Songbird (37 page)
“I magnify you, Jesus, for You've loved me so.” I finish the final chorus, my voice softens and my heart is full. I always feel like crying now. And sometimes I do.
But not tonight.
I blow kisses to my family, sitting there on the fourth row in their fine new clothing and I exit the stage. Several Christian music bigwig performers congratulate me, kiss me on the cheek, and say, “Well done.”
I smile and return to my family.
I would say that singing here tonight was enough, but my stomach is in knots at the thought of the awards coming up. I shouldn't want to win this bad, but I do.
I didn't win.
I am back in Mount Oak licking my wounds. I sit in my lawn chair by the swing set. Grandma Min plunks down a chair beside me.
“Still feeling sad?”
“Yes, Grandma, I am.”
“Well, I don't blame you. The bigger they are the harder they fall.”
“Well, I’m not all that big, but the fall still hurts. And if you say, ‘It's an honor just to be nominated’ I’ll send you packing!”
We laugh.
The kids play in the dirt near the swing set.
“At least Brooks Tone is still happy. The new album releases in a few weeks and they're putting ‘Dove Nominee for Best Female Artist’ right on the cover.”
“Well, that's good,” she says.
“A lot of goods come out of it. I’m almost booked solid through August.”
“Fine by me. I love schooling the children.”
“I know you do, Grandma. I don't know what I’d do without you. And I love having you with me on the road.”
“You have quite an entourage, sweetie.” She smiles and picks up her basket of garden tools. “I’m going to go cut down those tulips. They look peaked.”
And such is my life. Traveling, singing, being with the kids, trying to do my best by Harlan, Grandma, and Mama. I’m still taking my pill each night and feeling all the better for it. But days like these cannot go on forever. I’ve lived many extra years in my short lifetime, enough to know that.
I
never thought this life would become old hat but it has. I miss my lazy daytimes with the kids. We're always driving to one concert appearance or another. And for what?
Ministry, yes. That is true. If I didn't sing, use my little gift box there in my throat, I’d be wasting who I am. I realize not many people can sing like I do, and that is not cause for pride for me, rather it is cause for sobriety and honor.
And you can take that to the bank.
I do this for Mama's care, too, I guess. Until we get everything figured out with the state—who'll pay what and how much—I’m footing the bills at Broughton.
Isn't it strange? She did nothing for Grandma and me and we're using ourselves up on her. I can't pretend to understand why I’m doing this.
It's hard to believe it's been almost a year since my first record debuted.
I sit alone in my hotel room at the National Religious Broadcasters Convention here in Washington, D.C. I’m singing at the banquet tonight thanks to the recommendation of Vinca Love. What an honor to be asked.
Although I only flew in a few hours ago, I’ve already heard the buzz about Reverend Bakker and I am stunned. I’ve heard tell that he had an affair and paid the woman to keep quiet. Jessica Somebody. I don't remember her last name. The buzz is that Jimmy Swaggart is going to try and take over the
PTL
empire.
What will happen to them I don't know. Some reporter from Charlotte is all over it. If it's all true, then I can hardly blame the fellow. But if it's not, then shame on him. I’ve never liked reporters much. Too pushy.
This whole thing saddens me and I feel deceived. Nobody likes feeling deceived. It gets their hackles up. So if my reaction is any indication, I can't imagine what their faithful supporters are going to feel.
But he was so nice! And poor Tammy Faye! I can't imagine what she is feeling right now. I loved being with them when I sang on their show. We laughed and we cried and we fellow-shipped.
I just pray all this isn't true. I just pray we'll find out in a few days that it is rumor and nothing more.
Grace is almost finished her therapy. She stayed on a couple of months extra. Maybe she's scared. But she says she's going to work there a while to help other women coming in. “I want to make sure this sticks, Charmaine, which is why I think I need some additional time.”
I said, “Please take it, Grace. You know we'll take good care of Leo. Are you relying on God for help now?”
“I’m trying. It all still embarrasses me, to tell you the truth.”
