What a Sista Should Do (4 page)
“I didn’t know that this was just a group to gossip about those not in attendance. I thought we were here to encourage and pray for one another. I hardly call what Sister Rhoda just did encouraging. In fact, I find it quite offensive.”
Rhoda sucks her teeth. “Well, inquiring minds want to know. Anyway, if we don’t keep up to date on the scoop, there is no way we can pray effectively for people.”
“Sister Rhoda, she does have a point,” I say. “Maybe we need to just stick to the facts and try to stay away from the opinion part of the story.”
I don’t think my answer to Sister Rhoda is really good enough for Taylor. She still looks angrier than a bee whose honey was just stolen. Rhoda looks good and mad too, and she can be real petty when she wants to. Taylor doesn’t know who she’s tangling with.
Rhoda says, “Well, Sister Taylor, you seem to be awful touchy about this whole conversation. Could it be that the mistress is one of your little friends from the singles ministry? If you know something like that and aren’t telling the pastor, then you’re sharing in their sin.”
Taylor stands up. “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. I’m also not going to spend any more of my precious time in this gossiping, hen party session. Thank you, Sister Yvonne, for the invite, but I won’t be coming back.”
We all sit in silence as Taylor storms out of the room. It’s too bad that she can’t understand our mission. Well,
my
mission at least. I sure didn’t mean to offend her. I just truly want to help God’s women. I hate that Rhoda scared her away. It’s my guess that Taylor needs my help more than anyone in the church, and I intend on helping.
Taylor
I
don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I’m never unfocused or unorganized, but today I am both. More than likely, it has something to do with the fact that I’m still angry at Sister Yvonne, Sister Rhoda and every other sister who is a part of that so-called support group. I can’t believe Sister Pam was even there, since she doesn’t strike me as the gossiping type. They really got under my skin, even though I hate to admit that I allowed them to do that.
I wonder why Sister Yvonne invited me anyway. Did she actually think I was about to sit up there and tell all my business? Ha! Not in a million years.
And that Rhoda is just despicable. Even if I knew anything about Brother Davis’ alleged mistress, I sure wouldn’t tell her. And how does Sister Davis know what she heard on the phone? The woman is deaf in one ear and can’t hear out the other one. For all she knows, her husband could have been on the phone with the president.
To top it all off, this morning, when I dropped Joshua off at Sister Lang’s, she was looking at me all suspiciously. I know that she and Rhoda are good buddies, so I’m sure she heard all about the Sister-to-Sister meeting. They probably think that I’m the mistress. Let them wonder.
I’m getting real tired of explaining myself to these church folk anyway. The married women think I’m some kind of a threat to their happy marriages. The single men seem to assume that I’m an easy lay. The other single sisters look down on me because I sold out and I didn’t “live holy.” Why can’t I just be me—a sister who made a mistake that’s going to last for the rest of her life?
For my entire pregnancy I felt as if I was walking in condemnation. There were no congratulations for me, only wagging heads and pitiable glances, as if my child was going to be some type of abomination. I didn’t expect for anyone from church to give me a baby shower, but you would think that at least a few of them would have given me gifts, especially my so-called friends. It still chokes me up to think about it. But I don’t need any of them really. I’ve got the Lord on my side.
I’ve repented. I’ve been delivered and restored. What can I do to convince people of that? Why should I even have to? Some of them treat my son like some kind of an outcast. I hear about children’s birthday parties, but it always seems to be after the fact. My Joshua hasn’t sinned against anyone. I guess they feel that because he was born out of wedlock, that he carries some spirit of lust.
I suppose the easiest thing would’ve been to find another church home and start over fresh. People do that all the time. Some people switch churches like they do outfits. But for one, I love Pastor and First Lady Brown. They are like parents to me, and they were the only ones with anything encouraging to say to me while I was pregnant. Second, and probably most important, I wanted Luke to suffer. I was unable to hide my sin, so I paid the price by having folk look at me sideways. He has to pay by looking at his son every week, knowing that he can never acknowledge him without destroying his perfect little world. I know it gets to him, even if he won’t ever admit it.
