Also by Pat G’Orge-Walker
Don’t Blame the Devil
Somebody’s Sinning in My Bed
Somewhat Saved
Cruisin’ on Desperation
Mother Eternal Ann Everlastin’s Dead
Sister Betty! God’s Calling You, Again!
Published by Dafina Books
No Ordinary Noel
Pat G’Orge-Walker
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Pat G’Orge-Walker
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A Special Message from the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
More than two thousand years ago, three Wise Men came from the Far East. They traveled to Bethlehem bearing gifts for the baby Jesus who lay in a manger.
Man and beast, far and wide, celebrated.
Trustee Freddie Noel also came from the East: New York City’s Harlem bearing a “tainted” gift for his beloved church.
His pastor tried to beat him like a Mexican piñata.
Enjoy and Happy Holidays!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life
John 3:16
On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand.
I remain sustained by prayers and support from those who’ve become too numerous to name. I thank them all.
I also thank with all my heart and my love, Robert—my best friend and husband. Also my beautiful children: Gizel Dan-Yette, Ingrid, and Marisa along with my grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. A special mention for the birth of my latest great-granddaughter, Honestee Navaeh.
I am eternally grateful to my bishop John L. Smith and Lady Laura L. Smith of the St. Paul Baptist Tabernacle of Lights Ministry, and to that congregation, Reverend Stella Mercado and the Blanche Memorial Church family, and other numerous, supportive churches and organizations.
Deep gratitude and appreciation to my editor Selena James and the Dafina/Kensington Books family; long-time friend and attorney, Christopher R. Whent, Esq.; publicist Ella Curry (EDC Creations); and Yolanda LaToya Gore—a lovely woman who formed the Sister Betty Fan Club on Facebook.
Without a doubt, thanks to my offline readers and supporters, as well as my Facebook family of readers, friends, numerous book clubs, and so many fellow authors who share prayers, encouragement, and wonderful virtual hugs. Of course, I must thank the woman who makes my phenomenal promotional items, Debra “Simply Said” Owsley.
A special thank you to Doctors Colin Powers and Sandford Dubner.
A Special Message from the Author
Finally, it’s been more than thirty-five years since I created Sister Betty. I’ve grown with this phenomenal imaginary Super Saint; laughed and cried and gotten paid. This old imaginary Super Saint has taken me places and heights I never imagined. I thank God for His trust when He placed her in my hands—I pray I never let Him down.
Chapter 1
For the past eight years, Reverend Leotis Tom pastored full time at Pelzer, South Carolina’s Crossing Over Sanctuary church. From the moment he laid his right hand upon the Bible and promised to lead the church to holiness, he’d battled one church mess after another against the Devil and, quite often, against his congregation. The besieged reverend fasted so much for peace he hadn’t gained an ounce since he accepted his position.
He’d been only thirty-three years old when installed, and so fresh out of divinity college that he’d actually believed all he needed was a few words of “thus saith the Lord” scriptures and folks would fall in line; and with a touch of his anointed hands, he expected them to fall out, too. With his youthful ignorance he’d taken the helm, but not without controversy.
When the reverend’s name first came up there was concern from one of the few remaining founding members of the church. Mother Sasha Pray Onn was in her late sixties and a tad bit neurotic. Widowed by choice was the rumor, although never proven. She’d always been the go-to church mother, the keeper of the church gossip-laced politics and all things that made the church’s sanctified bus ride hazardous.
On the day when the reverend’s name was laid on the sacrificial altar for pastorate, Mother Pray Onn had issues. Fired up, she had left subtlety behind and was chained to her seat in the first pew.
“He ain’t been seasoned enough with trials and tribulations and some hawt church mess!” she warned. “We need a Man of God who can take a punch from ole Satan and then knows how to pray that demon back to hell without getting the church scorched! I’m telling ya, that baby preacher y’all are considering, well he ain’t that man!”
The Church Board never took into consideration the old church mother might’ve known of which she spoke. After all, Sasha Pray Onn and her entire Hellraiser clan were Satan’s first cousins, although they didn’t brag about it a lot. Nevertheless, the Church Board took a risk and for the first time ignored Mother Sasha Pray Onn. It wasn’t much of a risk. The old woman, by that time, had gone on a cruise.
Without the sanction of the other twenty-eleven boards, the Church Board invited the very handsome, six-foot-five Reverend Leotis Tom from nearby Anderson, South Carolina, with the ink still wet on his graduation parchment, to “bring the word.” They’d also made sure it was for the fifth Sunday service. Back then and even now, folks set a limit on attending church more than four Sundays a month. Fifth Sunday remains the safest for church politics.
Even as naïve as Leotis Tom was then, he still knew that an invitation was really an audition.
