Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White (2 page)

But we have this treasure in earthen vessels.

2 Corinthians 4:7

My beloved friends, let us continue to love each other since love comes from
God. Everyone who loves is born of God and experiences a relationship with
God. The person who refuses to love doesn’t know the first thing about God,
because God is love—so you can’t know him if you don’t love. This is how God
showed his love for us: God sent his only Son into the world so we might live
through him. This is the kind of love we are talking about—not that we once
upon a time loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice
to clear away our sins and the damage they’ve done to our relationship with
God.

My dear, dear friends, if God loved us like this, we certainly ought to love
each other. No one has seen God, ever. But if we love one another, God dwells
deeply within us, and his love becomes complete in us—perfect love!

1 John 4:7–12 (
MSG
)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am so blessed to have this opportunity, Holy Trinity, One in Essence, and
Undivided, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Thank You, thank You, thank You.
Without You I am nothing. I could do nothing. All this is for You.

Thank you, my beloved and ginormous family. This was a tough one. I’ll
make good on the bribes, except for the Porsche, Ken. I was just playin’.

Hi again, patient Claudia Mair Burney readers who wondered where I
disappeared to. I’m back! Thanks for waiting for me, and welcome newbies!

I have a literary beloved community. They’re my first readers, cheerleaders,
mentors, and advocates. You include: Mary, Lisa, Lori, Stacia, Heather, Diane,
Paula, Donna, Mark, and Bethany. And God bless you, Ragamuffin Diva
friends, who patiently endure my blog absences while I write novels.

Steve, my
Zora and Nicky
evangelist, what a wonder you are. Thanks for
believing in my Anne-Lamott, you-know-what first draft. And John Juan
Blase, you were a wonderful Nicky. I owe you a cheeseburger.

I am deeply indebted to Lisa for being more than a BFF and bringing
her servant’s heart to me as my editor this time around. You taught me not
just how to make a fine book but how to give hospitality Jesus-style. I learned
more in this short run than a girl is entitled to from her literary crush. Thank
you.

I will never be able to repay the grace and kindness of Don and Terry,
who not only rescued me from a dark night of the soul but made many
dreams come true with this book. You showed me that my Father is very, very,
fond of me. Now if I can only get a pair of patched pants!

I am grateful to have been blessed to work with a remarkably gifted editor
and
sassy
broad—and honey, God don’t make broads much anymore. I am
very proud to know you, and work with you, Miss Andrea Christian.

Chip MacGregor, the Holy Spirit got it right when He chose you as
my agent. Your guidance has been impeccable. Thank you, lovely, quiet, and
patient Patti, for sharing him with this neurotic writer.

Fancy Pants, aka Brennan Manning, my hero, you changed my life with
The Ragamuffin Gospel.
You inspire me, delight me, and I adore you, and it’s
pretty obvious from the pages of this book.

Robert Benson, I discovered
The Body Broken: Answering God’s Call to
Love One Another
as I put the finishing touches on this manuscript. Reading
your book was a quiet “amen.” And sometimes it was a hearty one. Your
vision is woven in these pages too.

A few good friends will always grace the pages of my acknowledgments.
They are my sustenance: Evette, Gail, Gina, and especially Carly, even though
you’re my sister. And my David C. Cook “Girls” (insert our secret
alternative
name here),
Good morning
! Love you.

Maybe I didn’t say your name. If you have contributed to this book in
any way and I’ve failed you here, it doesn’t mean that I am not most grateful
for your contribution. In the words of our hero Nicky, it simply means I suck.
Forgive me.

Finally, the team at David C. Cook is far too large to name, but I must
give a wildly enthusiastic shout-out to El Presidente Cris, man-in-demand
Dan, everybody’s right hand Denise, and all around wonderful, amazing
people: Melanie, Kate, Theresa, Annette, Christina, and Amy, and so many
more who work quietly behind the scenes with this dream team, making a
sistah (and her book) look good.
Real
good.

God bless you and keep you,

God smile on you and gift you,

God look you full on the face

and make you prosper.

Numbers 6:24–26 (
MSG
)

Love is of God.

