The Sacrifice (32 page)

“You're welcome here anytime,” the bishop said. “It's good for our people to worship together. Usually, we're the ones who cross the color line that divides the church, so it's nice when it works the other way.”

Kay rejoined them.

“Bishop Moore, why were several of the ladies in white sitting on the front pew together?” she asked.

The bishop smiled. “Oh, that's the Mother Board, the older women in the church who pray and intercede for the meeting. Without their prayers, we wouldn't get very far.”

A small, robust woman dressed in a peach-colored dress with a large hat on her head and a bright smile came up to them.

“This is my wife, Rachel,” the preacher said.

Scott shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Mrs. Moore gave Kay a hug.

“We're glad you're here,” she said. “You picked a good Sunday to visit because we're going to eat. Alfred says you liked the leftovers he gave you and Leland Humphrey the other day.”

“Yes, ma'am. They were great.”

“This will be twice as good and three times as much.”

23

I wish that all the L
ORD
'
S
people were prophets
and that the L
ORD
would put his Spirit on them!

N
UMBERS 11:29

I
n the heat of summer, every man walking out of Hall's Chapel would strip off his jacket and loosen his tie by the time he took two steps across the parking lot. Today, the remnants of the morning fog had burned off in the noontime heat, but the temperature was still cool enough to be comfortable. Most of the women disappeared into the section of the church where Scott and Leland Humphrey first talked with Bishop Moore. In a few minutes casserole dishes covered in aluminum foil and plastic cake carriers began pouring forth from the fellowship hall.

“That was a different kind of church service,” Kay said. “But I liked it, especially the music.”

“I had trouble with the choreography,” Scott said.

Kay laughed. “It's a rare white male who has any rhythm.”

“Toward the end of the sermon, I thought Bishop Moore was about to single me out. It made me nervous, but the bishop had mercy on me.”

Alisha Mason came up and greeted them.

“Mrs. Wilson, come meet my family. I've told my mother a lot about you.”

Kay left with Alisha, and the man who sang the solo before the sermon introduced himself to Scott. After some small talk, Scott decided to gather information in an informal way.

“Were you here on the day of the shooting?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Well, the bishop was baptizing some folks and shots were fired. I grabbed my little boy and ran back to the church.”

“Did you see anybody on the other side of the stream?”

The singer shook his head. “No.”

“Is there anyone else that knows more about what happened?”

“I'm not sure. I think the bishop is the one who saw the most.”

“Yeah, I've already talked to him, and he seemed to remember more details. Was he wearing his glasses when he was in the water baptizing the people?”

The man paused. “I can't remember. He always wears glasses because his eyesight is so poor, but I can't be certain that he had them on during the baptism service.” The man pointed to the stream. “Preachers have been known to baptize themselves over there if they step on a slick rock.”

“Do you think he had them on?”

“I really can't say. Sorry.”

The man left and another walked up. Scott went through a similar series of questions without learning anything new. It seemed that the incident happened so fast and the underbrush on the other side of the stream was so dense that it would have been hard to tell who or what was there. Neither man could remember whether Bishop Moore was wearing his glasses.

Two long tables positioned end-to-end were heavy-laden with a cross-section of favorite recipes. Bishop Moore found Scott and Kay and brought them to the head of the serving line.

“You're our guests, so you have to go first.”

“What about the children?” Kay asked.

“They can follow you,” the bishop said. “In my day, the youngsters had to wait until the adults finished. There were times when the only parts of the chicken left for us were the necks and the backs.”

Scott looked at the platters of golden brown chicken. “I don't see many necks.”

The bishop smiled. “You'd have to special-order them. The last time I saw a chicken neck was on the end of a string when I was trying to catch crabs at the coast.”