When the day came, he’d arrived without a visiting preacher’s usual church posse. There was no armor bearer to walk him up the three steps into the pulpit. He looked almost church-naked without some middle-aged nurse to wipe his brow or two or three Mothers to sit in the first pew and hype him and the congregation into a frenzy. Reverend Tom didn’t even have a young minister-in-training to carry his Bible and his robe. Instead, he came prepared with faith and a vision from the Lord.
That Sunday morning, he’d stood at the pulpit, dressed in a black and purple, short-sleeved robe, with a modest gold cross stitched across the breastbone. His dark unruly hair was cut short. Whether on purpose or not his pecan brown muscles rippled, making his arms resemble the back of an alligator’s tail splashing about.
Most folks probably couldn’t remember what Reverend Tom preached that morning but the consensus was unanimous. The reverend was what the women folks and even some of the shameless men called, “hawt spiritual
eye-candy who knew a little sumpthin’ about the Word.” The fact that the young man was single suddenly was in his favor, and most hoped that he’d never marry—unless it was to one of them.
That morning, the church’s outgoing pastor, the Jheri curled and overweight Reverend Knott Enuff Money could only marinate in envy. All the time he’d been single and pastoring, he’d had to fight off the gay and the bi rumors. Reverend Tom came to church with muscular arms and no mention of a wife or a girlfriend and the congregation appeared to lose its mind.
Soon after, the conversation got around again to the urgency of selecting a pastor to take the place of Reverend Knott Enuff Money.
“We can’t keep putting off getting a new pastor,” one board member pointed out after learning Reverend Tom had an open invitation to preach at another local church. “I suggest we hire him immediately.”
The naysayers who attended only a few services and even less board meetings usually did what they were supposed to do when it came time to confirm anything, by saying, “No,” and “Hell No!” But that time, even they went with the program, and voted on a few limitations to put into his contract should he accept their offer. They kept it simple. They’d wanted shorter sermons during football and baseball seasons, and no evening service on the night of the Stella Awards.
With agreement in place on how to regulate the pastor’s preaching schedule, they hired Reverend Leotis Tom and hoped for the best. They also hoped Mother Pray Onn had a good time on her cruise because she would raise hell upon her return.
The installation service was a grand affair. Churches, big and small, bishops and pastors, the saved and the unsavory were all invited. The Reverend Leotis Tom received many accolades, and large sums of cash; someone had warned him not to accept checks unless he was prepared to pay return check fees.
The food was first rate. Several overweight sisters hit that kitchen and anointed the oven. They cooked a feast big enough to feed a third world country. Of course, the auspicious event had local newspaper and television coverage. The video would be sold during a few upcoming conferences.
There was no doubt that Crossing Over Sanctuary had a new star. Everything was wonderful until later on that evening when the young preacher rose to say a few words.
The Reverend Leotis Tom gave the customary thank you and his vision for the church and community. Then he made a promise that set everyone on notice.
“There will be no politics inside the church or outside the church. Politicians are welcome to worship, but they will not receive special favors. We will not gamble on our salvation with unholy alliances and that includes gambling of any kind. God doesn’t want nor will He accept tainted money or favors!”
But that was then.
Chapter 2
Fall 2010
A few days after the Halloween madness crept off the radar, there was a new holiday buzz all over Pelzer. Like most of the country, Pelzer townsfolk were broke. They faced turkey-free dinners and severe Christmas giving challenges.
However, from the schoolyard to the junkyard, with the jailhouse and churches in between, they still held hope for the upcoming holiday.
They snatched down their pumpkin front door decorations and got ready for the Thanksgiving and Christmas madness. Some folk were brazen and heathen enough to have a Tom Turkey figure in a manger with a huge Santa on the front porch. The Santa even had a sack of toys thrown over his back, and a Bible in his hand.
Pelzer folk never allowed reality to derail their delusions, and the Mothers Board determined the tradition should continue. When it came time for the quarterly meeting, the first Saturday in November, craziness and chaos tore down the WELCOME sign and moved in.
Extraordinary times called for extreme measures, and no one more extreme than the Mothers Board fit the bill. It was time for the bickering fundraising heads of the board to rumble. They shared the war-mongering crown: cantankerous Mother Sasha Pray Onn and incontinence-plagued Mother Bea Blister. With Thanksgiving and Christmas coming soon, it was time to put into play one of the fundraising schemes they’d hatched.
Their plots seldom worked, but like most old hens, they just kept on hatching them.
Early on, Bea and Sasha had asked for volunteers to aid in their latest sure-to-be fiasco, but only three members signed up. Those three forced labor workers, all either over or in their sixties, were Elder Bartholomew “Batty” Brick, Brother Leon Casanova, and Trustee Freddie Noel. They came aboard because Sasha and Bea had threatened to spread untruths, beat the crap out of them, or stuff laxative-laced meals down their throats.
