Sex in the Sanctuary

by Lutishia Lovely

  Hope tried to relax further, taking a sip of her Perrier with lemon and focusing once more on the sounds coming from the stage. Each musician was now taking his individual turn in the spotlight with rousing solos, and the crowd shouted and applauded their pleasure at each performer’s expertise. Hope joined in because as a performer, she understood how the energy from the audience only enhanced an artist’s performance. Not only that, but she was truly enjoying herself. She vowed to do this more often and, chancing another peek, thought she might like to do it more often with Rashiid.

  “I told you they were off the chain!” Frieda whispered loudly into Hope’s ear, grabbing her arm as she did so. “I’m so glad you came.”

  “Me, too.” Hope replied, and she really meant it.

  Frieda dropped her voice to a lower octave. “So what do you think about…?” She didn’t finish the sentence but rather cocked her head in the general direction of Hope’s new friend.

  “Woodeewoo!” Hope yelled, seemingly at the latest song’s flourishing finish, but knowing Frieda caught the gist of her yell’s real intent. Frieda laughed her agreement.

  “I thought this one might pull you out of that church pew, for a minute anyway.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but I am enjoying the evening.”

  “Good,” Frieda said before she turned her attention once more to Norman Brown and company, who were executing a masterful rendition of the Luther Vandross hit, “Any Love.”

  Hope smiled as she floated away on their soothing, musical carpet ride. She closed her eyes, and for no reason that she could fathom, Sistahs Almighty and Alrighty came to mind. She almost laughed out loud—picturing the frowning countenance she was sure they’d have to discover she was enjoying “the devil’s music.” Well, let them frown, she thought as she began snapping her fingers quietly to the beat. Unlike them, I do not intend on ending up like a shriveled raisin in the sun. Unh-unh, darlin’, I see a husband-and-babies package with my name on it. She looked at Rashiid again, openly this time, and he smiled back, squeezing her shoulder as he did so. She wondered if he went to church. Or if he even knew God. What if he wasn’t Christian? With a name like Rashiid, he could be Muslim. Oh, no, there’d be no “asalum alaikum” in her house! Not that his name alone told her anything. Besides, it was just her first date with the man. He may not even like her. What would she think about that? She decided to just enjoy the band, the man and the evening and let the chips fall where they may.

  An hour and a half later the couples sat high above the city in Skies, the swanky revolving restaurant atop the Hyatt Regency Hotel. Both Rashiid and Frieda’s date, Damon, were sipping Courvoisier. Frieda nursed a strawberry daiquiri while Hope thoroughly enjoyed a cappuccino piled high with whipped cream and brushed with shaved cinnamon. While nibbling on a variety of appetizers, the couples enjoyed the view and recounted the concert highlights. Hope again thought about how good she felt and how long it had been since she’d actually been on a date. She thought about the men at her church and couldn’t imagine being here with any one of them. Then she looked over at Rashiid and couldn’t imagine being here with anyone else. As Frieda and Damon flirted with each other, Hope turned to Rashiid and smiled.

  “So,” she began, taking a sip of her steamy brew, “I take it you’re a jazz connoisseur. I’d not heard of the band before. They were excellent.”

  “Yeah, I like jazz. But I like all kinds of music. R&B, hip-hop, all of it.”

  “Do you get into gospel music?”

  Rashiid turned to look at Hope more fully. “I haven’t gotten into too much of that, but I do like Kirk Franklin, and who’s that one chick, the tall one who looks like a fashion model?”

  “Yolanda Adams?”

  “Yeah, that’s her. That sistah can blow! I saw her on the BET Awards and was like…who is that?”

  “Yeah, she’s one of my favorites. But I like all the contemporary artists, Trinitee 5:7, Fred Hammond, Nicole Muller, the Gospel Gangstas, Tonex…”

  “The Gospel Gangstas,” Rashiid repeated with skepticism.

  Hope nodded.

  “I haven’t heard of them. Maybe you can let me hear your music sometime.”

  “I’d like that. I have some really great stuff.”

  “Yeah, I just bet you do,” Rashiid responded with a gleam in his eye. “Frieda says you’re a church girl.”

