Something She Can Feel

“He’s like you,” I said.

“Journey, I know I’ve messed this up. And I pray for forgiveness every day for what I’ve done to all of you. And the last thing I ever wanted was for you kids to take on my fight as your own. Me and your mama have been through this from every side and I just want you to let us handle it. Please. You don’t have to forgive me. It’s my sin. I just want you to let me have it. You go on and live your life. You live and let this thing go,” he said and finally the ice broke in his brown eyes and tears fell from his cheeks to mine as we hugged.

“I’m so sorry,” he kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.”

While Jr had been screaming about the church needing an entertainment director, it was clear that we needed another position filled—second executive assistant. Apparently, Daddy’s first assistant had been so busy keeping his calendar together, managing church business, and organizing my mother’s duties at the church that my father’s files were a bleeding mess. Paper was shuffled everywhere. And in no distinct order.

After my father and I met in his office I had nothing else to do, so instead of driving back to my den at the house, I asked if he had anything at the church I could do to help out. Surprised and smiling, he forwarded me quickly to his assistant, Sister Davis. The woman, who I was sure worked harder than anyone at church, could hardly answer my query about needing something to do before she got up from her desk and led me to the closet where she kept my father’s files. “I’d do this on my day off, but I don’t have one,” Sister Davis said, sliding her pen behind her ear. She handed me the key. “Have fun.”

For three days, I kept dutiful vigil over my father’s files, making labels and setting up a burgeoning follow-up list. I’d always known that much of what he did included counseling, but looking through the records of church members who’d come in and out of his office, I saw that more than anything, he was an ear to those in need. From women who’d cheated on their husbands and contracted diseases, to men who lost everything they’d had at the casinos, he’d been a comfort to them all. And meanwhile, he was also dealing with his own demons.

I worked late many nights and left for the church long before my father. It kept me busy and kept my mind off everything I wanted to avoid. Locked in that closet, I wasn’t at home looking to see if there was more information about Dame on TV or shaking in my seat for fear that I’d run into Evan somewhere. I’m not foolish enough to call this progress, but it was okay for right now and right now was really all I could handle.

“Ms. Journey,” Ashley Davis, Sister Davis’s daughter, said, poking her head in the windowless room where I worked. I had two piles of papers stacked high like skyscrapers on either side of the desk.

“Yes, Ashley.”

“You busy?”

I looked at the piles and then back at her.

“No,” I said. “You need something?”

“Dr. Sullivan gave me the lead on ‘Prayer of Jabez,’ but he said I ain’t getting it right. Can you help me?”

“Oh, Ashley, I can’t,” I said, feeling a thin film of sweat surface on my hands nearly immediately.

She didn’t ask again. She just stood there and looked at me with a load of “buts” on her face.

“I have to get all of this done,” I added, nodding to the piles.

Again, she said nothing. And not for a very long time. But I had nothing to say to fill up the space. I was out of excuses.

“You all in the practice room?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied with her cocoa face brightening.

I sat back in my seat and rolled my eyes at the papers and my resistance.

“Fine,” I said, pushing away from the desk. “I’ll be down there in a second.”

Dr. Sullivan was the former gospel choir director of Stillman College. He’d been a member of my father’s church for over ten years, had started eight of the choirs and still directed one—the church’s select traveling choir that I belonged to before I left. He was a big, round man, whose love of God and music often led to him catching the Holy Ghost right there on stage as he directed the choir. And while it usually led to a spread of paralyzing tears in the choir loft, none of us minded. He was a smart leader, and even in our tears, we found that Dr. Sullivan had pushed us to another level of performance. Another, more compelling and personal way of delivering God’s message to those seeking salvation.

When I arrived in the choir room to help Ashley with her solo, I realized that Dr. Sullivan was smarter than I’d thought. After reviewing the notes, he suggested the choir try singing the song through with me in Ashley’s place so they could all get a feel for the rhythm and Ashley could hear the range, I somehow ended up standing at the microphone alone and Ashley headed back into the loft with a surprising smile on her face.

Not in a long time had I sung a song with the choir the way I had that afternoon. It was a prayer about increase, about seeking providence and shelter provided by God, and maybe I sang it the way I did, from deep within the pads holding my feet to the ground, because now I truly sought God’s increase, his blessings and mercy. My eyes were open, but I was blinded by the blood rushing through my veins. My ears popped and my vocal chords strained as I struggled to be heard, to lift up my voice enough so that it could be delivered. I wanted to walk out and away from everything I’d done, the people I’d hurt, the people who had hurt me, and be allowed to move on with my life. To be blessed with a new life that coul

d make me happy and, most of all, keep me happy.

“Amen and amen!” Dr. Sullivan shouted, grabbing me when the song was done. “You’ve come home,” he said into my ear and I knew he meant so many things by that. Aside from my family, it was the first time I’d seen anyone look at me so clearly in a loving way since I’d been back. And it wasn’t the last.

Behind Dr. Sullivan, as each choir member departed the loft, they all came and embraced me, patting me on the back and whispering in my ear, “Welcome back,” “We missed you,” “We love you,” and “God loves you.”

It was one of those empowering moments that made the church still the church and reminded me that God was still God. Even in this place where at the top was trouble, inside there was still comfort, still a love of God and all of his children—even me.

“Think you have a visitor,” Dr. Sullivan said after he excused the last person. He pointed me in the direction of a familiar face standing in the doorway. It was Evan. His hands pushed down far into the pockets of the slacks he was wearing, he leaned against one side of the doorframe and looked at me with expectant eyes.

“Hopefully, I’ll see you here next week,” Dr. Sullivan added, picking up his briefcase.