Sister Lucy

Three Years Earlier

"A-a-ma---zing grace, how sweet-t-t the sound, that sa---ved a-a wretch like meeeeeeee! I-I-I once was a-a--a lost, but now, I’m found. Was blind, bu-t now, I seeeeee!" Sister Lucy sang in front of the choir, who back her up in their blue and gold robes, with SJCFC in the front of them, standing for, Saint John Community Fellowship Church. The church congregation was mesmerized by the anointing sound of Sister Lucy’s beautiful, well-trained, deep alto-pitched voice. The men in the church were equally seduced by her soft pecan-tanned skin; rounded, slightly protruding behind; full D-cupped breasts; and smooth, silky legs; supporting a one-hundred-forty pound, five-foot, six-inch frame in a stylist two-piece, navy-blue suit. She wore no facial make-up or jewelry at all. Her hair was secured by a barrette, making a neat, rounded bun in the back of her head. By the time Sister Lucy and the choir were finished, almost everyone in the congregation was on his or her feet, worshipping and praising God, with wails of tears streaming down their God-fearing faces. Suddenly Sister Lucy jerked and exploded into a bouncing, thrifty, rambunctious holy dance, seizing other choir member’s position, as she galloped around, stomping completely out of her two-inch pumps. The ushers immediately jumped to Sister Lucy’s aid to avoid her from physically harming herself. Then as if on command, from a chain reaction, person after person exploded into his or her own rendition of a holy dance for the Lord. The organist and the drummer changed their tunes to a stomping, marching, dancing rhythm of praise. The teenagers expressed their own method of praise, by giggling at the explosive commotion and taking bets on who would dance next. After a good thirty-minute explosion of praise, the congregation finally settled down, and the church regain its sovereignty. Sister Lucy took her seat on the pulpit next to the other Ministers.

When the Reverend Clyde Mitchell stood to deliver his sermon for the morning; he had little work to do, for Jesus had already arrived in Saint John today. Reverend Mitchell stood at six-feet, two inches, with a small mustache, low-cut hair on a banana-tanned, good looking face, even behind wire-framed reading eyeglasses. He had the body of an athlete; strong, muscular, and lean, and if it weren’t for the admiring young women in the church, his congregation would probably be almost nonexistent. Reverend Mitchell preached a well-rehearsed sermon on "Changing Your Attitude", in which he pointed out that it is a Christian’s duty to help others, not just a good idea. By the time he ended with loud whooping and hollowing screams, the congregation of people was on its feet again. Then when he had raised the emotions of the people to an uncontrollable high, he quietly took his seat, allowing the people to continue to praise God in their own way. First Lady Maxine Mitchell sat very quiet and still as she witnessed the uproar her husband had managed to brew into the thirty-five-hundred-seat congregation. She was an ebony lady, with beautiful black hair, that flowed almost to her shoulders in a stylist, silky wrap. Her one hundred fifty pounds complimented her five-foot four inches, in a beaded, sequined navy-blue suit. Her ten-year old daughter, Joannie, sat next to her, filing her fingernails, oblivious to all the praising church folks. Shoulder-length braids surrounded her cute, little petite almond face. As Reverend Mitchell wiped the beads of perspiration from his face, his glance caught his wife’s, and he smiled lovingly at her, but she solemnly turned away.