Outside the street below me lies cold and gray. Washington in February can be so bleak. Some puddles of snow grace the dirty sidewalk and the curb, and I watch as a Rolls-Royce drives by on its way to the parking garage. It swerves as a lady with a rusty shopping cart enters the street. Jumping the curve, it leaves dirty tracks on what was once a pristine blanket slipped down from heaven.
The phone rings.
“It's four-thirty,” the front desk lady says.
“Thank you.”
I had tried to nap, but couldn't sleep.
I paint my lips one more time and make sure my dress isn't ganged around me in a twist. I’ve had to let all my dresses out now that I’m eating like a normal human being. Harlan says I’m downright sexy and I feel womanly, too, now that I actually have hips and a tiny bit more up top. And now I can eat corn
and
put a little butter on it.
I’m early. Ninety minutes left before I go on. So I turn on the news.
The scandal is all over the place and it's all the anchors can do to keep from cheering with glee.
This whole industry, this whole religious broadcasting business was due for a shake-up. Nothing lasts forever, does it? For the life of me, I just can't picture Jesus up on TV begging for money.
God have mercy.
I am guilty. God have mercy on me, too.
I will say nothing, I decide. If the press asks me to comment there will be no comment. I can't afford to.
The meal is delicious. Hotel fare, but at least green beans almondine or ratatouille didn't show up on the plate. I listen to the introduction for myself and just smile, hoping against hope there's no broccoli in my teeth. I got so involved in a conversation with this television station owner from Kansas that the time flew by and I didn't get to go brush my teeth like I had planned. I turn to the lady beside me, a senior in college scouting for a job upon graduation. I grin. “Any broccoli?”
“You're free and clear.” But she looks amazed nonetheless.
I ascend up the steps to the platform, pick up the microphone and nod to the sound man. I switched accompaniment tracks when I heard the news. It was supposed to be the upbeat hit from my new album called “You Shine.” But, knowing what was going on out there in everybody's heart and mind, I felt it was time to get back to some basics, maybe remind us all why we're in this odd life of Christian broadcasting and entertainment to begin with.
I feel dirty and disgusting as the opening strains of “The Old Rugged Cross” begin.
And I sing and I remember and I hope against hope that I will possess the heart of Jesus through this whole mess because right then I realize we are about to descend into something unprecedented, something dark and of our own making. The purging has begun, Jesus is clearing the temple of the money changers, He is lifting high His cross and saying “Follow me.”
“On a hill faraway,” I sing. “Stood an old rugged cross. The emblem of suffering and shame. And I love that old cross where the dearest and best for a world of lost sinners was slain.
“So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross till my trophies at last I lay down. I will cling to the old rugged cross and exchange it someday for a crown.”
The music dies down after the fourth and final verse and, a capella, I sing the chorus to one of my favorite songs, “Blessed Redeemer.”
“Blessed Redeemer! Precious Redeemer! Seems now I see Him on Calvary's tree. Wounded and bleeding, for sinners pleading, blind and unheeding, dying for me!”
Doggone it! Why this? Why now? Christ spilled His blood, Divine blood, and we have mixed it with our own sinful excrement and smeared it on His very cross and pronounced it not only good but holy.
T
he scandals are everywhere. And
Jesus Alive!
is no exception. Grandma Min summarizes the article from the
Richmond Times Dispatch
for me as I make my morning tea.
“It basically says that Peter Love sent that pilot over there into dangerous territory because he wanted him dead.”
“You're kidding me?”
“No. He was having an affair with that man—Mack somebody's—wife.”
“The lady that runs the pool.”
“That's her. She's pregnant, too. And it's not Mack's baby. He wasn't able to sire children.”
“Poor Vinca.”
Grandma's mouth turns down. “I guess so. I’d be shocked to death if she didn't know about the affair.”
I shrug. “It's hard to know these things, Grandma.”
She sets the paper flat on the surface of the table. “Mark my words, sweetie, they're coming after you and Harlan next.”
“Why would you ever think that? We're a couple of nobodies.”
