Читать книгу Sex In The Sanctuary - Lutishia Lovely - Страница 9

The hip-hop sounds of gospel artist Tonex blasted out of Hope’s canary yellow Mazda MG as she sped down I–35 on her way to Kansas City, Missouri, to see her cousin and new best friend, Frieda. “You are my personal Jesus,” she crooned along with the hip-hop singer with much enthusiasm and excitement if just a tad bit off-key.

Hope felt good. Not only was it a sunny March day in the Midwest, but it was also Sunday, her favorite day of the week. Church had been inspiring. Her praise dance troupe, the Angels of Hope, had performed for the first time and had been heartily received. Their performance alone had been a miracle. It had taken much prayer and a private meeting with the highly opposed Mother Bailey before she convinced this tradition-inclined church matron and others that dancing could be holy, not a matter of “branging that devil’s music into ’de Lawd’s house” as Mother Bailey had more than implied. Even so, Hope had choreographed a conservative routine. She’d prayerfully chosen the music, an updated gospel classic, “I Surrender All.” And rather than have too many steps or other dance movements, she’d decided to use her knowledge of sign language and incorporate a large amount of dramatic hand movements and facial expression into the presentation, combining drama with dance. Not only that but she, along with Sistah McCormick and Pastor King, had codeveloped and taught a two-month praise and worship study course for all who would be a part of the dance or drama department so they would understand the difference between performing for the secular world and performing for the Kingdom. They explained how one’s body could be used as an instrument of praise to God.

All of the instruction and the rehearsing and the fasting and the praying had paid off. The Spirit of God was evident, even tangible, in the church as the group of eight graceful young ladies danced in their flowing white costumes. Tears flowed from a dancer’s eyes as she remembered her own surrender. One dancer’s face reflected joy, another showed serenity, another, reverence. Their bodies moved as one, twirling gracefully. All to thee, my blessed Savior… Their hands reached toward heaven. Audience members stood with their arms raised in worship. They, too, surrendered everything to God. Problems. Pain. Disappointment. Fear. Their voices rose to join the uplifted arms as saints told God their dreams, desires, needs. The final confirmation of acceptance and proof that God was indeed present was when Mother Bailey, who couldn’t fake getting the Holy Ghost if she tried, had stood crying and moaning reverently, “I surrender, Lawd, I surrender!”

Pastor King’s message was the crème de la crème. “How To Turn Mourning Into Dancing” was a fitting topic, undoubtedly penned with the dancing troupe’s debut in mind. Had he been inspired after watching their rehearsal earlier in the week? Hope thought so. Perhaps God had spoken to him, as He’d spoken to her. It gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling to think she was on the same page with her pastor because it proved, in her mind, that she was indeed hearing from God.

Those who tried knew that hearing from God wasn’t always easy. For instance, Hope had been sure she’d heard God say Shawn Edmunds, her former neighbor, first love and boyfriend all through college, was to be her husband. Why else would she have given him anything so precious as her virginity?

It had happened a couple years ago, during the annual convention hosted by Perry Carlson, a leading minister in Tulsa with a “mega-church” of over ten thousand members. The opening services that Monday night had been extraordinary, and both Hope and Shawn were glad they’d been a part of it. Shawn, a talented bass guitar player with dreamy hazel eyes, filled in for the church’s regular guitarist who’d gone on the road. Known for her original gospel plays and praise dance teams, Hope was seated in the area reserved for special guests, second row center. It offered a perfect place to see and hear the choir and guest speakers, and it gave her two to three uninterrupted hours to stare at and appreciate God’s gift. That was what she considered Shawn to be—a gift from God with her name on it.

The message that night was entitled “Having by Asking.” The preacher’s text was taken from the Book of James where he, a half-brother of Jesus, was explaining that sometimes people didn’t have what they desired simply because they didn’t ask for it or they asked for the wrong reasons. Hope went home, got on her knees and asked God for Shawn to be her husband. Then she got up, crossed the room to her desk, grabbed her Bible and plopped on the bed. She asked God for a sign, a confirmation that He’d heard her prayer and that the answer was yes. She closed her eyes, opened the book, placed a finger on the page, opened her eyes and read the words beneath her finger. “Wherefore they are no more twain but one flesh. What God has joined together, let not man put asunder. Matthew 19:6.” The Bible fell out of Hope’s hands. She was taken aback, couldn’t believe where her finger had landed. But a clearer message could not have been received. She felt God Himself had spoken.

The next day, Hope felt a confidence and freedom with Shawn she’d never known before. Although she felt that sex before marriage was a sin, she became more and more amorous in her affections toward her husband-to-be. Not one to complain, Shawn embraced this new and improved Hope as a sign that finally she believed he loved her and in return, just maybe, she’d let him hit it.

Hope hadn’t planned it to happen. But after the Friday night services were over she, Shawn and another couple had gone out for a late dinner. This couple had just gotten engaged. Hope was elated for them. Hearing this news on the heels of her revelation that Shawn was to be her husband was further proof the season of marriage was here and her turn was coming. Shawn had given her thigh a little squeeze, and Hope squeezed right back, running her hand down to his knee and back up the inside of his thigh just beneath his manhood. She remembered almost touching it and jerking her hand away as if she’d touched a hot oven. At that very moment she thought of one of her grandmother’s sayings, “If you keep playing with fire, you gon’ get burnt.”