  “I go to church, so I guess you could call me that.”

  “My mother used to play this song by Marvin Gaye called ‘Sanctified Lady.’ Could I call you that?” Rashiid was grinning; he was obviously enjoying himself.

  “Yes.” Hope was enjoying him, too.

  Rashiid moaned under his breath. “Have mercy,” was all he said. He took another drink of Courvoisier.

  “Maybe you’d like to come to my church one day.”

  “I might, if you issue me a personal invitation.”

  “Consider it done. We’ve got a concert coming up next week with the hip-hop artist Righteous Rebel. Only he’s God’s man now. He only does things that glorify Him.”

  “Ah, yeah? I remember reading about that. I like Righteous’s music. ‘Holy Ghost High’ is tight! I just might come check it out.”

  “I thought you didn’t listen to gospel music?”

  “That ain’t gospel, that’s hip-hop!” Hope and Rashiid continued to talk comfortably, learning more about each other. She learned he was the oldest of three boys, had lived in Kansas City all his life and worked as a foreman at a construction site. He’d gone to church with his grandmother as a boy, still got there on some Christmases or Easter Sundays until he was sixteen, but hadn’t stepped in one much except for a funeral service or wedding ceremony since he graduated from the local community college. He believed in God but spurned religion, believing that all ministers were just pimping the congregation for money. His father, who left his mother when Rashiid was five, was the one who named him. He had a three-year-old daughter, Rasheda, was on good terms with the mother and paid child support. He beamed with pride as he talked of his daughter, and Hope could see the love he had for the little girl. She couldn’t help but think, however, of the long-term, and how that little girl and her mother would be a part of her life as well should anything develop between her and Rashiid. It wasn’t as if she’d already imagined herself walking down the aisle or anything, but she knew that there was no desire to simply date; she was dating only with an eye toward marriage. To that end, these things had to be considered with every potential candidate.

  Before Rashiid dropped her off in his shiny, new BMW, she’d given him her cell and home numbers. He’d given her his number as well—his home number, always a good sign. She’d already decided to go out with him again, and he was actually looking forward to the Midnight Musical. Maybe she needed to look outside the box, she decided as they said their goodbyes and he gave her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. He seemed smart, kind and affectionate. And she hadn’t missed the hardness of that massive chest as he’d hugged her. Not that she was thinking of anything physical mind you, it was just an innocent observation. Still, in the middle of a Midwest heat wave, a shiver went down her back so hard it made her booty wiggle.

  Are you sure she’s not bucking for First Lady?

  The clink of metal on china was the only sound heard in Carla’s massive dining room. She smiled, noticing that conversation had all but ceased as the committee of Ladies First enjoyed her culinary skills. Carla loved to cook, always had, and the biggest thanks she could receive were the sounds she now heard.

  “Girl, this is delicious!” Vivian declared, taking a break from eating only long enough to wipe her mouth with a napkin and take a sip of tea. “I think this is the best salmon I’ve ever tasted.”

  “I second that emotion,” Terri added. “I would ask you how you made it, but I’m sure it’s another of your secret recipes that cannot be divulged.”

  “You got that right!” Carla grinned, taking another helping of spicy rice. “Besid
es, if I told you how I cooked it, you could then make it yourself and may be inclined to no longer grace my dining room with your lovely presence.”

  “Oh, so that’s how you keep your friends,” Minister Rebecca teased.

  “That and my winning personality!” Carla didn’t miss a bite or a beat.

  Later, as the women settled into Carla and her husband Stanley’s comfortable family room amid slices of peach cobbler and cups of coffee and tea, Vivian gave her update on the S.O.S. Summit. She lauded the invaluable assistance of Millicent Sims, who had become her special assistant on the project. Vivian admitted that much of the schedule’s smooth coming together was in no small part due to Millicent’s efficiency and enthusiasm.

  “Are you sure she’s not bucking for first lady herself?” Carla asked after Vivian once again extolled her praises.

