Brother Word (2 page)

The entire congregation, however, seemed oblivious to Smallwood’s situation. They had all knelt down as well, their faces touching the wooden floor of the sanctuary. Even Brother Sanderson had closed his eyes at his perch on the organ, though his fingers and feet were still producing the angelic-sounding melody.

Heart disease ran rampant in Smallwood’s family line; his grandfather had succumbed to a heart attack at age sixty-three, and his own father at age sixty. Two uncles had been robbed of life in their late fifties. Smallwood had been having chest pains on and off for the past month, but he had refused to concentrate on them. Not only had he preached divine healing through the blood of Jesus, but he also had confessed several healing scriptures over his life every day.

But strong faith in the area of healing or not, his present chest pains were real.
Painfully
real. Unfortunately, the entire congregation was oblivious to his agony, because they were too far gone in worship as they boarded the glory train.

“Lord, help me,” Smallwood whispered with great difficulty, his chest heaving. “Your Word says I can be healed . . . help me, Lord.”

After what seemed like an eternity had passed, he dropped the microphone to the floor and resolutely closed his eyes. If this was his time to meet his Maker, then so be it. It was no small consolation that at least he was
ready
to meet the Lord.

THE MAN NOW STOOD
from his fourth-row seat. He touched the ring on his finger, tugged briefly on the lapels of his checkered suit jacket, and then began making his way toward the front of the church. His unhurried gait was as relaxed as the expression adorning his face. When he was twenty feet from the prostrate preacher, he bowed his head and clasped his hands behind his back, still walking slowly.

Soon, he was close enough to touch the preacher, and he knelt down, his face inches away from the praying man.

“Sir, do you believe you are healed through the blood and by the name of Jesus Christ?” he asked. The confident delivery of his words belied his casual demeanor.

Smallwood stopped praying, opened his eyes, and weakly looked up, his wizened face contorted in pain.

Maybe . . . maybe it’s not my time . . .
he thought, with a bittersweet pang. To be absent from the body and present with the Lord had long been one of his desires. He just hadn’t wanted a heart attack, of all things, to be the means of making that desire a reality.

With much effort, he nodded his head. “Yes, I do.” He paused to take a few short, ragged breaths. “I believe I am healed in the name . . . of . . . Jesus.”

“Then according to your faith, receive your healing in the name of Jesus,” the man responded, gently reaching out and placing his palm on Smallwood’s heart.

Instantly, the pain . . .
ceased
.

The throbbing ache in the center of Smallwood’s chest quickly became a distant memory, almost like it had never happened at all.

Praise God!
Smallwood thought to himself. He felt like rejoicing out loud, but the suddenness of it all had rendered him momentarily speechless.
Praise His holy name!

And just as slowly and casually as he had come, the man turned around and walked back down the aisle, pausing only to pick up an old black leather Bible resting on the fourth-row seat. Continuing on, he walked out the front doors of the church and into the brilliant afternoon sunshine.

Chapter Two

L
YNN HARPER HAD EVERY REASON
to be in a bad mood. The repairs to her car were going to take two days longer than expected, the air conditioner in her town house was on the blink again, she was having a bad hair day, and if that weren’t enough, there was a noticeable, full-length run along the back of her nylons. She noticed this small tragedy with a sigh as she happened to look down, running her comb through her unmanageable hair once more.

Lord, I’m needing serious help today . . .

Determined not to get too frustrated with both her hair and her hose, she peeled off the sheer nylons, figuring she would have to make do by putting Vaseline on her legs today, like she did when she was a little girl. And that might even be better, seeing as how she didn’t have anywhere real important to go today. And who was watching, anyway?

Despite her misfortunes, she wouldn’t allow herself to think negatively. Not today. Today, thank God, signaled the start of her summer vacation—one week of absolute freedom from her seemingly never-ending responsibilities as outreach director for Faith Community Church. Her vacation was sorely needed, because she knew from personal experience that ministry and emotional burnout mixed together like oil and water. And getting burned out was not an option for her. Even as a child, she’d known her life would be lived to help others, if for no other reason than the abundant joy and fulfillment she felt meeting the needs of others. And as the years had passed and she’d grown into a young woman, God had furthermore blessed that youthful desire by giving her life a clear sense of purpose and direction.

