four-inch open-toed, shiny black pumps. Cleaver-ish, yet stylish enough to cause some degree of speculation about her income bracket. The front lace wig would have been over the top, so she decided to sport a sophisticated, black ponytail that bobbed just a little with every step.
Those pumps, however, proved to be a total nightmare. Camille had underestimated how far she’d have to walk from her parking space to a trolley pick-up stop. Even after the driver cleared the vehicle at the front entrance, she still had to walk up another flight of stairs in a swarm of people who obviously had no respect for corns.
Once she passed through the arenalike doors into one of the main seating areas, Camille gasped at the sheer magnitude of the sanctuary. The Web site photographs didn’t do this church justice. Oh my God! This place is crazy! It might as well have been a rock concert, except rock fans wouldn’t assemble themselves at eight o’clock in the morning no matter how famous the singer. Shoot, I don’t even get to work this early!
Rows and rows, columns and columns of people with Bibles, hats, and notepads found their seats next to fellow members and, presumably, a number of visitors. Though the cushioned seats were covered with bright red cloth, few of them remained visible. The church was nearly packed except for the nosebleed seats, and service hadn’t even begun.
An usher escorted Camille’s bunch of church-goers to one of the last empty sections in the building. She sat next to a woman who’d been smart enough to bring a jacket. And a Bible, which Camille didn’t own, but she’d put that on her list of things to get. She’d have to ask John David if she could write it off as a business expense.
Camille’s feet had barely recovered when some old man dressed in African attire approached center stage with a huge horn-looking device the size of a five-year-old child. He raised the instrument to his lips and blew. The all-encompassing sound was followed by a rousing, almost deafening praise from the congregation. These people obviously had supernatural lung capacity.
He blew again, and another round of praise circled through the building. By this time, everyone was standing. Camille refused to stuff her feet into those shoes again. The people sitting on either side of her probably didn’t matter one way or another as far as her music was concerned. No worries. She’d let those heels rest until her debut church-joining waltz toward the main platform.
After the call to worship, five people walked out with microphones in hand, and lights hit the band as well as the robed choir behind them. The audience applauded as a man Camille guessed was the worship leader, a heavy, bald-headed guy dressed in a traditional Sunday suit, asked the question, “Are you all ready to go higher in the Lord this morning?”
“Yes!” the crowd roared.
“Are you ready to give the Lord some praise?”
“Yes!”
“Has He been good to you?”
“Yes!”
“I mean real, real good to you?”
Louder, “Yes!”
This was great. Obviously, not much had changed since the days her mother led congregational hymns at their old church. Camille knew all this church jargon like the back of her hand. Leading worship would be a piece of cake.
“Come on, praise team, one, two, three, four!” Pillsbury dough man cued up the band.
Camille took note of this designation. Praise team. She listened for the harmony. One soprano, two altos, two tenors. These people must be better singers than the average choir member. This brought things to a whole new level. Being in the choir wasn’t good enough. She needed to get on the praise team. They had their own microphones. More camera time, too, evidenced by the five giant monitors strategically placed throughout the edifice. The media team alternated between faces and words, guiding the audience through songs.
The only problem so far was the women wearing dresses. Was it a coincidence or would she have to wear a dress, too?
Two songs later, the male alto took his turn at the center. “Saints of the most high God, take one minute to just glorify Him!”
A whole minute! Camille waited impatiently while the mass of people worked themselves into an emotional frenzy. Again, familiar territory. She had seen people shout, cry, fall out. None of that fazed her. The same people did the same things at the clubs she used to frequent shortly after Sweet Treats’s downfall.
Church folk were probably the same everywhere, in her opinion. The only real Christian she’d ever seen was her mother. But she was dead. After all the times Camille had walked into her mother’s room to find Jerdine bent over the foot of the bed in prayer, all the gallons of blessed oil Jerdine had slathered on her family’s foreheads, and all the forgiveness Jerdine had given Bobby Junior, she’d still died a laborious death at age thirty-nine.
God’s motive for taking Jerdine so early hadn’t made sense when Camille was a junior in high school, and it didn’t make any sense now. So while all this whooping and hollering taking place around her might make people ecstatic, Camille had her own truth. God might be powerful and He might have His mysterious reasons for doing things, but He sure wasn’t in the business of making people happy.
The minute passed, and a man erupted in a sweet, soft ballad about God’s love. Camille tried to concentrate on his voice, but the words of the song, “More precious than a mother’s love,” poked at her heart.
She focused, instead, on counting the number of rows in each section and multiplying by the number of seats in each row. It helped that there were a number of peculiar hats to observe as well. Next, she tried spotting white or Hispanic people. There was maybe one per hundred people present who appeared to be of another race. Despite John David’s insistence that she join an African American church, he would probably be pleased that there was some representation of other ethnic groups here. The more exposure the better.
The female alto boosted the tempo with an old-time call-and-response song. Camille was glad for the change of pace, but when that woman bleated out a long “Wee-eee-eee-lll, I turned it over to Jesus,” Camille had to stop herself from gagging. She sounded like an old billy goat caught in a barbwire fence!
Yet, the people clapped and cheered her on. Are they not hearing what I’m hearing? It reminded Camille of those early Mary J. Blige songs, back when her untrained voice was equivalent to the scratchy whine of someone whose half-deaf aunt told them they could really sing. Like Mary, this alto on stage had exceptional music and soulful lyrics to smooth things out. Maybe, with some help, she could get better. Camille would have to pull her aside, give her some tips.
After Goat Woman’s song, the praise team shouted and danced for a while. The band was clearly having a good time. Their heads nodded and their bodies swayed awkwardly—a sure sign they’d gotten lost in the music and no longer cared how they appeared to the audience. Camille appreciated seeing a band in “the zone” again. She loved tapping into the musicians’ groove, following the song wherever it led.
Finally, the lone soprano gave a breathy speech, as though she’d just finished running a marathon. If Camille was going to keep up with this praise team, she’d need to build up some stamina.
“He is worthy!”
The crowd echoed.
“I said, He is worthy!”
They heard you the first time.
“Our