  Vivian thought about the meeting she’d had with Millicent. When Millicent had admitted to her that she was in love and that she believed the man was her future husband. She didn’t offer the man’s name and Vivian didn’t press. She did say he was a member of the church. Vivian hoped she wasn’t talking about Cy Taylor because he’d clearly stated that he wasn’t interested. Still, they spent a lot of time together working on various projects. Vivian had admonished her to stay prayerful, and to make sure she was hearing from God. Millicent believed she’d already received signs of confirmation that this was indeed the man that God chose for her before the foundations of the world were laid. Vivian was all too familiar with the dreamy look in Millicent’s eyes as she talked about her future husband and the desired role that they, as a couple, would play in the ministry. Again, Vivian admonished her not to put the cart before the horse, but to make sure she was clear on God’s desire versus her own. After all, everyone and their mama wanted to be Cy’s wife.

  “Earth to Vivian, come in please!” Carla implored dramatically.

  Vivian wasn’t aware that she’d been deep in thought and hadn’t answered her friend’s question. She decided to be tactful and keep Millicent’s aspirations and her thoughts of said aspirations to herself.

  “I believe every woman wants a Godly man, and no, that doesn’t mean my husband,” she began carefully. “However, I think Millicent would make a wonderful preacher’s wife. I’m sure you’ll all get to know her better as the summit nears, since she’ll be overseeing the administrative responsibilities.”

  The women continued giving their updates and solidifying the flow of topics. Everyone had been thorough and presented outlines that not only impressed Vivian, but excited her. These women were as committed to S.O.S. as she was, and their sincerity showed in the quality of their work. Vivian felt this was the start of something good, something better than she’d imagined. Minister Rebecca and Terri McDaniels were presiding over the Spiritually Speaking segments, Pat and Chanelle were handling Setting the Standard versus society’s Status Quo, Vivian and Ruth were covering the topic of the Sanctity of Sisterhood and Carla, along with Tai, would lead the way on Sacred Sex.

  Carla was excited about working with Tai, whom she’d met a couple years ago during a Brook family visit to California. She didn’t know her well, but Carla sensed a depth to Tai that was rarely seen in others. She also felt Tai was suffering, that something somewhere wasn’t right. At first, Carla had questioned whether the particular section regarding sex was the best place for Tai to participate, but when Vivian told her she’d heard God on the matter, the subject was closed.

  Carla had spoken with Tai at least once a week since then, and now understood Vivian’s confidence. Tai was open and honest, another “real” sistah. Yes, there was definitely more there than met the eye. Without anything to confirm it, Carla also suspected trouble in Tai’s marriage. Tai hadn’t offered and Carla hadn’t asked, but it was the things not said that caused Carla to draw this conclusion. She looked at Vivian and wondered if she should say anything. She knew Vivian was tighter than a steel drum when it came to keeping a confidence. No, it would be better for Carla to “watch and pray,” knowing that if she was to know more, the information would come when the time was right.

  Vivian wrapped up the meeting with what she thought was exciting news. Iyanla Vanzant was to be their luncheon speaker. Vivian’s respect for these, her Ladies First comrades, had risen to new heights when she suggested this non-Christian choice and received open attitudes, intelligent discussion and, finally, agreement. Vivian always had her own mind and views on what and who were acceptable to God, and often thought outside the typical Christian box. She’d been given a copy of Iyanla’s Acts of Faith several years ago and read other books that she’d written since then. Being a Yoruban priestess discounted her from most Christian circles. Vivian understood, but this summit wasn’t just for Christian women, it was for hurting women, and she felt Iyanla’s own experience afforded her the compassion and understanding necessary to reach beyond religious, cultural and racial lines and soothe bruised hearts with words of wisdom.

  Minister Rebecca dismissed them in prayer. The ladies parted, full of excitement and anticipation for what was quickly becoming the meeting of the season, one not to be missed.

  Put feet to your faith

  The soothing sounds of instrumental music greeted Millicent as she opened the door to Beverly Hills Bridal Boutique. She smiled. Almost immediately she was transported into the world of fairy princesses and knights in shining armor. For this shop surely held every woman’s fantasy and a pivotal part of Millicent’s future.