Mair

CHAPTER ONE

ZORA

I used to imagine myself as a tiny shoot on a tall brown tree, the gnarled
roots of that tree tangled and twisted beneath the black earth. Our roots run
so deep, my family can trace its origins back generations. To my great, great,
great grandfather who followed the drinking gourd all the way to freedom.
To slave ships with lyrical names that belied the horrors taking place in their
wide bellies. To the shores of the west coast of Africa where one of our own
returned, a single, dark, shining prince, unfettered by imposed forgetfulness,
refusing to relinquish his name.

We are a tree with roots and long-limbed branches reaching skyward—a
tree with tiny green shoots like me, emerging from something solid and
substantial. When we are in season, we scent the air with our bright, fragrant
blossoms.

But this Sunday morning I feel alienated from the dignity and hardiness
of my ancestors. I don’t feel like a Psalm 1:3 sistah—a tree planted by the
rivers of water, that bringeth forth her fruit in her season. Her leaf also shall
not wither; and whatsoever she doeth shall prosper.

And that was just the King James Version. Don’t make me pull out my
Amplified Bible
and quote that Scripture three times fast.

Sometimes I long for that old-time religion that’s good enough for me.
No, I take that back—I long for it all the time now.

I scan the sanctuary. I need God to speak to me today. For
real
. That’s
one reason I’m sitting in the third row. Besides being Daddy’s “amen” corner
(the reason I sit here most Sundays), the first three rows make up what we call
Prophet’s Row on the sly. In this esteemed section, you’re more likely to get
“a Word” from God. I’ve received them on several occasions; I was told three
different times that the Lord had a husband for me, and one prophet went
so far as to say that he’d be a godly man with a pastoral call. I stopped sitting
there for six months after that.

Once, a prophetess visited us at Light of Life Christian Center and said
God told her to give a woman in our congregation the silver fox coat right off
her back. I know the recipient: Ms. Pamela Darden, a squat, obese woman
with a widow’s mite, a bad wig, and three hefty daughters. Not one of the
Darden women can keep a man, even if they shackle him to their bedposts,
and it has nothing to do with their weight. They possess an air of quiet
desperation, only it refuses to stay quiet and they end up making a big stink
of their manlessness at every opportunity that arises.

The Darden women don’t have much, and Ms. Pamela, the breadwinner,
still takes care of her grown daughters while they “wait on the Lord.” But
Ms. Pamela remains faithful. She tithes and gives offerings far above her
means, grasping for the promised but ever-eluding hundred-fold return on
her investment. She’s like a compulsive gambler tugging on the sleeve of a
one-armed bandit like it was God’s own. Just one more silver fox coat. Or
maybe a house. Or maybe help my girls get a job, God. Send me a Word, and
money, money, money.
Puh-leese, Lawd
.

I’m feeling you today, Ms. Pamela, every desperate Puh-leese, Lawd, puh-
leese, Lawd, puh-leeeeeeese! I actually admire your crazy desperation. It takes
courage to be that honest with God. That needy. My parents groomed me to
not need anything.

Trade ya.

And Ms. Pamela, I’ve been watching you. I know you got behind in your
car note, scrambling to pay all those online dating service bills your girls stuck
you with when they believed more in Match.com and eHarmony than their
mama’s hard work. I know if you thought somebody needed it, you’d give
them the silver fox right off your back. I know you’ve lived a hard life, and
you’ve had more than your share of boyfriends after your husband left you,
and you’re still a little twisted from it. You still love rather freely, only now
you love for Christ alone. It’s
how
you love for Him that’s so extravagant. You
show up for whoever needs Him, with whatever you can give. That widow’s
mite of yours goes farther than the fattest wallets of some of our wealthiest
members, including Daddy. You love Jesus like you don’t have a bit of sense.

God bless you, Ms. Pamela Darden. God help you in this place.

Service hasn’t started yet, so I step away from my chair over to the second
row where Ms. Pamela and her daughters sit now. They don’t sit in the third
row anymore, upgrading, probably, to sit closer to “the anointing.” I hope
that works out for them. I tap Ms. Pamela on the shoulder. Fortunately, she’s
at the end of the row so I don’t have to step over her daughters, Tessa, Vernice,
and Noelle.

I reach out to give her a hug. For all the hard edges of her life, her face,
at least in church, is only softness and light. She takes me in with her warm
brown eyes and draws me into cinnamon-colored big mama arms. Gives me
an embrace scented with baby powder and rose water. There is a bit of hope
for me to hold on to in that squeeze.

