The conflict inside me was a war of words and emotions, as though an angel sat on one shoulder and the enemy sat on the other. One whispered messages of love and peace, while the other whispered horrible, discouraging facts and realities about life, people, the way things were and had been for hundreds of years.
I wept at the altar, surrounded by missionaries and other altar workers who must have felt my undeclared battle. “Just give it to Jesus,” they whispered in my ear. Their hands made warm paths up and down my back. They encircled those of us who had come to have Minister Jackson lay hands on us, agreeing in the Spirit that God would deliver us from mental and physical afflictions. “Just leave it here at the altar. He is able.”
Saturday sneaked up on me before I had the chance to fully develop an excuse not to call Mr. Stelson Brown. But when I got in the Word and reviewed the notes from Minister Jackson’s sermons, I put the excuses aside.
I decided to call Mr. Brown early, figuring he wouldn’t be home since many people—at least the ones I knew—tried to run their errands before noon. I planned to leave a “sorry I missed you” message, then screen my calls (if he got my number from caller ID), and conveniently miss him until it was way too late to go out.
No such luck.
“Hello.”
“Hi, may I speak with Stelson, please?”
“This is Stelson.”
“Stelson, this is LaShondra Smith. How are you?”
“I’m great. . . great.” He seemed glad to hear my voice. “How about you?”
“Fine as well. I’m calling to take you up on your offer.” I laughed.
“Okay,” he laughed, too, ”I’m glad you did. Um, let’s see. . . do you like Mexican food?”
“I love Mexican food.”
“I’ve got just the right place in mind. There’s a Mexican restaurant named Abuelita’s on the south side of town—off Industrial and Ninth. It’s a tiny little place, but they’ve got live entertainment and the best Mexican food on the entire globe.”
“Mmm,” I said, “I think I’ve heard it, but I’ve never gone there. I’d like to try it.”
“What time shall I pick you up?” he asked.
“Uh, no offense, Stelson, but I would prefer to meet you there.” I imposed my standard residence rule: don’t let a man know where you live until after the third date.
“None taken.” He didn’t skip a beat. “I can meet you there at eight.”
“Eight is fine. I’ll see you there.”
I scoured my closet for the perfect outfit and settled on an indigo pants set with a pair of black low-heeled boots. I swept my hair up into a twist and let what was left of my curls sweep across my forehead and on top of my head. The hairstyle was a bit more formal than I wanted, but I didn’t have much choice.
Eight took its sweet time coming but found both Stelson and me being seated at a table for two. “You look great, LaShondra,” he said to me as he placed his jacket on the back of his chair. Any other time, I would have mentally twisted his compliment to the point that it was perverted. But not tonight.
“Thank you, Stelson.”
Once again he was wearing that cologne that I had come to associate with him—not too strong, definitely masculine. His hair had grown out a little, maybe into what it was supposed to look like at its best.
The smell of authentic Mexican food filled the atmosphere, along with the energy of the mariachi band. Every song had the distinct, three-count beat of Latino rhythm. Waitresses dressed in sombreros and bright, colorful skirts whisked through the crowd with platters of sizzling fajitas giving off their mouth-watering aroma. It was different, but I liked it.
I almost hurt myself on the biggest, spiciest, most delicious chicken burrito I ever tasted. Stelson laughed at me when we were finished, because I just sat there, too full to move.
“Just give me a minute,” I said, after stealthily loosening the drawstring on my pants. After the way I threw down on that burrito, I was well past manners. “Okay. I’ll be all right in just a few minutes.”
“I told you this place was awesome.” He smiled. A clump of his dark hair fell out of place, and touched his eyebrow. He forced it back to its rightful spot by yanking his head back and shaking it slightly, like it was really going to stay in place now. There goes the white-girl flip.
“‘Awesome’ is an understatement,” I said, willing myself to ignore the hair thing.
“We’ll have to come here again,” he suggested.
“Definitely,” I inadvertently agreed to another date.
“So, Miss Smith,” he teased, “tell me all about you. What goes on in a typical week in the life of LaShondra Smith?” he asked.
“Not too much. I spend a lot of time at work. I usually go to a singles Bible study on Tuesday nights, tutoring on Wednesday nights at my church before midweek service,” I babbled freely, “but that tutoring takes a lot out of me because right now I’m the only one on who’s tutoring. Every once in a while, someone will come back to volunteer and help, but for the most part I’m roughing it alone. I’ve been praying that God will send some help—anybody.
“The rest of the week I’ll probably lounge around. Check out a few bookstores, do a little shopping. Go to church Sunday morning.” I shrugged.
“Tell me about your church,” he requested. “I mean, what denomination is it? What’s it like?”
“I attend True Way Church of God in Christ, where my pastor is the Reverend Billy Williams.” I gave my spiel.
“You’re kidding!” he exclaimed. “Church of God in Christ?”
“Yes, Church of God in Christ. Pentecostal. Holy rollers, open expressions of praise, tongue-talking, let the Spirit take lead in the service. That kind of church.”
