Stand by Me (6 page)

Nick leaned out of his seat across the aisle. “Really, Kat? I've been thinking the same thing. I'm taking a class for mini-term too. But if I stayed in Chicago for the rest of the summer, I could get a head start looking for a church position that would satisfy my practicum and let me graduate in January—”

“Howard Street,” announced the disembodied voice from a speaker. “Howard Street is next. End of the line. Everyone must exit the train. Transfer to the Yellow Line or Purple Line at Howard.”

The train eased to a stop beside the wide platform. Another train going the opposite direction pulled in along the other side. Once again there was a scramble to grab backpacks and purses, as well as the two large boxes Kat and Nick juggled as they squeezed out the sliding doors. Leading the way, Nick headed down the stairs to ground level, through the station, and out onto Howard Street.

“Which way?” Olivia pressed her back against the station wall to avoid the crunch of people exiting the station.

“Just follow us, you goose . . . Watch that bus turning in.” Kat and Nick walked swiftly up the sidewalk along the busy street, Brygitta and Olivia close on their heels. A block later they turned into a large parking lot surrounded by stores, including a large Dominick's store that anchored the mall at the far end.

“Where's the church?”

Kat refused to be annoyed by Olivia's anxious questions. “Right over there. Told you it was in a mall.”

As they crossed the parking lot, they could see the sign painted in lively red letters across the wide expanse of windows:

S
OULED
O
UT
C
OMMUNITY
C
HURCH

And beneath in smaller letters, but still large enough to be read from several yards away:

A
LL
W
ELCOME

A tickle of excitement quickened Kat's steps. Cars and minivans were pulling into the parking spaces near the wide storefront, and people of all colors piled out—brown, white, tan—the kids running, parents hollering at them to slow down, teenagers huddling together outside with their iPods. The young Latino couple with the baby Kat had seen on the train also disappeared through the double glass doors.

“Welcome!” boomed a deep voice as they came in. A middle-aged black couple stood just inside the doors, greeting people as they entered. The man held out his hand. “I'm Sherman Meeks, this is my wife, Debra. Your first time at SouledOut?”

Kat couldn't exactly shake hands while holding the box. “Hi. I—uh, some of us were here once before. Um . . . Mr. Meeks? Is there someplace I can put this box? It's food. To give away.”

“Food?” The man blinked, as if he didn't understand the word.

“Oh, honey, our potluck isn't until next Sunday,” his wife said kindly. “It's always the second Sunday of the month . . . Oh! Good morning, Edesa. How's Gracie?” Debra Meeks turned to a pretty black woman breezing in the door, holding the hand of a dark-haired little girl.

“
Buenos Dias
, Sister Debra! Gracie, give
Señora
Meeks a hug.”

Spanish-speaking? The woman didn't
look
Spanish—

“Told you so,” hissed Brygitta, leaning close to Kat's ear. “Why don't you guys just . . . just go dump those boxes somewhere and let's go in.”

Kat ignored her. She turned back to Mr. Meeks. “Do you have a kitchen here? We could just put these boxes in there for now.”

“Of course, of course.” Mr. Meeks pointed toward a set of double doors on the far side of the room. “Just go through there. You'll see it on the left.”

“You guys find a seat, save a couple for us, okay?” Kat whispered to Brygitta and Olivia. “We'll be right back.” She and Nick threaded their way through the knots of people clustered behind the rows of chairs in the large room, through the double doors, and into the small kitchen on the left of the hallway.

Kat stopped. Nick's box bumped into her.

Someone else was in the kitchen.

The woman turned. She was older, but it was hard to tell her age. Her skin was flawless. Creamy dark chocolate. Not a wrinkle anywhere. Shiny black hair swept up on top of her head into a cluster of twists. Plum lipstick, a touch of color on her cheekbones. A plum-colored suit, very feminine. Gold hoop earrings. She'd been fixing a cup of tea.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was rich. Dignified. Kat was mesmerized.

When Kat didn't answer, Nick spoke up. “Hi. I'm Nick. This is, uh, Kathryn. We, um, brought these vegetables in case some folks here could use them. Free for the taking.”

The woman took a step or two and peeked into the boxes they were holding. “Vegetables? Where'd they come from?”

Uh-oh
. Kat quickly found her voice. “Dominick's Food Store. They were going to get thrown out, so they, uh, gave them to us.”

The woman lifted an eyebrow. “Were
going
to get thrown out? Or had
already
been thrown out?”

Kat glanced at Nick. He was turning red around the ears. She sighed. This lady was no slouch. Might as well be straight up. “I saw them take them out of the display cases to throw away. We grabbed them just minutes after they'd been for sale in the store. I'm sure they're still good.”

“I see.” The woman studied them a long moment. Kat was suddenly conscious of their jeans and gym shoes, a stark contrast to her careful grooming. “Why bring it here?” the woman asked.

“Oh, well, we were coming to church anyway, and we found this food on our way here, so . . .” Kat didn't know what else to say.

“Ah.” The woman's face seemed to relax. “Well, I don't know what we're going to do with it. Maybe you can put it out on the coffee table after the service. But . . . just put the boxes on the counter for now. If you came to worship, let's go worship.”