There’s this facade I’m forced to endure, that everybody loves The Bishop’s
daughter, whether they do or not. And then there is Ms. Pamela, who actually
loves me.

“How you doin’, Miss Zora?”

“I’m good, Ms. Pamela.”

God will forgive me for that lie if He forgives all the liars here who claim
they have faith, healing, and prosperity when they’re riddled with doubt, sick,
and broke day after day. At least I hope He will.

“How are you this morning?” I ask her with sincerity, not trying to gauge
whether or not she’s outconfessing, -believing, and -receiving me.

She clears her throat, the resulting rumble a frightening death rattle that
forces my hand to my own throat. “Girl, I’m healed in the name of Jesus,”
she says.

Which means she’s sick. She wheezes instead of breathes, follows it with a
raspy cough that sounds as if her lungs are about to come out of her throat.

“Are you okay, Ms. Pamela?”

A breathy, “I’m healed by the stripes of Jesus.”

She can barely get the name of Jesus out before she’s seized by a coughing
fit.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“I have faith.” Another coughing fit.

I think she’s going to have an asthma attack with that faith.

She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Just touch and agree with me in
prayer, baby.”

She releases my hand. I’ve touched her, but I don’t agree. I’m about to
tell her that I will take her to the hospital. I’ll take her right now, but then
she smiles at me.

“Worship is about to start. You better go take your seat. Remember what
happened to me in that seat? Don’t want to miss your blessing.”

Worship? We’re not about to worship. We’re about to start singing the
Songs of Faith
that our worship leader must have seen on a late night TV
infomercial after he got tired of watching reruns of
The X-Files.

I shuffle back to my seat, praying diligently for Ms. Pamela’s healing. I
pray that somehow I can forget the craziness of the conversation we just had.
She’s going to die of pneumonia. What is she doing? What am I?

I want to fly away from here, and I’ll put her on my back and fly her out
with me.

One of these mornings bright and fair
I want to cross over to see my Lord.
Going to take my wings and fly the air.
I want to cross over to see my Lord.

Now that’s a real song of faith.

Don’t you go singing Negro spirituals, Zora. Don’t you do that during
the ridiculous
Songs of Faith
.

We are fifteen hundred strong this morning, and that’s just the first service,
an ocean of people standing in front of their chairs—not pews. It looks like a
conference hall in here, with a cross. We don’t do
church
. We are a
Christian
Center
, and I’d like to know who thought of that. I mean, once upon a time, the
black church really was a
center
of life, civil and social justice, and community
change, along with worship. But that sure isn’t what’s going on here.

We worship—a generous description—in decidedly uninspired spaces,
complete with every amenity, including a coffee bar and a bookstore and
gift shop, which sells a multitude of booklets with titles like “Victory in the
Tongue,” “Confess Your Way to Health,” and “God Prosper Me.” A concession
stand even sells overpriced junk food, just like a
conference hall!

I remember visiting my grandfather’s church—a real church—as a little
girl and holding a hymnbook that I was too young to read. I remember hearing
the old folks singing songs they didn’t have to look at the pages to know.

But the songs I’m hearing now aren’t
my
songs of faith. These songs make
my eyes roll back to the whites, and I can’t believe we’ve actually adopted the
unforgettable ditties—now flashing before me in PowerPoint letters as big as
my head—for
worship
.

At least we have a bangin’ choir that responds with great swelling voices
to whatever our Kirk-Franklin-wannabe music director yells at them:
Come
on! Come on! Nah! Ha! Uh, uh, here we go nah!

Should I even complain? Aren’t these songs musical reminders, as if we
need it, that God wants us to prosper and be in good health, even as our souls
prosper?

Isn’t that what God wants?

Oh, for a rousing chorus of “Go Down, Moses.”

Let my people go.

We need a Moses in the house, all right, instead of these forked-tongue
prophets of prosperity, their gold-weighted backs permanently curved toward
offering baskets, reeking of new money and the ache of unrelenting hunger. It
always strikes me as odd how these self-appointed messengers of God always
pronounce
blessings
on us, mostly material ones. Not one of them has said,
“Hey, deacon, you need to stop sleeping with the secretary.” Nobody tells the
youth group that God has a problem with the abortions half the girls use as
birth control.