Boaz Brown (19 page)

“The whole truth?” Brother Robertson asked. There was a light chuckle in the audience.

“And nothing but the truth. You may go first, Brother Robertson,” Brother Johnson volunteered him.

Brother Robertson stood and cleared his throat in a humorous effort to get our attention. He pulled a list from his tattered Bible. “I’m looking for someone who’s a woman of God, who exhibits all the fruit of the spirit, who will share in some of my hobbies, who loves to cook. And. . .” he paused. “She should be physically active.”

“In other words, she needs to be thin,” Peaches jumped in.

“She’s got to be if she’s gonna keep up with me,” he said, throwing his shoulders back and inflating his chest.

Peaches cocked her head, squinted her eyes, and gave him a look that wasn’t totally appropriate for church. Then she rolled her eyes. The other class members and I let out a collective “Mmmm.”

“Peaches,” Brother Johnson asked, “what’s on your list?”

Peaches cleared her throat and shook out her paper a few times, flashing her French-manicured nails. “Okay, I have this broken down into categories. Category one: spiritual. He must have accepted Christ in his life, he must attend church regularly, and he must actively study and apply the Word of God. I think if he’s doing all that, we will be able to get along no matter what his basic personality type is.

“Category two: family. He must accept my son as part of the package, he must have a good relationship with his own mother, and if he has a child, the romantic relationship with his baby’s mother must be completely severed and
she
cannot be crazy. He must also be active in said child’s life.

“Category three: financial. He cannot be threatened by my success, he must have good credit, and he must have a good work history.” She looked around at us all, “Failure to maintain steady employment is the quickest way to get x-ed off the list.”

“Aaay- man!” one of our older female classmates interjected.

“And,” Peaches continued reading from her paper, “last but not least, category four: physical. He must be at least four inches taller than I am; he must be physically active. . .” She eyed Brother Robertson for a second before going on. “I can’t really say exactly what a man needs to look like, because there are a lot of different things that I am attracted to, but I do know that he needs to be black. And the blacker the better.”

“Girl!” one of the sisters called out. “Get me a copy of that list!”

I was the next to disclose my list. “Okay, I also have mine broken into categories, but they’re a little different. I insist that he is a man of God and that he expects me to be a woman of God, because I know that we’ll help each other grow in Christ. I also insist that he is employed, although I really don’t care what kind of work it is. I
prefer
that he not have any children, no previous wives. I also prefer a tall, dark, handsome man with no gold teeth.”

“What if he did have gold teeth?” a gold-toothed brother asked with a bright, shiny smile.

Oh, my.
I put my hand over my mouth. “I would have to pray on that.”

“That’s a good question,” Brother Johnson probed. “What difference does it make if he has a gold tooth or not?”

“Well. . .“ I was trying to think of a tasteful way to say “that’s ghetto.” I answered with, “If he has a gold tooth, we probably don’t have much in common.”

“Maybe we just don’t have the same tastes,” Brother Gold-Tooth responded.

I shrugged. “And if we disagree on something as simple as gold teeth, there’s no telling what else we won’t be able to see eye to eye on.”

After everyone else had the opportunity to make his or her list known, Brother Johnson led us into the Word. “Keep your lists handy as we cross-examine them with God’s Word.”

I thought I would fall out of my chair when he referenced many of the verses I had highlighted in my Bible regarding deliverance from prejudice. Brother Johnson made us recognize that even though we had all first claimed we wanted mates who were Christian, we then went on to define exactly what
kind
of Christian we wanted. We had done everything from placing restrictions on what kinds of sins he or she must not have committed (prior to accepting Christ) to how he or she must appear to our physical eyes now.

We got stuck, however, on Acts 10:34—35:
Then Peter began to speak: “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts men from every nation who fear him and do what is right.”

“But we’re not talking about every man,” one of the sisters said, “we’re talking about
my
man.”

“That’s a fact,” Brother Johnson said gently, “but the real truth is that if you are looking for a sinless, perfect man or woman with a history, as clean as a whistle, you may miss what is right under your nose, maybe even right here in this room.”

I saw Peaches’ eyes dart to Brother Robertson, but I was too busy nudging her to see if he was looking back at her. “These are the verses I’ve been studying.”

“Regardless of outward appearances or past experiences,” Brother Johnson eloquently explained, “a person in Christ is a new creature. We’ve got the whole ‘unequally yoked’ thing down, but we now have to learn to see our brothers and sisters in Christ as a part of who we are, because we all make up the body of Christ.

“Now, let me clarify some things here. You can expect God’s people to bear fruit in their lives and be respectful, productive people. But every part of our lives—even down to the selection of our mates—needs to be turned over to God so that His perfect will can be carried out in your life. So if your personal preference is not in line with God’s plan, you’ve got some rethinking to do.”

We talked for another half hour before Brother Johnson made the call for final questions. Then he asked if there was anyone who would like to accept Christ in their lives that evening. When no one stepped forward, he asked us to join hands. We went around the circle making special prayer requests known before he led us in the closing prayer.