“Let's go worship” . . . odd thing to say
. But Kat and Nick hurriedly set the boxes down on the metal counter and followed the woman back into the main room. Brygitta waved at them from the next to last row of chairs, and they squeezed into the empty seats beside their friends just as Kat heard the same woman's voice, louder now, but resonant and full: “Good morning, church! Let's all stand as we prepare our hearts, our minds, and our bodies to worship our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, this morning!”

Kat's head snapped up. The woman in the plum suit was standing at the microphone on the low platform at the front.
Oh
good grief. She's the worship leader!

Chapter 6

T
he whole room rustled as people got out of their chairs, and the keyboard offered a few quiet chords. Kat felt a poke in her side as she and her friends stood up too. “Bet we made a real good first impression on that lady,” Nick murmured.

Kat just rolled her eyes at him.

The worship leader opened her Bible. “Listen to the Word of the Lord from Psalm 8: ‘O Lord, our Lord! How majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens! From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise . . .' ”

Kat saw Brygitta quickly turn pages in her own Bible to follow along, but Kat closed her eyes, letting the words flow over her, into her.

“ ‘When I consider the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, who are we—mere men, women, and children—that you should care for us? . . .' ”

At least this psalm was somewhat familiar, even though Kat hadn't started to read the Bible seriously until three years ago.

“ ‘You made us ruler over the works of your hands; you put everything under our feet: all flocks and herds, and the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea . . .' ”

Now Kat squirmed. Where was that woman going with this? Seemed like some people used the biblical mandate in Genesis to “have dominion” over the earth as an excuse to exploit it. “
Rape it
”
would be a better phrase
, she seethed. This psalm could be taken the same way—that phrase, “under our feet,” was practically an invitation to trample over God's creation.

Kat's thoughts were pulled back as the worship leader finished with a ringing, “ ‘O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!' ”

“Amen!” several people responded, hands lifted high. “Glory!”

The room quieted. The worship leader's face was wet with tears. “I don't know about you, brothers and sisters, but God spoke to me through this psalm this morning. I was being pulled down by concerns pressing in from several sides all at once—”

“Lord, Lord! Know what you're sayin'!” someone said from the back of the room.

“My praise was all locked up,” the woman at the mike continued. “Lead worship this morning? Are you kidding, Lord?”

A laugh tittered through the congregation. “Keep it real, Avis!” a wiry black woman called out. “Keep it real!”

“But as I read this psalm, I was reminded that coming to church isn't about me. It's about God! It doesn't matter if I've had a good week or a bad week! We're here to give praise to the Lord of all creation! The King of kings! The Name above every name! And as we focus on Him, our concerns will take on perspective. Of course God cares about the problems we face! And He's going to work them out, people. Whatever's weighing on your heart right now. That's His job.
Our
job is to come before Him with awe and adoration and thanksgiving! Because Satan—that dirty trickster—can't mess with us when our hearts are full of praise!”

By now, cries of “Praise God!” “Glory!” and “Hallelujah!” were ringing from every end of the room. Kat stole a glance at Brygitta and Olivia, who looked a bit like cornered mice.

But at that moment the praise band—a keyboard, electric guitar, drum set, bass, and saxophone, as well as several singers—launched into a lively song, one the CCU students sang in chapel services at the university, though not quite like this. Kat's former thoughts faded as she felt herself swept in with the rest of the voices around her: “Lord, we lift your name on high . . .”

Two hours later, after an hour of singing, clapping, and praising, followed by a thoughtful teaching by one of the pastors—a tall, rail-thin white man they called Pastor Clark, who seemed well past retirement age and rather frail—Olivia leaned over and pulled Kat's sleeve. “I didn't know the service would go so long. I've got to get back to school and study. Finals are coming up, you know!”

“Shh!” Kat hushed. “They're welcoming visitors.”

“. . . stand and tell us your name and where you're from?” The woman in the plum suit had come back to the mike. A few people stood up—somebody's parents, an older white couple from Indiana . . . a black teenager who'd brought her cousin . . . a man who spoke in halting English and said he'd just been walking by and heard the music, so he came in.

The congregation clapped and called out, “Welcome!” after each introduction.

“Anyone else?” The attractive black woman at the mike looked directly at Kat.

Kat popped up and waved the others up too. “My name is Kathryn Davies—most people call me Kat—and this is Nick Taylor, Brygitta Walczak, and Olivia Lindberg. We're all students at Crista University and”—
might as well say it now
—“we brought a couple boxes of still-good lettuce and broccoli that we'll put out after the service. Free for the taking!”

She heard a quiet groan from Brygitta as the four of them sat down again. “I can't believe you did that.”

Fine
. So Brygitta was embarrassed. How else was she supposed to let people know the food was available? There was a table in the back, they could just put it there.

“Did we miss anyone? If not, we want to invite our visitors to join us at the coffee table right after the—”

“Hold on, Avis, now.” The wiry black woman Kat had noticed before scurried to the front and took the microphone from her. “We got us an announcement you don't know about, so . . . no, no, don't you go sittin' down. You stay up here. And where's your man? Peter Douglass! Get yourself up here.”