Falling Into Grace

by Michelle Stimpson

  The only problem so far was the women wearing dresses. Was it a coincidence or would she have to wear a dress, too?

  Two songs later, the male alto took his turn at the center. “Saints of the most high God, take one minute to just glorify Him!”

  A whole minute! Camille waited impatiently while the mass of people worked themselves into an emotional frenzy. Again, familiar territory. She had seen people shout, cry, fall out. None of that fazed her. The same people did the same things at the clubs she used to frequent shortly after Sweet Treats’s downfall.

  Church folk were probably the same everywhere, in her opinion. The only real Christian she’d ever seen was her mother. But she was dead. After all the times Camille had walked into her mother’s room to find Jerdine bent over the foot of the bed in prayer, all the gallons of blessed oil Jerdine had slathered on her family’s foreheads, and all the forgiveness Jerdine had given Bobby Junior, she’d still died a laborious death at age thirty-nine.

  God’s motive for taking Jerdine so early hadn’t made sense when Camille was a junior in high school, and it didn’t make any sense now. So while all this whooping and hollering taking place around her might make people ecstatic, Camille had her own truth. God might be powerful and He might have His mysterious reasons for doing things, but He sure wasn’t in the business of making people happy.

  The minute passed, and a man erupted in a sweet, soft ballad about God’s love. Camille tried to concentrate on his voice, but the words of the song, “More precious than a mother’s love,” poked at her heart.

  She focused, instead, on counting the number of rows in each section and multiplying by the number of seats in each row. It helped that there were a number of peculiar hats to observe as well. Next, she tried spotting white or Hispanic people. There was maybe one per hundred people present who appeared to be of another race. Despite John David’s insistence that she join an African American church, he would probably be pleased that there was some representation of other ethnic groups here. The more exposure the better.

  The female alto boosted the tempo with an old-time call-and-response song. Camille was glad for the change of pace, but when that woman bleated out a long “Wee-eee-eee-lll, I turned it over to Jesus,” Camille had to stop herself from gagging. She sounded like an old billy goat caught in a barbwire fence!

  Yet, the people clapped and cheered her on. Are they not hearing what I’m hearing? It reminded Camille of those early Mary J. Blige songs, back when her untrained voice was equivalent to the scratchy whine of someone whose half-deaf aunt told them they could really sing. Like Mary, this alto on stage had exceptional music and soulful lyrics to smooth things out. Maybe, with some help, she could get better. Camille would have to pull her aside, give her some tips.

  After Goat Woman’s song, the praise team shouted and danced for a while. The band was clearly having a good time. Their heads nodded and their bodies swayed awkwardly—a sure sign they’d gotten lost in the music and no longer cared how they appeared to the audience. Camille appreciated seeing a band in “the zone” again. She loved tapping into the musicians’ groove, following the song wherever it led.

  Finally, the lone soprano gave a breathy speech, as though she’d just finished running a marathon. If Camille was going to keep up with this praise team, she’d need to build up some stamina.

  “He is worthy!”

  The crowd echoed.

  “I said, He is worthy!”

  They heard you the first time.

  “Our God is an awesome God! He reigns ...” she sang.

  Camille’s chest sank. This girl could blow. She’d give any major female artist a run for her money, including the former leader of the Sweet Treats herself.

  Supersoprano Girl performed a medley of tunes, showcasing her ability across tempos and ranges. This was not good. Camille would either have to convince the man in the black suit that the praise team needed two sopranos or find some kind of way to push this girl back into a choir robe.

  Wait! Camille waited for a camera to display a full-body profile of the soprano on the nearest screen. She scrutinized the woman’s side view. Yes! She was pregnant. Very pregnant, actually. Once this girl had the baby, she’d be holed up for at least six weeks, and that was all the time Camille needed to work her way onto this elite praise team and into the spotlight.

  With a plan in place, the rest of the service was insignificant. The pastor’s words of encouragement were nice, but the call to fellowship was all Camille cared to hear. When the invitation to accept Christ was given, she pressed her feet back into her shoes. Any minute now, they had to ask for people who wanted to be members to come forward. Camille decided she might as well get up now to start the trek.

  “And if anyone would like to join our church,” the preacher announced, “meet us in the Mockingbird room, which is directly across from the bookstore, after church.”

  Camille stopped in her tracks. Mockingbird room? What kind of church doesn’t give new members the chance to parade before the congregation?

  She huffed in disgust and made an about-face and headed toward the exit doors. Mockingbird room. Nobody gets the right hand of fellowship in a Mockingbird room.

  She found the meeting place and joined about fifty other people waiting for this obscure enrollment to begin. Camille parked herself on the first row and sat to rest her feet again. Some women dressed in white distributed cookies, juice, and warm smiles. “Thanks for being here.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Almost immediately following the benediction, which they could all hear through the room’s speaker system, several men wearing “Ambassador” badges entered the room and stood behind the front table. The cookie women passed out folders now, and before any ambassador could explain the documents therein, Camille had already flipped to the first page and read something that turned her off right away: The membership process takes six weeks to complete. Upon completion, you may participate in the ministry God places on your heart.