It was self-serve, buffet style. Scott moved deliberately down one side of the table, carefully placing everything on his plate so that the right foods would be in contact with one another. The outdoor feast was organized. It began with congealed salads, pasta salads, and macaroni salads. Next came the meats: fried chicken, roast beef, ham, and some meat pies thrown in for variety. The vegetables followed with everything from homegrown asparagus to zucchini pie. Scott loved zucchini pie if it was thin and slightly crispy. He carefully wedged a large piece between a scoop of sweet potato casserole and green beans seasoned with bits of bacon. The desserts followed. Fortunately, there were extra plates at the beginning of the dessert area. Scott put his food plate on the edge of the table and loaded his dessert plate with banana pudding from a huge pottery bowl with a blue ring around the top.

The bishop led them to a table in the shade. Before Scott could get up to walk to the drink table, Rachel Moore came over to them.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked. “We have tea, lemonade, and water.”

“Lemonade sounds good,” Kay answered.

“Sweet tea for me, please,” Scott said.

Mrs. Moore returned and placed a large Styrofoam cup of tea in front of Scott.

“This is from my pitcher,” she said. “I've already squeezed some lemon in it.”

Scott was thirsty after the long church service and took a long drink.

“Aah,” he said. “Perfect. Where's your pitcher? I'm sure I'll want a refill.”

Mrs. Moore pointed to the drink table. “It's the green-colored glass one on the end.”

Soon, Scott and Kay were surrounded by other people. On one end of their table was a family of five. The youngest child, a little boy, was pouting and sat in his seat with his arms over his chest, refusing to eat anything. Directly across the table from Scott and Kay was an older couple. The man had obviously lost weight. His shirt collar was too big for his neck, and the only hair he had left was a white fringe around his dark head. He nodded to Scott and mumbled a greeting when he sat down. His wife was an opposite personality. Rotund and jolly, she was dressed in white with a large, multicolored hat on her head. After she breathlessly put down her plate, she reached across the table and vigorously shook their hands.

“I'm Bernice Kilgore and this is my husband, Benny,” she said. “I rushed through the line so fast I'm not even sure what I put on my plate. I didn't want anyone to get to you first.”

Scott looked at Mrs. Kilgore's plate. What it lacked in organization, it made up in quantity. It was the work of someone who knew that all food ended up in the same place.

Mrs. Kilgore smiled at Kay. “It's Kay, isn't it?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“It was wonderful having you with us this morning. I was in the choir on the second row.”

Scott recalled the face. Mrs. Kilgore didn't sing a solo but her exuberance was obvious.

The black woman ate a few quick bites before continuing. “Did you get some of this corn soufflé? Margie Duckett brought it. She's standing near the bishop.”

She pointed, and Scott looked over his shoulder. There was a crowd that included several women in the vicinity of Bishop Moore.

“I have some,” Kay responded. “It's delicious.”

Mrs. Kilgore leaned across the table and whispered, “I gave Margie the recipe, but mine doesn't taste as good as hers. How does she make it so fluffy? It's like eating corn-flavored air.”

Scott held his fork toward Kay's plate. “May I try some of yours?”

Kay balanced a small bite of the yellow confection on the end of his fork and he put it in his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, then said, “Very tasty. Do you think it's all gone?”

Before anyone answered, Mrs. Kilgore was out of her seat. She returned with a generous portion of soufflé and set it down beside Scott's banana pudding.

“This is all that was left,” she said. “I had to rescue it from some hungry-looking folks that were coming down the line.”

“I didn't want you to do that,” Scott protested. “That's not right. Someone might get upset.”

Mrs. Kilgore laughed. “Look at that table. Nobody is going hungry today. If they do, it's their own fault.”

Mrs. Kilgore knew a great deal of information about everyone in the church. In between quick bites of food, she told several stories about members of the congregation and mentioned names so fast it was impossible to keep them straight. Scott listened while he worked steadily through his meal. He shared his extra plate of corn soufflé with Kay who also sampled a few bites of banana pudding.

When Mrs. Kilgore took a break from storytelling, Scott asked, “Were you here on the day the shots were fired?”

“No, Benny and I were out of town visiting my old auntie in Kannapolis. She is 102 years old and still gets around without using a walker.”

Scott didn't have any follow-up questions about Mrs. Kilgore's aunt and returned to his banana pudding.

