[For a woman at my church]
There is a lady of victory that I’ve seen a few times. I don’t know if she’s been married, is married. I’m not sure if she has kids, nor do I know if she’s from the Charlotte-Meck. But she wears bright colors and big-brimmed hats.
She likes shiny-material tops with sequined-trimmed suits. When you look at her –she smiles a peaceful smile. It’s so warm you swear you’ve known her for years.
I don’t know if she drives. Or If she has a job to get to each day, but she praises like no body’s business. It’s a simple praise that can’t be compared. Its not extreme, nor is it convoluted with so much heavenly language, but its simple & pure in truth and conviction.
This Sunday as I sit in the sanctuary —I’ve decided that I’d like to be like her!!
I wonder if she has a purse with peppermint candy in it? Of if she’d frown at the dress I’m wearing with no slip underneath or sweater to cover my bare shoulders.
She looks to be a sweet old lady that’d say: “Now darling, you need something on those pretty legz of yourn”
A scolding that doesn’t insult, but makes you feel bad that you’ve disappointed her in something.
I feel like her name should be Hattie Mae , Barbara Jean, or Nettie Lee of some sort. Women who go buy first and middle names are always stronger somehow. And they make a mean pear cobbler like my grandma used to.
I feel like she’d scratch my scalp with some blue magic and a wide tooth comb. Telling me that a man’s gonna be a man and woman sometimes has to hold her peace. She often explains that a baby with colic will sometimes cry, but my little man just sounds spoiled to her!
She frowns when I eat fast food because any grown woman can and should make the time to feed herself.
Tonight her blouse shimmers as she waves her hand. The music’s going. Good Gospel music has a pulling effect. It kinda makes you move. And she’s not stiff—she’s not quite dancing either, but her rock is pretty jazzy and she’s wearing a big grin! Her smile has me smiling.
I’ve just decided that I’d be like her.
We don’t have arranged seating in the dome, but no one dare sit in her seat. They know better baby.
Regardless of her suit, I know she’s got a faithful black/brown/white poc-ket-book [not-purse] that holds every important paper she owns.
Her hands look like they’ve spanked hundreds of little bottoms and those growing handz can part & plait some little black napps without her even looking! It may not be a good design but those plaits will last 4 weeks if you grease them every coupla days, she’d say.
She’ll tap her toes to jazz, but hums gospel hymms as she cooks supper.
Most of her deep conversations happen over kitchen tables and floors strewn with pea hulls, peeled potatoes, and summertime pickling jars.
She can add up her entire grocery list in her head a whole 2 days before she gets to the grocery store. And her grands know that kool-pops will be in her freezer even if granny hasn’t shopped yet. She seasons with Morton and fries everything in Crisco. She never cries when cutting onions and knows every baker’s measured according to the size of her own palm.
I’ve never been in her kitchen or ate at her table, never spoken a word… but I’ve decided that I want to be like her.
Even as I sit here–tears running down my face. Spirit filled with my own sad story. This Sunday as she walks past my aisle seat, she pats my hand. Twice. She smiled at my tear-stained face and says “Honey Hush”.