  Six weeks! She didn’t have six weeks! John David was ripe now! Her future was now! And besides all that, pregnant Soprano Girl would be back in action by then!

  Camille raised her hand before they even started. “Um, is there any way to expedite the membership process?”

  The oldest ambassador, too old to be wearing cornrows, answered, “We’ll talk about the requirement in a second. But to answer your question, no.”

  Requirements? Since when does joining church have requirements? This wasn’t a job or the Department of Motor Vehicles. It was church, for goodness sake, and she needed to be in, in, in!

  She swung her foot in little circles throughout the presentation. The month-and-a-half-long process seemed more like a college course. Six classes, ninety minutes each, on Christian living, how to study the Bible, how to honor God with talents, gifts, and treasure. Someone would also come to visit her home and conduct a one-on-one “guidance session,” which would give her an opportunity to ask questions about her personal salvation, the church, or any other concerns she might not want to address in front of her group. Then and only then could she join the church on the first Sunday of the month after successful completion.

  This is for the birds.

  Camille shuffled all her papers back into the folder and stomped out of the meeting as soon as the ambassadors dismissed the group. She threw the folder in the trash on her way out the church’s main doors and caught the first trolley back to parking lot D, row fifteen.

  Who knew joining a mega church would be so complicated?

  CHAPTER 8

  Medgar Evers to the rescue again. Camille spent Monday afternoon researching churches’ membership processes. While none of the churches listed their procedures online, she found plenty of people voicing the good, bad, and ugly about joining area churches in online forums and discussion boards.

  Unfortunately, her findings pointed toward Grace Chapel. One could pledge membership immediately there and begin serving in a min
istry right away, but they were “encouraged” to attend “Christian Growth” classes. That was the good news.

  The bad news, aside from the whole minimum-wage thing, was the church store, which appeared to stock almost exclusively the pastor’s books and tapes. Something would have to be done about this nepotism, perhaps by way of response to the church’s annual survey, which, according to the head deacon’s Web page, weighed heavily in how this “community” church operated. She had already missed her chance for input this year, but it wouldn’t happen again.

  Ten o’clock service was more Camille’s speed. She put on the same dress she’d worn to The King’s Table. This time she was smarter about her choice in footwear, however. A wedge sandal did the trick. She arrived in the sanctuary in one comfortable piece, sporting a brand-spankin’-new Bible and a gray knit sweater to take an edge off the cooler temperature inside. She could get the hang of the big-church club.

  Grace Chapel had a praise team, too, which opened the morning affair. Seven members. Two sopranos. Just like The King’s Table, each one managed a song with the congregation while the words flashed on screens. Both sopranos were, in Camille’s estimation, a’ight. They could probably go beast on a song written specifically for them, but they didn’t have voices or styles that could adapt to anything set before them. The poor worship team leader probably had to sing their parts for them a few times before they caught on.

  And, speaking of the worship leader, he was well within a few years of Camille’s age and actually had a cute thing going on. Even from hundreds of feet away, his coffee skin, strong jaw line, and broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist put him around a five plus on a scale of one to ten. The camera close-up gave him another two points for a full hairline, white teeth, and an ensemble of favorable features. The absence of a wedding band brought him all the way up to an eight. Not to mention his vocals, which bolstered him over the top.

  Camille could definitely work with this man, assuming he was straight. Well, even if he wasn’t, she could work with him, but it wouldn’t be as much flirty fun.

  After church, Camille finally got her chance to approach the wide-open platform along with twenty others who wanted to join the church, just like she’d imagined. Pastor Collins led them in the prayer of faith, something Camille had done at least a dozen times while growing up, mostly at her mother’s direction.

  The congregation clapped for the new additions to the flock. One of the ushers handed Camille a folder. Following the benediction, the elders lined up, walked down the aisle of fresh congregants, and shook their hands. Then, hundreds of Grace Chapel members took the time to greet Camille, and the rest of the audience dissipated.

  Pastor Collins and his wife made up the last of the official welcoming committee. Camille took note of the sincerity in his eyes when he articulated, “We’re so glad to have you. Is there anything I can pray with you about?”

  “Oh, no, thank you ... Pastor. I’m just glad to be here.” She didn’t want to get on their radar as one of those needy people who had come to the church only looking for a father figure. She was there to roll up her sleeves and help herself. And maybe help them, if they wanted a rockin’ praise team.

  With Pastor Collins out of view, Camille and the others stepped out of the greeting line. She glanced back at the band pit and gave an innocent smile to the drummer, who happened to be looking her way. Sooner than later, he’d know her name.

  “That’s it! I’m in!” Camille screamed after locking her car doors. She’d taken the first step to reclaiming her life, her entire reason for being born: to sing.

  First thing Monday morning, Camille hopped out of bed humming an old Faith Evans song. Hearing her own voice scroll up and down the notes precisely warmed her like a cup of hot cocoa in December. This was her element. She needed her voice, needed to know she could do something better than anyone else.