Presently, however, her guiding light of direction was doing nothing for her unruly hair. After wasting another few frustrating minutes, Lynn grudgingly began to face the sobering reality of a bad hair day. At least her hair had grown long enough now for her to tie it into a short ponytail, which actually didn’t look all that bad, once she really thought about it.

Again: who’s watching, anyway?

She playfully stuck out her tongue and made a few funny faces at herself in her bathroom mirror as her youthful face stared back at her, a face that belied her thirty years of age. Even without any foundation or makeup, her healthy, almond-chocolate brown skin positively glowed, for which Lynn was thankful. She considered herself blessed to have such good skin tone, primarily because she had neither the time nor the patience to spend hours in front of the mirror fixing herself up.

But what was she fretting about her hair for, anyway? Without question, her eyes were the best things she had going for her. Unquestionably passed down from her mother, her riveting, beautiful brown-and-hazel eyes were positively Natalie Cole-like. Much to her irritation and annoyance at times, she was forever telling people that no, she didn’t wear contacts and that yes, she knew she was the spitting image of Nat King Cole’s daughter.

After a few more minutes, Lynn came out of the bathroom, grabbed her purse and keys off her sofa table, and headed out the front door. In her mind she hurriedly ran through her much-too-long list of things to do today, one day before she would blissfully take off to Myrtle Beach, where she then would do absolutely
nothing
for seven days.

Take overdue library books back, place newspaper subscriptions on hold, pick up clothes from cleaners, check on Mom and Dad . . .

She allowed herself a small smile as she opened the door of the rental Dodge Neon. It was a small wonder anything got done in her normal workweek.

Columbia, South Carolina, was a delightful place to live, in her opinion. She’d been born and raised in Sumter, located forty minutes east of the capital, and she’d long held that the city’s hustle and bustle were just right for her. With a population of just a little more than one hundred thousand, Columbia retained that southern small-town feel that had attracted Lynn here in the first place. Though she’d been proud to have received an acceptance letter to prestigious Emory University in Atlanta, she’d opted to save money and stick closer to home. The decision to attend the University of South Carolina had paid off handsomely—after majoring in religious studies, she had found a position in outreach at nearby Faith Community Church. And after three years in that position, she’d been promoted to director.

“You’re our right-hand person in outreach,” Alonzo Gentry, the senior pastor, had told her on the same day he announced her promotion. “And I know everyone always says anyone can be replaced, but I honestly don’t know what this church would do without you.”

Now, running through the preset radio buttons, she longed once more for her beloved Camry with her much-used CD player. A great thrill and added joy of driving for her was the opportunity to worship while she drove by listening to her old-school and new-school favorites. If she had known this rental didn’t have a CD player, well, she certainly
would not
have agreed to drive it, no matter if it
was
free of charge with her own car still being worked on. She had a big
hunch
why it had been free, too!

How in the world does one drive without music?

After a few minutes of frustrating radio surfing and wondering aloud more than a few times why Columbia did not have a good gospel station, she reluctantly settled for an old Aretha Franklin classic.

The temperature was forecasted to reach the mid-eighties on this clear Saturday and there was not a cloud in the June sky as she approached the downtown theater district.

Perfect weather for lazy days on the beach
, she happily thought to herself. She could endure waiting for the repairs to her car, temporarily forget about her air-conditioning problems, and even deal with the kinks in her hair because of that one blissful, luxurious thought.

Hitting the high notes perfectly, she sang “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” aloud with Aretha as she navigated into a parallel parking space. Oh yes, her rest and relaxation would get some much-needed respect soon. Myrtle Beach was waiting.