They’d gone back to his place, a two-bedroom apartment not far from the university campus they both attended. Shawn put on a Babyface CD. “I just love this song,” he whispered as he gathered Hope in his arms and began a sensual slow dance across the living room floor.

To this day, Hope didn’t remember exactly what happened next. It was like one minute they were dancing and the next minute she was in his bed, naked. It wasn’t the first time she and Shawn had fooled around, but she’d never taken all of her clothes off before. Lying next to him as he slowly outlined her body with the tips of his fingers, she recited in her mind the Scripture she’d read just days before. There was little resistance when he began kissing her mouth, eyes, ears, breast, and just a slight hesitation as he continued to tease her with his tongue down her stomach, hips, thighs…She covered her eyes then and was surprised to feel the weight of his physique when he covered her body with his own while placing his hand behind her knee and raising her leg in a slow, languid motion. She could feel him pressing against her and took her hands from her eyes, wrapping them around his strong muscled back and hugging him tightly. She didn’t remember a word being spoken, but she knew this time would be different. Shawn must have sensed it, too, because he continued gently, almost reverently, as if to make a hasty move might break the mood and change the atmosphere and Hope’s acquiescent mind. He grabbed his dick and rubbed it against her, higher at first and then lower and lower, positioning himself for entry. Could it be? he thought as a slight layer of perspiration broke out on his brow, and his heartbeat quickened. Suddenly Hope’s hand was against his chest.

“Shawn,” she whispered, a mixture of longing and fear in her voice, “do you love me?”

“With all my heart,” he answered. And the two became one.

Life had been heavenly after Hope gave herself to Shawn. She was sure that marriage was their relationship’s destiny, even though no date had been set or ring given. But the summer after Shawn’s graduation, several months into this new level of their relationship, Hope noticed a change in his behavior toward her. It was almost imperceptible at first, like a smell that you notice but can’t quite define. There were sudden and unexplainable mood swings. They spent more and more time apart. Hope grew worried and questioned Shawn about the way he was acting. He became agitated. She did, too. Hope had thought by now they’d be making wedding plans.

Summer passed. Shawn announced plans to relocate to Dallas and pursue a career in sports broadcasting. It wasn’t that Hope hadn’t known about his desire for such a career; she’d often encouraged it. It was the fact that she didn’t find out he actually had a job and was leaving until two weeks before he got on the plane.

The signs became even more glaring once he moved. For instance, he insisted she not come down, saying he needed to get settled first and focus on his career. When after two months she still wasn’t welcome, Hope asked if he was seeing someone else. He was, a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader named Tiffany. Hope never saw his apartment. Six months after this heartbreaking news and mere weeks after graduating from college with a degree in English, she moved to Kansas City.

Hope was sure she’d heard God this time. As soon as she put the wheels in motion to leave Tulsa and the experience with Shawn behind her, good things began to happen. She’d been devastated by their breakup, but was determined to move on with her life. Rather than pining away about a past that could not be changed, she threw her energy into creating a new, more favorable future. However, a lesson had been learned. Hope would not compromise her beliefs with another man. She wouldn’t get ahead of God. The next time she made love, she’d be married.

She’d barely put her resume on the Internet before receiving calls to schedule interviews. Then, as God would have it, a cousin she hadn’t seen in ten years and who was the assistant to a human resources director ran across her resume. A month later, she was putting her English degree to work as a copy editor for the city’s newspaper, the Kansas City Star.

It was this same cousin, Frieda Moore, who’d told her about Mount Zion. Hope had asked her about churches within days of her arrival. Although not a member, Frieda had attended Mount Zion with friends a few times and had enjoyed the new way they told an old story. The preacher was forty-ish and fine. And they had a band, a real live band that backed up the choir. “Sometimes,” Frieda had gushed enthusiastically, “it feels more like a party than church!” Hope had smiled at this comparison. A Holy Ghost party was right up her alley.

From the time Hope hit the steps of Mount Zion, she knew she’d found her church home. It wasn’t just the music, a wonderful blend of contemporary and classic gospel that was audible a block away from the church, but also the feeling that enveloped Hope the moment she parked her car and stepped into the parking lot. It was the smiles on the faces of the other people entering the sanctuary, the joy that pulsated up the steps and down the aisle as she entered. It was the courtesy and warmth that exuded from the usher as she placed a program in Hope’s hand and led her up the aisle. It was the hug from Sis. Wilma Stronghart who, upon finding out that she was a visitor, grabbed Hope and clutched her tight to her ample bosom, planted a loud smack of a kiss on her right cheek, leaving an apple red lipstick imprint, and said loudly, “Welcome, welcome, welcome!” It was First Lady Brook, affectionately known as Queen Bee, and the warm way she’d smiled as their eyes met after Hope stood and was welcomed to the services of the Zion family. And it was the pastor, King Brook, a man whose words seemed to come from the very mouth of God, who spoke from the depths of his spirit to the pit of her soul. She’d been amazed by his sermon on that first visit to Mount Zion. How it so resembled what she’d gone through that the sermon could have been titled “Hope’s Story.” So uncanny, she would have questioned her cousin about spreading her business, except that she hadn’t shared her business, especially the breakup, with Frieda.