Elder Brick had already served time and didn’t need the rumors. Brother Casanova was scared of Bea’s violent nature and Sasha’s entire Hellraiser family. And malnourished-looking Trustee Noel just needed a hot home-cooked meal from anywhere with or without a laxative.
The weather held out the Saturday morning of the meeting. There was just enough of a chill in the air to chill out the old folk. The five seniors arrived at Crossing Over Sanctuary church with a combined five hundred years of senility, irregularity, and illusions of holiness.
The head of the Finance Committee, Elder Bartholomew “Batty” Brick entered first. Fellow committee members Brother Leon Casanova and Trustee Freddie Noel entered next. The men then escorted Mothers Sasha and Bea into the fellowship hall. They went to the rear of the hall and sat at one of the large tables.
The five already knew why they were there. Months ago, Bea and Sasha, referred to as BS, had suggested to Reverend Tom holding a Seniors Prom as a fundraiser. More recently, when Elder Brick slipped up and told Sasha that the church’s intake had slipped dramatically, she’d suggested they come up with more ideas beyond just selling tickets to the prom.
“Okay,” Sasha announced. “Batty, you lead us in a word or two of prayer so we can get started.”
Elder Batty Brick jumped up quicker than his arthritis normally allowed. The overweight, tall, olive-complexioned man with snow-white hair winced. He dropped his head, clasped his hands, and blurted as if he were preaching, “You know our hearts, Lord.” He let one hand sweep over their heads. “We come asking that You take our few fishes and stale crusty bread ideas and help us make some money with them.”
All raised their eyes and palms toward the ceiling, and added, “Amen.”
“We don’t hafta read the minutes. We can just move on.” The suggestion came from Mother Bea Blister.
Bea had been the Vice President of the Mothers Board for more years than she could remember. She’d also been Sasha’s rival for anything she figured Sasha wanted. In her late sixties, so she said, Bea was a statuesque woman. She had a severely arched back, an extra hundred pounds, was dark as a sun-ripened raisin, and just as wrinkled.
She made her wishes known on her way out the hall to the bathroom. She’d felt an urge to go since she’d left home. Since there were men at the meeting, and she wasn’t too sure if she could depend on the Depend she’d worn, it was as good a time as any to take care of business. The last thing she wanted was to be embarrassed, and definitely not with blabbermouth Sasha present.
By the time Bea returned, she found the other four seated just as she’d left them. “What did I miss?”
“When did you leave?” Sasha asked. She’d never tell Bea that she’d held up the meeting until she returned. There was no fun in that.
That set the tone for the rest of the meeting.
“I think we should sell T-shirts,” Sasha suggested. “We’ll have ones printed for the men, GOT AN XTRA BLUE PILL? For the women, ME & MY BREASTS R SOUTHERN GALS.”
Sasha’s suggestion caught Brother Leon’s attention. Up till then, he’d been dozing. He leaned forward, his brow furrowed. His seventy-year-old cinnamon-colored cheeks appeared full as if he’d stowed away a few nuts instead of sitting among them. “Ahem,” he said as he pulled on his gray handlebar moustache to give his coming words more weight.
“As I see it”—he looked around to make sure all eyes wer
e upon him—“this hall holds about five hundred people comfortably. Since we’re having a throwback to the fifties, sixties, and seventies dress theme for the prom, I’m sure most won’t need to do anything but look in their closets and grab something to wear. Afros, conks, platform shoes, we all got some old clothes somewhere.”
“Bea can wear what she wore last Sunday.” Sasha chuckled. Her tiny parentheses-shaped legs spread and, of course, she’d forgotten her underwear again.
“And Sasha can just wear what she’s wearing now,” Bea shot back, “except she can add drawers.”
One moment Sasha’s knees were open and the next the springs to Sasha’s knees shut hard enough to crack a bone. She grabbed her cane and was about go Darth Vader on Bea.
Brother Casanova jumped between them, “Ladies, please. Don’t make me hafta use my Taser!” He’d heard that line on television and was glad it worked. He shook his head and sighed at their pettiness as they retreated. “Anyway, we’re supposed to come up with ways to make money without going over the five-hundred dollar budget. Won’t it cost most of that to get the shirts printed?”
Sasha didn’t like her idea challenged, and she could almost feel her tight gray bun tighten. It threatened to cut off the oxygen to her brain, but she remained cool. “Of course, I already thought about that,” she lied. “Bea is gonna handwrite every word on every T-shirt.”
“What the ham and cheese!” Bea’s spine almost straightened as she shot forward, her fists balled to strike. “Oh, forget a Ta—”
Sasha quickly cut her off when she added sweetly, “Bea has such lovely penmanship. Why should we pay for something that will have less quality?”
Bea’s fist stopped in mid-air. She hadn’t gone to college, but when Sasha put it that way, how could she refuse? “I do have good penmanship,” Bea said with as much sincerity as an old con artist could muster. “How many T-shirts would we need?”
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