Stepping Down (5 page)

In
those moments, Mark realized that in obedience to preaching the gospel, God had
shewn
him New Vision in a new light. The question at that point was what
God wanted Mark to do about it.

Sharla used to enjoy the monthly First Ladies' Fellowship
founded by Lady Candace Gibson of The Way Church. Candace freely welcomed every
woman whose husband was in ministry— whether he was actually a pastor or
not. When Mark had opened New Vision six years earlier, that group of women had
been Sharla’s life preserver.

Though Sharla was used to helping her husband with his
insurance business, taking on the title of First Lady had been a hundred times
more daunting, partly because Sharla didn’t appreciate being thrown into a role
she wouldn’t have wished on her worst enemy. She had watched her own
grandparents struggle with their church—taking in strays off the streets,
living in the back of the sanctuary at times, pawning the church’s drum set to
pay bills, basically bending over backwards for the sake of the church and its
ungrateful members.

Granted, Mark was no Grandpa Smiley. Grandpa was a
musician-turned-minister who’d never really had a decent “gig” before becoming
a pastor. In fact, he’d spent most of his 20s and 30s playing in juke joints
and chasing after other women before the Lord changed him.

Mark was the polar opposite. He’d gone straight into
multi-level marketing after finishing high school. Alongside successful
mentors, he’d learned the art of networking and perfected his charismatic
pitches, mastering techniques better than his peers who were sitting in
university classrooms. He was a brilliant speaker, an even better salesman. He
ran a tight ship and made good decisions based on the bottom line.

That was why, initially, Sharla put her own niggling
objections aside and wholeheartedly stood beside Mark with New Vision. She
didn’t believe he would turn out to be like her grandfather, selling his wife
and his family short to tell people about Jesus. No, Sharla thought Mark would
have better sense than to go “all in” with church. He should have been able to
run the church like he ran his insurance franchise—keep a level head
about things.

Sharla, at one point, had been glad to be a part of the
First Ladies’ Fellowship. The other pastors' wives in the group had walked
Sharla through the unspoken, unwritten, often unrealistic expectations she
would encounter in her role. Though they didn't agree on how a First Lady
should dress or whether it was okay for a First Lady to read erotica, they
always gave her food for thought and a safe place to air her feelings.

"So why am I dreading this meeting?" Sharla wondered
aloud. She sandwiched her Benz between Jasmine Pritchett's Beamer and Candace’s
Lexus.

After growing up in poverty, Sharla knew she should be
thankful that Mark's hard work had paid off. By the time Amani reached
kindergarten age, her husband was making enough so that Sharla could quit her
job as an office manager to homeschool their son. Even at that point, Mark's
residuals combined with his pastor's salary had brought them to the point where
they were pre-approved to finance her dream home. She had an appointment with
the homebuilder coming up in just a few days.

Mark was a wonderful provider who also loved God. Most black
woman—shoot, most women,
period
—would be shouting in
her shoes. But for as good as her husband was, there was one thing he wasn't:
home. Especially not since the church took off.

Sharla lifted the silver sandal straps in place over her
Achilles heel and stepped out of the car. She repositioned her Ray Ban shades
to serve as a headband, then pulled a swath of virgin Brazilian hair under the
shades to produce a messy bang. She performed the classic
lower-blouse-smoothing technique with a flattened hand almost unconsciously as
she walked toward the door marked with the number twelve.

She wondered if, one day, New Vision would have twelve
entrances.
God, I hope not.
All those entrances could just as easily
serve as her exits, especially the way she felt that day. If the Lord had any
kind of mercy on her, he'd leave New Vision where it was and send all those new
people looking for a church home to other churches.

Upon entering the building, Sharla slapped her smile into
place and made the first left into their meeting room.

"Hey, Sharla!" Candace welcomed her with open
arms. As the woman of the house, Candace had said more than once that she made
it her duty to stand at the door and greet every attendee of the First Ladies'
Fellowship.

The two hugged quickly. Sharla then made herself a plate of
fruit with yogurt dip and grabbed a bottled water. Before sitting she made her
obligatory rounds, briefly embracing all ten of the women seated at five tables
arranged in U-formation.  

Sharla could remember how she'd once adored this space with
its
scraped walls,
wood trim, and custom
lighting. Even if the gold tablecloths and centerpieces hadn't been exquisite,
the walls and
stained concrete
floors themselves could have been in a magazine.

Candace had been kind enough to "school" Sharla on
how to make New Vision look like royalty, too, though Sharla didn't have the
same budget.

"You gotta start somewhere," Candace had told her
as they scoured the outlets for church decor. "Don't despise the little
things. God will honor your faithfulness."

After taking a chair next to Beverly Knight, who was the
third wife of the pastor at the arguably stale Fresh Life Outreach, Sharla
decided to get over herself long enough to enjoy fellowship with these women.
Candace was a friend, and Beverly definitely needed a friend under her
circumstances. The third wife of any man was going to need some serious help.

Prayer opened their official time together, followed by the
reading of the agenda, which was always fairly loose. They discussed the
upcoming Juneteenth celebration, for which Janice distributed flyers so that
the women could take them back to their respective churches.

"The libraries are really hoping to see a greater
turnout this year," Janice added. "They say that since President
Obama took office, interest in events that celebrate African American culture
has declined."

"Mmm," the room mumbled.

"I guess some folk think we done made it to the Promised
Land," Beverly mocked. That comment, of course, led to a sidetrack
conversation about the pros and cons of Obamacare.

Sharla wasn't one to debate politics, but she listened
attentively and patiently as her peers aired their true feelings in a forum
where what they said wouldn't be misconstrued, quoted out of context in a post
on somebody's Facebook page, and eventually come back to reflect poorly on
their husbands or their church. Here, it was understood that whatever they
shared with each other was off-the-record.

