be merciful to me, a sinner.” His knee thumps down on the floor. Never has Stella heard such an anguished cry as that of Mr. Parrish opening his heart. And she loves him, naked in his repentance, for whatever guilt and need he here acknowledges. “Forgive those who have murdered,” he prays fervently. “Take those to your kindly bosom who have suffered and died, and whom here we mourn. You are the resurrection and the life. And whosoever believeth in you shall not perish but have everlasting life.
“And those dearly departed, they shall live in our hearts—not just these, Lord, but the others—those four others, those hundreds others, those thousands others who be lost to our memory but not to our imagination, all those who died or suffered for the cause of human dignity.”
AT THE END OF the service, young Edmund Powers crosses in front of Stella to go to Gloria.
Still a young boy, but he moves slowly, gravely, as though he were an old man. He’s all done with crying. Without the preaching and praying, Stella becomes heavy. The words buoyed her up, but now she slips under the tide of grief. She wonders if she can move at all. No, she can only sink. In spite of the heat, she becomes cold and numb. Helplessly, she can only see and hear.
As Stella watches, Edmund looks up at Gloria and says, “I feel sent to tell you.” He speaks solemnly.
Gloria is all crisp vivacity. She swiftly hugs the little boy and says, “What’s that?” His head tucks just under her bosom. The top of his head curves like the shoulder of a cello against Gloria’s breast. Stella remembers her own cello, how it sang in the throaty timbre of Yiddish.
Pressed against Gloria’s body, Edmund murmurs, “God say we must keep music in our soul. ‘Make a joyful noise, all ye lands.’ ”
In amazement, Gloria releases him, as though she realizes that in this child, there is a preacher, an evangelist, a burning coal, and she must treat him more circumspectly.
Released, Edmund approaches Stella. He is shy, but he looks up in her eyes and utters his prophetic message. Stella sees his lips move, but she feels that she is looking at him from the bottom of the sea, through a lid of ice.
“Ma’am, God say we to take love to our hearts. That’s all he say.”