Pastor King spoke on starting over. He talked about turning life’s page when one didn’t like the writing and beginning a new chapter. Hope tried to remain impassive as the pastor spoke of broken hearts and shattered dreams, and how with God, all could be made new. But her eyes filled with tears as she remembered past pain, including the callous way Shawn had told her about his new girlfriend. Hope’s parents’ divorce had been heartbreaking also. Scars remained, but the message encouraged Hope, confirmed that she could begin a new life, one filled with love and happiness. Pastor King promised, “The darkest hour is just before day.”

It was Hope’s daytime. When the invitation for membership was issued, when Pastor King asked if there was anyone who wanted to “progress with Mount Zion Progressive,” her legs had propelled her upward before her mind knew what was going on. The congregants in her row encouraged her forward. Several others joined her as she walked down the aisle. She’d felt the Holy Spirit so intensely her knees had almost given out as she made her way to the altar. She stood before the altar, basking in the cleansing presence of God. Her heart filled with peace as the remnants of pain faded. Pastor King had come down from the pulpit then, looked her straight in the eye and said simply, “The Lord is going to use you, woman of God.” Then he’d laid his hand gently on the top of her head. The next thing she knew she was lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, covered by a large piece of black cloth. As the ushers helped her up and onto a seat in the first row, she realized she’d been “slain in the Spirit.” That had never happened before. She knew she’d heard from God, and she knew she was home.

The CD player switched from Tonex to Fred Hammond. Hope exited the freeway and trekked through the streets of Kansas City toward the famously popular eating establishment, Gates Bar-BQ, where she was meeting Frieda. She was still thinking about Pastor King and her beginnings at Mount Zion as she pulled up to a red light.

“Hey, baby girl, can I come?” she heard from the passenger in the car on her left side.

“Jesus is going to be there, is that all right?” she answered with a slight smile as she turned up Fred Hammond just a little more on her stereo.

“Hell yeah, that’s all right. I don’t care if He come, long as He bring you.”

Thankfully the light turned green, and Hope purposely slowed behind a big, pink Cadillac, giving the Range Rover time to jet ahead of her. She shook her head and sighed, turning into the Gates Bar-BQ parking lot at a faster speed than was prudent. Her father always told her she had a lead foot where the accelerator was concerned. She checked her make-up and jumped out just in time to see Frieda walking over.

“Hey, girl,” Hope said, giving Frieda a hug.

“What’s up, Hope? How was church?”

“If yo’ butt really wanted to know, you’d take me up on one of my many invitations to come join us.”

They entered the restaurant. It was noisy and crowded, as it was most weekends and every Sunday.

“May I help you, please?” the worker shouted from behind the counter when they’d stepped inside the door.

“Just keep praying for me so I don’t go to hell,” Frieda replied with a smile, before she shouted back to the woman behind the counter, “I’ll have a short end with fries and—what do you want?” she asked Hope. “And a chicken dinner and two strawberrys.” There was nothing like the strawberry sodas at Gates.

Hope and Frieda grabbed their orders and wound around counters and customers to a red leather upholstered booth by the window. A handsome older man with a short, salt-and-pepper cut and an expertly trimmed goatee smiled at Frieda. She smiled back, waving a rib between her fingers before placing it in her mouth and pulling it out clean. She quickly grabbed another, this time wrapping a sauce-soaked piece of white bread around it before taking a more ladylike bite, quickly followed by a thick, golden fry.

“Girl, church was the bomb this morning,” Hope began, spreading a liberal amount of the spicy sauce on her chicken leg before cutting it with her knife and fork.

“Well, I’m glad your time with God was the bomb this morning, suga’ pie,” Frieda countered, licking her fingers and sucking bits of meat from between her teeth. “’Cause my date was sho’ an explosion last night!”

Hope shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Girl,” Frieda began, drawing out the word and lowering her voice to a whisper. “Let me tell ya—brotha man is no joke.” She related detail after detail in a conspiratorial tone, and although Hope listened with genuine interest, she couldn’t help but think that this was way too much information. The last thing Celibate-Till-I’m-Married needed to hear was about a night of sexual escapades. Still, she leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word as Frieda recounted her torrid evening.

“Girl, shut up!” Hope exclaimed after hearing a particularly juicy tidbit, even though that was the last thing she wanted Frieda to do.

Hope left the restaurant two hours later, thankful for her crazy cousin’s friendship. She planned, in time, to tell her about Shawn, and prayed for a way to subtly steer Frieda toward a less promiscuous lifestyle. At the very least, she’d make sure Frieda was using protection. These days, it was a matter of life and death. Still, she didn’t judge her cousin. Hope missed the physical love that Frieda was getting, and prayed for a solution to that as well.