Candace managed to get everyone back on the agenda by
reminding them all that if they really wanted to have a say-so in politics,
they needed to vote in every election. "And we should all remind our
congregants the same. Can I get a witness?"

They all agreed with, "Amen".

Sharla sat in unusual silence as the meeting proceeded with
a recap of the plans for a first annual combined Samaritan's Purse effort for
Christmas.

"I hope you ladies are holding on to your
shoeboxes," Candace cooed. "And by looking at all these
fresh-off-the-runway sandals you ladies are wearing today, I know we will have
plenty."

Novelette Hampton remarked, "The way I hear it,
everybody who's not at Joel Osteen's church is here at The Way, so I know your
congregation will have plenty to donate."

Candace pointed a perfectly manicured index finger at
Novelette. "God is good."

"All the time," Novelette finished the phrase with
a raised eyebrow.

Though the women might have been open and honest with each
other, Sharla knew full well there was some...well, not exactly jealousy, but a
sense of competitiveness that reared from time to time. This shoebox drive was
going to bring out the former pageant contestant in Candace. Judging by the
amount of effort she obviously put into The Way and the professed success of
her personal training business, Candace liked to win. All the time.

Sharla's self-esteem demon crept up, causing her to wonder
if maybe there was something wrong within. She should care about New Vision the
way Candace cared about Bishop Gipson and The Way after more than twenty years
of service to their congregation.
Maybe I just need to get a life
. She
had actually toyed with the idea of starting an event planning company or
writing a book. 

But how could she commit herself to something else when,
basically, she was a single parent to Amani? She and Mark had taken the
initiative to adopt him, to rescue him from the foster care system and a life
of only God-knows-what with his birth parents. He didn't deserve to be
abandoned again during the most crucial years of a young man's life.

Sharla’s older sisters had both become pregnant during the
hours of three and six p.m., the time between school’s dismissal and parents
returning home from work. Sharla wasn’t about to leave her teenage son home
alone to experiment with girls, drugs, and whatever else his hands could find
to do. The world was too crazy. Sharla wasn’t about to let herself be the
mother of a child who was building bombs in his bedroom unbeknownst to his
parents. She didn’t “straighten up” his room regularly for nothing.

If only Mark could remove his super-hero cape long enough to
drop down to the people who needed him most.

Now that the official agenda had concluded, the ladies were
free to chat and catch up with one another.

"Oooh wee, Prophetess Alex Murphy just finished a
revival at our church. I'm telling you, it was on fire," Beverly gushed.

"Where's she from?" Jasmine asked.

"I believe New Orleans," Beverly said.

"Nuh uh," from the youngest attendee, Ria
De'Garmo. "I don't mess with people from New Orleans. They all got screws
loose, if you ask me."

"Who dat talkin’ ’bout N’awlins?"
Candace, a native New Orleanean
contested in her native dialect.

Ria's face fell. "You're from New Orleans,
Candace?"

"Born and raised."

"Oop, let me shut up then."

"But my family is crazy," Candace confessed.

"Whose isn't?" Novelette agreed as she turned
toward Beverly again. "So, did Miss Murphy prophesy or prophe-lie?"

Beverly nodded, "She brought the word the first night.
But after she preached the second night, she walked through the aisles and
called out a lot of stuff. She told our choir director he needed to go ahead
and marry the woman he was already living with. Told one of the deacons to quit
playing scratch-offs. After that, a lot of people didn't come back."

The nonchalant manner in which Beverly ended the narrative
sent a ripple of laughter through the room.

“You are too funny,” Jasmine wailed.

"What? I'm just telling you all the truth,"
Beverly shrugged.

The ladies continued to share church news – vacation
Bible school plans, upcoming conferences and the like. Once the banter died
down, Candace asked for prayer requests so they could close in conversation
with God.

Jasmine asked for continued prayer for her mother, who had
been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Beverly’s brother, a diabetic, had
suffered a foot injury and doctors said he would probably lose his foot if it
didn’t heal soon. Ria wanted them to bring one of her high school classmates
before the Lord as she recovered from the aftermath of a serious car accident.

Novelette, who seemed to always make it her business to get
on the prayer list some kind of way, piped up, “My daughter. She’s got an ear
infection that won’t go away. She’s miserable and so is everyone else. I
had
to come here today or I would have run out the back door screaming.”

Sharla smiled, remembering the days when Amani was a baby.
With his chubby brown cheeks, that cute button nose, and those long eyelashes,
she’d made sure he only wore blue so people wouldn’t mistake him for a baby
girl. Despite the small port wine stain under his left eye, Amani had been
absolutely adorable. But Sharla was thankful that with time Amani’s skin
darkened, masking the birthmark almost completely.

“Hey!” Candace nearly yelled, causing Sharla to blink
rapidly as she returned to the present. “Did you hear me?”

“I’m sorry. No. What did you say?” Sharla asked.

Candace laid her pen on the table. “What’s going on with
you, girl?”

“You’ve been too quiet today,” Jasmine probed. “What gives?”

Sharla wondered if she wanted to take up the group’s time
with this old-news conversation.
No one wants to hear me whine
.
Everybody in there had signed up to marry an ambitious man and should have
known that his aspirations would equate to many-a-lonely night. Lonely days,
too, if he was actually good at what he did. It came with the territory.
I
need to put on my big girl panties and get over it.

She should be thankful. There were more serious prayer
requests on the table. Sharla gave a fake yawn which, thankfully, morphed into
a real yawn half-way through. “I’m just tired, that’s all.” She was tired,
alright. She hadn’t told a complete lie, at least not in her head.