  She reached out to touch the varying styles of satins and silks, her hands tracing the intricate workings of beads and lace. She fingered the sheer veil nettings and allowed the wispy yards of fabric to drape her skin.

  “That is one of our loveliest designs,” the saleswoman said, smiling brightly as she joined Millicent next to the silk and pearl garment. “It’s a Vera Wang.”

  “It’s absolutely breathtaking,” Millicent responded.

  “With your slender figure, you’d look amazing. When is the big day?”

  When is the big day? Wasn’t that the question of the century? Millicent wasn’t sure when she’d marry Cy; she was only sure that she would marry him. “We’re still working out the details,” she responded casually. “But one can never start shopping too soon, right?”

  “Absolutely,” the saleswoman countered. She walked with Millicent, who’d moved on from the Vera Wang dress and stood next to an equally gorgeous Oscar de la Renta design. “Do you have a particular style in mind?”

  “I’ve been looking through bridal magazines and have some definite thoughts. I think I’ll just browse a while and see if anything catches my fancy.”

  “Well, we’ve got some of the best designs in the country. My name is Shannon. Call me when you’re ready to try one on or need further assistance. I’ll be glad to answer any questions you have.”

  Millicent thanked her and continued looking. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, jumping from Cy to her wedding day, to her conversation with Sister Vivian and finally to the prophetess whom she’d seen a few days ago.

  It was at a small Pentecostal church in south central Los Angeles. Usually, Millicent shunned these small, nondescript “holy roller” congregations. But she’d been listening to an AM radio station, a Christian channel that broadcast a variety of ministers and their sermons. It wasn’t a station she listened to often, but on this particular day she’d been scanning the dial when Prophetess Clare Baldwin from Jackson, Mississippi, came on and issued the word of the Lord, prophesying to callers on matters from men to marriage, children to jobs. A force outside her seemed to draw Millicent to the woman’s fiery delivery and incantations. She’d tried to call in using her cell phone, but the station’s line stayed busy throughout the broadcast. Then the announcer mentioned that Prophetess Baldwin would be at God’s Temple Pentecostal Church that evening and would be coming with the word of the Lord. Millicent pulled over and wrote the address down.

  She’d felt a bit apprehensive and more tha
n a little out of place as she’d entered the small, shabby sanctuary. The benches were old and worn, some covered with marks and scratches made years ago by bored, restless children. The carpet on the floor was a dingy blue, almost gray, with unraveling threads and worn spots from years of high heels and shoutin’ shoes. The walls had been white once upon a time, but now were a combination of faded yellows and muted ivory, darkened by the sun and a painter’s neglect. A large brown stain snaked down one wall, evidence that not only the sanctuary but also the roof was in need of repair. There was an upright piano on the left side of a raised pulpit, looking shiny, new and out of place amid the dreary surroundings. A Hammond organ was on the other side, the red upholstery on the bench worn and faded. There was a tiny choir loft behind the pulpit and a faux stained-glass window in the center, with part of the “stained-glass” peeling off. On the right side of the window was a large cross, on the left side a hand-painted sign that read “Jesus Saves,” a poorly drawn dove with an olive branch under the lettering.

  A front-row saint by her own admission, Millicent had taken a tentative seat in the next to last row of the tiny edifice. She estimated it could probably seat a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty on a good day. There were about ten people sitting in the sanctuary when she arrived, and if she wasn’t so determined to get a word from the Lord concerning Cy, she would have tucked tail and run the moment she’d stepped inside. In fact, she was thinking about doing so when a lady came up behind her and said, “Praise the Lord!” in a voice that would have awakened the dead. Millicent jumped, then turned and looked into the kind, grandmotherly eyes of one of the church mothers, so assumed because of the white dress and lace hanky almost entirely covering the woman’s gray hair. The woman laid a hand on Millicent’s shoulder, giving her a couple of pats, and with a nod of her head walked around Millicent down to the first row, greeting all of those sitting in the pews by name and then getting on her knees and saying a quick prayer before she dropped her purse, took off her jacket and eased onto the hard wood pew, where she began humming to herself and rocking side to side.