  Some kids kept their noses in books growing up. Camille had been tethered to a headset, listening and singing along to whatever blared through the earpieces. Ballads, solos, jazz, pop, neo soul. Across genres, she imitated her favorite artists, rewinding and replaying the toughest notes until she could hit them exactly the way Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, or even Dolly Parton did. She ran through player batteries like water, costing Bobby Junior a small fortune. He didn’t mind, though. He always said his baby girl had simply caught the creative bug from himself and dear, rich singing cousin Lenny Williams.

  Camille sang morning, noon, and night. When she wasn’t singing, she was learning about music. She spent her weekly English class library time researching lyrics on the Internet, following her favorite groups. Momma trained her in the children’s and young-adult choirs. Jerdine didn’t let her daughter lead every song. Wouldn’t be fair. But at almost every Pastor and Wife’s anniversary event or women’s fifth Sunday program, someone would request that Camille sing their favorite number, usually “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” or “The Safest Place.” Like so many other vocalists, she had been tried and tested in church first. She had learned to sing whether she felt like it or not, whether she knew all the words or not. The best singers could skip a whole line and the audience would never know.

  Over the thousands of hours she’d spent practicing, Camille became one with her voice. She could make it do exactly what she wanted it to do. Hop, dip, twist, stretch, climb, whatever.

  People at school knew she had pipes. She performed many a recess concert for her friends. Every now and then, some new student would fall under the mistaken impression they could sing better. This, of course, forced Camille to go slamp off on the poor child. She’d pull out an old song most of her classmates hadn’t heard, maybe Shirley Murdock’s “As We Lay,” and demonstrate how a real diva blew.

  She watched videos and learned the choreography and words of every week’s top-ten tracks. In short, she was obsessed with music and singing. After studying Star Search and Showtime at the Apollo, Camille convinced herself that she had what it took to make it big.

  Jerdine insisted that Camille finish high school before she started chasing her dreams. “No matter what happens, no one can take your diploma away from you.”

  Nowadays, Camille wished her mother had added a college degree to the request, because the value of her high school diploma was shrinking right along with the American dollar.

  Nonetheless, Camille had honored her deceased mother’s wishes. She completed twelfth grade before she allowed her brother to circulate the cheap demo she’d recorded of a Deborah Cox instrumental. He caught a few tugs on the line and traipsed Camille all over Dallas and Houston until she finally got a meeting with an up-and-coming producer, T-Money, who was trying to start a new record label. He needed a female group to get the ball rolling.

  “Cami, this is the most important audition of your life,” Courtney had warned her before they got out of the car. “If you get into this group, your whole life will change forever. You understand?”

  He didn’t have to tell her that. She knew this must be crucial for him to miss work so he could take her to meet these people in Houston. Not exactly the Mecca for R&B talent, but now that Jermaine Dupri was putting Atlanta on the map, and some guys out of St. Louis, Missouri, of all places, were making a name for their town, reputable, well-connected studios were popping up all over the country.

  Though only a few years older than his sister, Courtney had a severity about him that afforded him instant respect with adults. People even called him “little man” growing up because, in some ways, he was never a child. “He’s just got an old spirit,” Bobby Junior would say.

  The day she auditioned was the day she met Alexis and Tonya for the first time, along with twelve other girls they beat out for the top slots. The fourth spot went to a girl named Ja-niah, who didn’t have the good sense to keep the fact that she was pregnant under wraps until she’d signed a contract.

  An audition that was supposed to last a day or two turned into a week as the producer called back s
everal of the girls he’d sent home crying. Kyra was one of those girls. Realizing she’d better sing like her life depended on it, Kyra nailed the song the second time around. Camille never really thought this was fair to the other girls, but, hey—she was in no position to speak her mind.

  Courtney hadn’t expected to be in negotiations with T-Money’s business associates most of that week, but he was more than ready for the challenge. Camille left all the paperwork and money talk to her big brother while she and the rest of what would later be known as Sweet Treats sang their throats raw in the adjacent recording room.

  When it was all said and done, Courtney’s bargaining skills landed him the job as the group’s manager and some kind of limited rights that Camille didn’t quite understand at the time. She trusted Courtney to handle the legal mumbo-jumbo. He said he’d bet on the group with T-Money, and he hoped that one day, he’d be a rich man. Camille hoped so, too, because staying in Houston had cost Courtney his management trainee job and put him in a rough spot, financially, since he had to pay for a hotel room for the week.

  Bobby Junior wired them some money halfway through their stay, which came with thick ropes attached. Though she wasn’t actually on the phone, she’d heard her father’s words to Courtney, “This is coming from your momma’s insurance money. Y’all better make it count, ’cause it’s all we have left of her.”

  Courtney’s skinny face never looked so heavy. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m gonna make it happen.”

  And that’s exactly what Courtney did. Up until the day he got replaced.

  Camille couldn’t think about that now. “Life is too short to look back,” she told herself.