She shakes her head. “The article says they're investigating everybody associated with the ministry.”
I think of all the times I sang on their show. “But I’m just a singer.”
“A singer whose husband has a television show.”
“Maybe you're right.”
“I hope not.”
“Me, too.”
I set a teabag in a floral cup and wait for the water to boil. “Do they mention uncovering anything else?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Apparently they were dishonest in their solicitations for donations. They'd say they were going to use the money to help people starving Lord knows where and then only give a tiny percentage of it away. They'd keep the rest.”
“Oh, my lands.”
“Terrible. So here you think you're sending in a hundred dollars to feed starving children in third-world countries, and just a few dollars actually gets there, if any sometimes. Not to mention they oversold their time-shares just like at Heritage USA.”
“And here I was singing on that show week after week.”
“Just goes to show you even the most discerning of people can get snowed under.”
I roll my eyes, thinking of the beautiful restaurant I ate at, the Olympic-size pool, first class all the way. “I feel sick.”
“So do I. I was almost fooled by those people.”
“What about personally?”
“They took huge salaries.”
A toupeeless Harlan enters the kitchen, still in his robe and slippers. Grandma hands him the paper and he reads, leaning against the counter. He shakes his head every so often and sighs in between.
He Finishes and looks up.
“Grandma thinks we're next.”
He nods. “We are. They've already started talking to people around Mount Oak.”
“Who?”
“I think he said he was a reporter from the
Washington Post.”
“Oh, great, Harlan. The
Washington Post?”
Oh, my Jesus.
“I’m making a call to them this morning,” I say. “If they want to know about us, they can come straight to the source.”
T
hy will be done” is a tough prayer to pray and really mean it. Jesus prayed that, and ended up crucified. Now, that hurts my heart to think of Him hanging there like that, in such agony. He sacrificed everything even bearing separation from His Father on that dark Friday.
How He must be grieved.
Vinca Love left Peter and returned to her family in Richmond. Peter's been on all the talk shows trying to repair the damage, but he invariably ends up blaming Vinca for all the problems in their marriage, from their infertility to his infidelity.
I thought even he'd be above that. It makes me sick.
But oh, my! The people crawling out of the woodwork. Although, that's not fair. Because some of their allegations are more than allegations. They ring truer than the bells of St. Mary. Construction workers were asked to put down their gear, move to the side while Peter gets on and says, “We've had to stop work until the funds come in.”
One of those construction workers was someone Peter led to the Lord in the old days when he had a prison ministry. He walked off the job that day.
I don't blame him.
The first interview I am granting will take place today. It's true. The
Washington Post
has already interviewed a bunch of people in the ministry behind our back. Tanzel told me.
Tanzel hears everything.
The doorbell rings on this March day. A week ago Jim Bakker resigned as the head of
PTL
and in the meantime Jerry Falwell is stepping in so Jimmy Swaggart can't do a hostile takeover. Who knows what the truth is? It makes my head hurt. And now the entire world has read of the excesses and we're all asking the same questions. Who could follow Jesus and screw people like this?
Maybe that sounds harsh. But it doesn't deserve a nice clean verb, in my opinion.
As expected, Harlan and I have been lumped into the entire mess. I guess I should have been a little less flamboyant with my dresses. Already I’ve read some op-ed pieces on the entire mess, and they've targeted my hair and purple outfits. “Lavishly awful,” one woman said. “To think she's put out money like that for such tasteless garb.” Viewers don't know I sew them myself. Maybe Harlan shouldn't have been so forthright about the whole “What's
Really
Eating at You?” business either because they've sure zeroed in on that even though he revamped his message almost a year ago.
We set ourselves up as easy targets and didn't even know it. I feel like a couple of cartoon characters.
My car was keyed in front of Bill D’s.
Last night our house was egged.
Can't they see it's just a little house with a rusted swing set in the back? Don't they know there are kids living inside? And a grandma?
The phone calls have been so mean.
I pray that's all the backlash we'll get. I don't know how much more blood I can lose through my nose!