Mrs. Kilgore leaned across the table and patted Kay's hand. “When I saw you come in the sanctuary, I asked the Lord to give me a word of encouragement for you, and I think he showed me something. Do you want me to share it with you?”

“Okay,” Kay said.

“While I was sitting in the choir, I believe the Lord showed me that you have been going through a time of great sorrow, yet in the midst of it, you're experiencing a new joy. I know that doesn't seem to go together, but I think that's right.”

Kay's eyes widened. “Mrs. Kilgore, that's—”

The black woman held up her hand. “Just listen. You can ask questions when I finish.”

“I also want to reassure you that God loves you,” Mrs. Kilgore said. “I can see that you've started opening your heart up to Jesus and taken some big steps in your journey with him. Don't stop. Go on. He's been with you in the lonely hours and has a record of every tear you've cried. It says in the Psalms that he puts our tears in a bottle of remembering. Even when it seems that the nearest person to you was a thousand miles away, you've never been alone.”

Kay's eyes now watered, and she quickly brushed away a fresh tear that pooled in the corner of her right eye. It was another drop for the bottle stored in heaven.

The black lady continued, “Your sorrow is real, but the joy is going to win in the end. It's a powerful joy—the joy of the Lord, one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit. David wrote about it in the Psalms and Paul wrote about it in Galatians. This world can't give it, and this world can't take it away because it comes from another place. I believe you'll face a great test in the future, so I'd encourage you to spend time reading in Psalms and the Holy Spirit will speak to you in a very personal way. If you open yourself fully to the Lord, he will put a new song in your heart that will drive out the sadness when it threatens to return.”

Kay's mouth had dropped open. The last two bites of Scott's banana pudding sat untouched on his plate.

“Finally, you're something of a poet yourself,” Mrs. Kilgore said, “and the Holy Spirit will speak to you in the dark hours of the night. Put your thoughts down on paper; don't trust your memory, because it may be gone in the morning. In the future, the Lord may use your writings to encourage other people by touching their hearts in the same deep way that he touches yours.”

Kay waited a few seconds, then asked, “Is that all?”

Mrs. Kilgore smiled. “Yes, I guess that's about it. It's your job to ask the Lord if any of these things are true and how they affect your life.”

Kay spoke rapidly, “I don't know where to start. I've been going through a painful divorce, but over the past week or so I've had a lot of joy. I opened my heart to the Lord in a church service recently, and a few days later I heard a new song in my mind that stayed with me most of the day. I told Scott about it at lunch. He thought I was out of my mind—”

“I didn't say that,” Scott interrupted.

“Don't lie,” Kay shot back. “Mrs. Kilgore will know it if you do.”

The black woman laughed. “It's not like that. I don't know everything, just what the Holy Spirit shows me to encourage someone in their walk with the Lord. It's a great comfort for most folks to know that God hasn't forgotten them. He'll send someone like me to tell them a few things so they'll know they're on the right path or help them see where it lies.”

“It's like the call-in psychics on TV,” Kay started, then quickly added, “no, I'm sorry, I'm not suggesting—”

The smile didn't leave Mrs. Kilgore's face. “I know what you mean. I explain it this way. The gifts of the Holy Spirit are like money in the Kingdom of God. God's children use the gifts to help people come to the Lord Jesus or grow as Christians. But wherever there is real money, criminals will come along and produce something counterfeit. That's the work of the enemy. He wants to deceive people. Even when his servants say something that's true, it's counterfeit. It's supernatural, but it doesn't bring people closer to the Lord. That's the test.”

“Where did you learn about all this?” Kay asked.

“Mostly from my granny. Now she was a sight to behold. When I was a little girl, we would sit together in the evenings on an old porch swing at her house. She would put her hand on my head and pray and pray and pray as we rocked back and forth. After a while I would go into the house to drink a glass of water or go to the bathroom. When I'd come back, she'd put her hand on my head and keep on going like nothing had happened. Sometimes we'd sit there until the stars came out. People were all the time coming by to ask her to pray for them. She'd pray and tell them what the Lord showed her. I heard some amazing things on her front porch.”