Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [14]
The minister's voice boomed, “These bones shall walk. I say these bones shall walk again.”
I found myself in the aisle and my feet were going crazy under me—slithering and snapping like two turtles shot with electricity. The choir was singing “You brought my feet out the mire and clay and you saved my soul one day.” I loved that song and the preacher's voice over it measured my steps. There was no turning back. I gave myself to the spirit and danced my way to the pulpit. Two ushers held me in gloved hands as the sermon fell in volume and intensity around the room.
“I am opening the doors of the Church. Let him come who will be saved.” He paused as I trembled before him.
“Jesus is waiting.” He looked at me. “Won't somebody come?”
I was within arm's reach. I nodded. He left the altar and took my hand.
“Child, what church were you formerly affiliated with?” His voice was clear over the quiet background music. I couldn't tell him I had joined the Rock of Ages Methodist Church the month before and the Lily of the Valley Baptist the month before that.
I said, “None.”
He dropped my hand, turned to the congregation and said, “Brothers and sisters, the Lord has been merciful unto us today. Here is a child that has never known the Lord. A young woman trying to make her way out here in this cruel world without the help of the ever-loving Jesus.” He turned to four old ladies who sat on the front row. “Mothers of the Church, won't you come? Won't you pray with her?”
The old women rose painfully, the lace handkerchiefs pinned in their hair shook. I felt very much in need of their prayers, because I was a sinner, a liar and a hedonist, using the sacred altar to indulge my sensuality. They hobbled to me and one in a scratchy voice said, “Kneel, child.”
Four right hands overlapped on my head as the old women began to pray. “Lord, we come before you today, asking for a special mercy for this child.”
“Amens,” and “Yes, Lords” sprang around the room like bouncing balls in a cartoon sing-along.
“Out. Devil,” one old lady ordered.
“She has come to you with an open heart, asking you for your special mercy.”
“Out of this baby, Devil.”
I thought about my white atheist husband and my son, who was following in his nonbelieving footsteps, and how I had lied even in church. I added, “Out, Devil.”
The raspy voice said, “Stretch out, child, and let the Devil go. Make room for the Lord.”
I lay flat on the floor as the congregation prayed for my sins. The four women commenced a crippled march around my body.
They sang,
“Soon one morning when death comes walking in my room,
Soon one morning when death comes walking in my room,
Oh, my Lord,
Oh, my Lord,
What shall I do?”
They were singing of their own dread, of the promise of death whose cool hand was even then resting on their frail shoulders. I began to cry. I wept for their age and their pain. I cried for my people, who found sweet release from anguish and isolation for only a few hours on Sunday. For my fatherless son, who was growing up with a man who would never, could never, understand his need for manhood; for my mother, whom I admired but didn't understand; for my brother, whose disappointment with life was drawing him relentlessly into the clutches of death; and, finally, I cried for myself, long and loudly.
When the prayer was finished I stood up, and was enrolled into the church roster. I was so purified I forgot my cunning. I wrote down my real name, address and telephone number, shook hands with members, who welcomed me into their midst and left the church.
Midweek, Tosh stood before me, voice hard and face stony.
“Who the hell is Mother Bishop?”
I said I didn't know.
“And where the hell is the Evening Star Baptist Church?”
I didn't answer.
“A Mother Bishop called here from the Evening Star Baptist Church. She said