I saw Brother Robertson making his way over to Peaches, so I tapped her on the shoulder and let her know that I was going to get Eric from the children’s class.

“Okay.” She winked at me.

Later, when we got into the car, I asked Peaches about Brother Robertson. She spoke softly so that Eric couldn’t hear our conversation. “Well, we’ve been kind of doing the eye thing for the last couple of meetings. He’s a new member. From D.C. He just got transferred with some insurance company.

“Anyways, we’ve got a date for Friday night. Can you do me a biiiiiig favor and watch Eric for a few hours? Raphael doesn’t get off work until eight. I’m sure he’ll pick Eric up by eight-thirty.”

“Aw, girl,” I teased her, “I can’t. I told Shamar Moore that I’d meet up with him at around seven.”

“Don’t play, Shondra.” Her voice was charged with the electricity of her new relationship.

I was happy for her, but couldn’t help wondering when I would have my turn.

Chapter 9

I w
atched in amazement as Vanessa Williams made it past the first, then the second round of eliminations for the crown of Miss America. Every scrap of hope within me yearned for her to win it—for
us.
My entire family gathered near the television—me, Momma, Daddy, and Jonathan—our faces aglow from the screen’s reflection. Daddy sat on the edge of his chair with his balled fists fastened to his knees. And when they called her name, Daddy leaped so high his glasses fell off. We hugged and hollered as though a member of our immediate family had cashed in a lottery ticket or reclaimed a lost treasure.

Later, I felt Vanessa Williams’ shame as she was forced to relinquish her crown. For weeks, the media mashed our faces in her disgrace.

“That’s a shame, “Momma said, stopping from her chores just long enough to catch the latest news on the issue. “Yeah, those white folks took the crown away because she did something she shouldn’t have. But I’ll tell you what: when that
nasty
magazine comes out with her pictures in it, I’ll betcha every white man in America’ll have a copy under his mattress, settin’ their eyes on a black woman’s body. That’s all they think about—how to get somethin’ they ain’t supposed to have. White men are just
nasty thinkin’,
‘specially when it comes to black women! That’s how she ended up in this mess to begin with—some white man and his nasty old fantasies.”

* * * * *

Peaches called me later that evening to see if I wanted to work out with her at her gym, on a guest pass. “No, not tonight, Peaches.”

“What’s up, girl?” she asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired. This change in the weather is wearing me down. I think I’m gonna sit myself down at church tonight. We’re having a revival—I could use a good reviving.”

“Thanks for telling me about it,” she said sharply.

“I’m sorry. I just thought you’d be too busy with your Brother Robertson.”

“Girl, please. We got into a big argument last week.”

“About what?”

“He wants to get to know Eric, and I told him it was too soon.”

“Well, at least he does recognize that you two are a package deal,” I said.

“Yeah, but Eric is my baby, you know? I can’t have him getting hurt every time I get hurt.” She stated her case. “Besides, Eric is just now getting to know Raphael. One new relationship at a time is enough for anybody, let alone a child.”

“You’re right about that.”

“What time does service start tonight?” she asked.

“Seven.”

“Okay. I’ll be there around eight-thirty,” she said. “I know y’all don’t start on time anyway.” I couldn’t argue with her on that one, either. Nothing at our church
ever
started on time.

The guest minister’s choir was singing an older song of praise when I entered the sanctuary. “I am changed, Lo-oo-o-ord, to love You. I am cha-a-a-anged to bless You. I am changed, Lo-o-ord by this, Your word, fore-e-ver to wo-oo-orship Thee.”

After their selection, the ushers directed the congregation in giving a love offering for Minister Jackson. Peaches jumped in the line behind me and marched around the table, giving her offering and then sitting next to me on the fourth pew.

“Hey.” She pulled her Bible from her worn canvas bag.

“Hey.”

Following a second selection, Minister Jackson took the pulpit. He adjusted the microphone to accommodate his short frame and asked the congregation to stand for prayer. Minister Jackson’s prayer came out like a song. It reminded me of the prayers of David and Solomon, rich with praise and wisdom. His voice was smooth and steady as he pleaded for the guidance of the Holy Spirit in delivering a word from God that would bless the entire congregation.

“Amen. You may be seated in the presence of an awesome God.” Minister Jackson was one of those preachers my mother wouldn’t have approved of. He was far too casual in his demeanor, not approaching his duties with the stiff reverence of the old church: three- piece suit and tie, oversized crucifix hanging about his neck, and the tips of his something-skin shoes buffed and shined to perfection. Minister Jackson wore black slacks, a navy blue dress shirt, and a black tie. Yet, his salt-and- pepper hair spoke gave hint to his wealth of experiences to bring to the pulpit.

“For those of you who are attending this revival for the first night, I must let you know that we have been tackling several issues that I believe have plagued the body of Christ for centuries. Tonight I want to talk about something I think we as Christians are extremely guilty of. This is not a popular message, especially not amongst our particular denomination. So, if you don’t agree, just raise your finger and tip on out. I’ll understand.”

The congregation gave a collective laugh.

“Tonight I want to talk about voluntary separatism.”

“Mmm hmm,” we moaned.