“You’re kidding me,” he repeated.
“No, I’m not. What’s so incredible?” I asked him, waiting for him to say something derogatory about my denomination. I’d be the first to admit that COGIC wasn’t perfect. But if Stelson said one bad thing about my church, I would have to go left.
“Did you know that your church and the church I was raised in were once the same denomination?” he asked.
The blank look on my face must have answered his question.
“It’s true. The Church of God in Christ and the Assemblies of God were once one church. The founders of your church and the founders of my church worked together up until the early nineteen hundreds.”
My ears heard it, but I couldn’t really imagine it. Blacks and whites together in the early 1900s for any reason was highly unlikely.
“LaShondra,” he continued, breathing hard with excitement, “The Church of God in Christ was part of the Apostolic Faith movement that started in America in the late eighteen hundreds. I mean, my church’s founders and your church’s founders were both present at the Azusa Street revival in 1906.”
“I’ve heard of Azusa Street. They still have the convention every year,” I commented. “But what makes you think that the Church of God in Christ, founded by Bishop Charles Mason, and the Assemblies of God were ever one?”
“I’ve researched this, LaShondra. The Church of God in Christ had huge, absolutely phenomenal growth. At one point, there were as many white Church of God in Christ congregations as there were black ones—all of them with Bishop Mason’s stamp on them. People were beginning to see that God was alive in everybody, with no regard to nationality or race or class. It was amazing. And it went on until around 1918 or so.”
“What happened?”
“It split up,” he said, bowing his head and lowering his voice. “It got divided right down the middle.”
“Along racial lines, huh?”
“That among other things,” he said. “That’s how we ended up the Assemblies of God and the Church of God in Christ. Two separate denominations that shouldn’t have ever been apart. The truth is, you and I go way back, LaShondra.”
“Well, why haven’t I ever heard about any of this?”
“I didn’t hea
r about any of it, either, growing up. It wasn’t until I started looking for a church home in Dallas that I got into the church’s history. I guess it’s just one of those things that isn’t discussed.”
“Are you still in the Assemblies of God?”
“No. I belong to Living Word. It’s nondenominational.”
“So how did you end up in a nondenominational church?” I asked him. “If you were raised anything like I was raised, you know it’s a serious thing to leave ‘the church.”
“I didn’t really make the decision to be nondenominational. I just asked God to send me to the church where He wanted me to serve and give. That’s how I ended up at Living Word Church. The pastor and congregation have been such a blessing to me. There is so much love—probably the same love that was once shared between the Church of God in Christ and the Assemblies of God.”
“You are right about it, nobody discusses that kind of thing,” I said. “I mean, I can probably count on one hand the number of white people that I know of who were members at a Church of God in Christ. Every once in a while, we have a white visitor or something, but that’s about it. If we’re supposed to have been so close, why are we so far apart?”
“That’s a good question.”
“What about at the Assemblies of God? Is the congregation still all white?”
“No, not any more. I mean, it’s predominantly white, but in the past twenty years or so, with interracial couples and fellowship with churches of different denominations, they’ve gotten somewhat diversified. Most of the members who aren’t white are younger. It’s funny how kids don’t seem to care about race as much as adults do.”
“I can second that,” I agreed with him.
He still had that excited and happy expression on his face.
“What? Why are you looking like that?” I asked him.
“Looking like what?”
“Looking all happy.”
“I’m happy to finally meet someone who understands where I’m coming from. Someone who knows what it means to take communion, to let the Spirit of God lead you, to be set apart from the world. All the stuff that you and I were both raised believing.” He beamed as though he’d found a long-lost friend.
“Stelson, you don’t understand.” I tried to brace him for my less-than-joyful interpretation of this slice of history. “You can be happy about it, but I’m not. I don’t see anything exciting or happy about finding out that my people and your people used to get along but stopped getting along because of race. That is no comfort to me.”
“We’re all God’s people, LaShondra. There are billions of Christians who are divided for unexplainable reasons. I do know, however, that it was never God’s will for his children to be split up. No parent would ever want that for their children. You and I both know that God isn’t about division. He’s about unity. We were chosen long before 1918.”
“I know you’re right, Stelson. But maybe it’s easier for you to disregard the particulars when you weren’t the one on the short end of the stick, you know? And I don’t mean you, I mean your people.”
“You are my people, LaShondra,” he said forcefully. “Every last church that’s divided up is my people because the church is the body of Christ.”
It took a second to accept that fact. That truth. The same truth Minister Jackson preached about only days before. I’d known, that day at Chester’s, Stelson was my brother. I’d known all along that there was something about him drawing. Perhaps it was the whole truth: part of him was part of me.
My mind was running in circles. I felt a tug-of-war going on inside of me, an internal conflict pitting everything I thought I knew about myself against an emerging image of who this child of God (aka LaShondra Smith) truly was. This is too hard, Lord.