THE TAN-COLORED PICKUP
truck steadily made its way beyond the outskirts of Sumter, heading west toward Columbia. Traveling in the right-hand lane, at first glance there was nothing unusual about its progress. Upon closer inspection, though, the late-model truck was slightly weaving and bobbing in and out of the slow lane. This was not a major concern, though, since there were not many cars on Highway 76 today.

Inside the cab the old driver vigorously rubbed his bloodshot eyes, forcing them to remain open. He wasn’t having much success, however, and every five miles or so he was reduced to jerking the steering wheel hard to the left or right, pitifully attempting to stay in the center of the lane.

He drained the last of the beer down his throat and tossed the empty can out his window. On the radio an old country-and-western tune was blaring, some melodramatic jingle about a jilted ex-lover from Nashville, but that was not helping him stay alert. Opening his eyes and having to jerk the wheel again after weaving to the left, he narrowly missed sideswiping a sedan that was passing him. The driver of that car shouted a few choice words and gestured rudely.

The old man cursed back, sleepily and drunkenly slurring his words. He knew he shouldn’t be driving in his present condition, but he was only ten or so miles out of Columbia; there wasn’t much farther to go. And besides, how else was he supposed to get home? Walk?

“I don’t know why my da-ahling left me . . .”
the Nashville crooner droned on the radio as the pickup truck wobbled and weaved along the highway. Normally an avid country-and-western music fan, the driver was so conked out, he didn’t even hear the song. That he was even navigating the pickup as ably as he was constituted a small miracle.

FORTUNATELY, LYNN SPOTTED HER
a good thirty seconds before she would be approaching her rental car. The dreaded meter lady.

Thank goodness I didn’t stop to chat with Marianne
,Lynn thought as she increased the speed of her walking gait. Marianne was Lynn’s favorite librarian, but the elderly, good-natured busybody always had endless stories to tell. Usually Lynn had the patience and time to humor her, but since she’d been facing a thousand items on her to-do list today, she had consciously avoided Marianne while returning her four overdue books. And also, apparently, avoided this parking ticket. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” she cheerfully called out as she visibly and loudly jingled her keys, much to the meter lady’s displeasure.

The old woman glanced up, a disappointed smirk plastered on her face. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today, missy. You’re over your time limit.”

I’m not lucky; I’m blessed . . .
“Sorry!” Lynn replied, flashing her best smile. “I was really trying to make it.”

The meter lady grunted under her breath and moved on to the Mercedes-Benz parked behind Lynn’s, which was also over the limit. The driver of this sleek luxury car would not be as fortunate.

As she made a right and merged into light traffic on Hampton Street, Lynn’s cell phone rang. A sideways glance at the caller ID showed that it was Arlene, so Lynn quickly put the call through.

“Hey, sis, I’ve got a thousand things to do today. What’s going on?”

Arlene’s bubbly laughter filled her ear. “Easy, Lynn. Just because you’re taking a whole week off doesn’t mean you can just blow your best friend off.”

“I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing. But . . . uh, make it quick, now.”

“Don’t make me put you on my prayer list!” Arlene responded, still laughing. After a moment, she added, “I’m just calling to see if you’re coming back to the office before you take off to Myrtle Beach.”

“Now why would I do that? I love y’all, but do I need to remind you that I’m going on
vacation
?”

“You’d do it because Sister Margie made some banana pudding and brought it to the kitchen this morning,” Arlene answered. As the minister of music at Faith Community Church, Arlene had an office just down the hall from Lynn’s. “And I know you would kill me if—”

“You got that right!” Lynn exclaimed, slapping her hand atop the Neon’s dashboard and licking her lips for added emphasis. “That woman of God’s banana pudding is so good, it ought to be a sin to eat it!”

Arlene laughed again, a sound that blended harmoniously with her natural voice. Perhaps that was why Lynn liked her so much—Arlene literally knew how to count everything as joy. “I take that to mean you’re coming by the office, then?”

Lynn looked at her watch. As it was, she was already running a tight schedule, but how could she pass up a chance to score a helping of her favorite dessert, made by one of the best cooks this side of the Mississippi?