I sat back and took in the restaurant again. Despite the noise level, I’d heard every word Stelson said. More important, I’d felt them. For the first time, I saw the flecks of black in his otherwise crystal clear blue eyes, the outline around them. I noticed the slope of his nose—steady and steep. His lips were not quite pink, not quite peach, but something in between.
“And what goes on in a typical week for you?” I changed the subject.
“Meetings, meetings, and more meetings at work. Every other Saturday I volunteer for the Saturday Night Live program at our church. Um, what else? I read, I work out, I pray, I study the Word, I go to church. I sleep. And all of that in no particular order,” he joked.
“Sounds like a pretty busy life.”
“Busy but not full. There’s more to life than working hard but having no one to share success with,” he said with no particular expression.
Relieved that he was not making any premature hints about a relationship, I agreed with him. “I understand. I mean, I love being single. I do my own thing without having to consult with anybody else’s schedule. If I don’t want to clean up today, I don’t clean up.”
He nodded, “I know what you mean. Coming home to peace and quiet after a long day’s work does have its rewards. But then again, so would coming home to a foot massage.”
“Ooh, that sounds good,” I agreed. “I don’t know, Stelson. I think that by the time I meet the right person, I might be too set in my own ways, you know? I can’t wake up in the morning, pour a bowl of cereal, and discover all the milk is gone because somebody else in the house drank the last drop and didn’t tell me. That kind of thing would irritate me.”
“More than the irritating comments from family members—‘Why aren’t you married yet?’ and ‘When am I gonna have my grandkids?’”
“Your family, too!” I gasped.
“Oh, yes. My mother especially. She lives in Louisiana, but she tries her best to keep close tabs on me. I have no doubt that seeing me married is at the top of her prayer list.”
“I didn’t think many men had the same kind of pressure. I mean, it’s obvious that women have external pressures, but the fact of the matter is, our biological time clocks tick much faster than men’s. We can’t wait until we’re fifty to make a move.”
“Well, who says you’ve got to have kids?”
“Nobody.” I rested my elbows on the table and laced my fingers together under my chin.
Stelson leaned in to listen more closely.
“I mean, I’m not one of those who absolutely has to have kids. But it would be nice, granted that I had a husband to raise them with—which brings us back to square one.”
In the parking lot, Stelson walked me to my car and saw me in safely. I lowered my window.
“Thanks, Stelson. I really enjoyed this place.”
“Thanks for joining me.” He smiled, his hand on the hood of my car. “LaShondra, would you mind if I had your phone number? I really enjoyed your company, and I’d like to talk more some time.”
After the great time we’d had at the restaurant, the question seemed almost silly. And, come to think of it, maybe the game I was playing with Stelson could be classified as a little silly, too. White as he was, he’d gone through the entire evening without setting off any of those internal alarms—you know, when a guy says or does something on a first date and you immediately know that he is not the one? “Sure, Stelson. I think I’d like that, too.”
When I got home from our date, I jumped onto the Internet. I believed what Stelson had told me about our church, but I wanted to read it for myself. Our denominational websites didn’t list much about the split, but I did find that the doctrines were similar. A more detailed search of several historical and theological research engines yielded the confirmation that I needed. My church and Stelson’s church had indeed been united almost a hundred years earlier. We’d been divided by the work of the enemy.
Chapter 10
I had already asked Momma if I could go to the freshman dance with Reginald, but she said that she and Daddy had to meet him first. “Do you want me to invite him over?” I’d asked.
“No, I don’t want him over here. Invite him to church.” Her eyes got
real big and she nodded down toward me. “If he can’t come to church, he ain’t worth a quarter.”
I thought to myself “Daddy don’t have to go to church, and you married him.” I could think whatever I wanted to, but I knew better than to say it.
“What’s his name?” Daddy wanted to know.
“Reginald Devereaux.”
“Reginald what?” He jerked his head back.
“Devereaux, Daddy. It’s French.”
“Ain’t that something—a tough black name like Reginald mixed up with a soft-sounding French name. What’s he look like?” he asked.
“He looks black, Daddy.” I shook my head. I’d wondered, even then, what Reginald’s complexion had to do with anything. I thought the question at hand was whether or not I could go.
I followed Momma’s orders and asked Reginald to come to church. He wasn’t actually my boyfriend, but we were “talking,” as we used to call it. I knew his cousin, Renita, a mixed girl in my Spanish class. I’d seen his picture in her photo album and asked about him. Since then, Reginald and I had been passing notes via Renita. I’d also sneak on the phone to call him from a friend’s house, or from the living room if I happened to be home alone. Despite the fact that I was not supposed to be talking on the phone to boys, I managed to carry out a very active social life with both sexes.
Momma was impressed with Reginald Devereaux. He’d introduced himself politely after church and then asked her and Daddy if he could take me to his school’s freshman dance. Both his parents had come to church for the occasion as well, and I was thankful they both looked as black as Reginald did. My parents finally gave us the green light to attend the dance.
His parents drove us to the dance and dropped us off, telling us they’d be back at eleven to pick us up. We both let out a sigh of relief when they drove off.
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