If only I could find a good man and get married. I’m sure that would make everyone forget my indiscretions. But right now Taylor Johnson is nobody’s marriage material. I know I’m cynical when it comes to men, and the only male I want in my bed is Joshua.
Can I just get someone decent and saved? And can he have a job? He doesn’t have to be rich, because I’m not one of those high-maintenance chicks. I just want someone that can work with me to make a better life. Oh, and can he not be already married? Is that too much to ask?
The pressure of maintaining my sanity is showing in my work. My title is Overseas Account Specialist, but I’m just a glorified collections representative. I’m one of ten employees that report to Mr. Franklin, vice president of Fisk Rubbers. Our company manufactures just about every rubber product on the market, and we have many foreign clients.
Mr. Franklin decided in an upper-management meeting that his staff was capable of taking on some assignments from other groups. So now, on top of our already heavy workload, we have to complete travel proposals and expense reports for the Customer Service Department. The extra assignments are really starting to get to me. I’ve already been reprimanded once this week for missing a deadline, and here I am now on the verge of missing another one. How can I possibly concentrate on a proposal request when most of my church is talking about me?
“Taylor, are you going to be done with that any time soon?”
I saw Jennifer, the office administrative assistant, when she was walking up to my desk. I tried to look intensely busy, but obviously she wasn’t buying it. Jennifer is like some kind of secret agent for my boss. She sashays her skinny behind and nonexistent hips around the office like she owns it, and she’s certainly earned that distinction. Anytime a woman can openly carry on an affair with a decrepit, sixty-three-year-old man (even if he is a senior vice president), she deserves some credit.
It is my first instinct to ignore her, but then I decide against it. I don’t really need any enemies right now.
“I’ll probably miss my deadline by a day or so.”
Jennifer frowns with contempt. “Well, Mr. Franklin needs that proposal ASAP, if you know what I mean. Actually, he needed it, like, yesterday.”
“My deadline is five o’clock today. He’ll have it as soon as it’s finished.”
Jennifer starts to walk away and then whips her head around as if she’s forgotten something important. She strides back over to my work space with a confident air that is quite irritating.
“Taylor, by the way, Mr. Franklin has an important conference with his new clients that are in town from Singapore. He needs you to schedule a conference room for four o’clock on Friday, and he wants you to order a light buffet from the delicatessen on the corner. No pork, please.”
“Wait a minute, Jennifer. Since when do I have to schedule conferences? Isn’t that what administrative assistants do?”
“Mr. Franklin specifically wanted you to do this, Taylor. If you want, I can tell him that you refused because it is not in your job description.”
“No, Jennifer. I’ll talk to Mr. Franklin myself. That will be all.”
Jennifer stands in front of my desk for a few moments, looking down her pointy little nose, refusing to be dismissed. I don’t speak as she crosses and uncrosses her arms. Then she abruptly makes another little spin and marches away in a huff.
If I wasn’t in such a foul mood, I would probably be laughing at Jennifer’s antics. If nothing else, Jennifer provided a much-needed diversion. I just can’t keep my mind from wandering to that meeting at the church. If I’d wanted to, I could’ve blown all those women’s minds with plenty of juicy gossip.
But I’ve got some real issues for them. How about having to make a choice between buying groceries and keeping the gas on? How about when you feel so lonely for an adult conversation that you just talk to yourself? I wonder could any of them give me an answer for my son when he asks, “Where’s my daddy?” No. They don’t really want to help me or anybody like me.
It’s all right, though, because I’m pretty much holding it down. Maybe not on my own, but the Lord is with me. He’s all the help I need, right? So, basically, they know what they can do with their little support group.
Pam
S
ometimes I look at my husband and I just can’t stand him. I’m not talking about being mildly irritated or him getting on my nerves. I’m saying that I see him sitting in his easy chair, taking yet another nap, and I feel contempt for him leaking out of my pores. It makes me want to take my children and get on the bus. Don’t ask me where I’d go, because I don’t even know.
I don’t know exactly when these feelings started. They silently crept up on me, and honestly I was shocked. I have no idea how any woman can love her man and hate him at the same time. Especially a Christian woman. Troy doesn’t even know that I can’t stand him. The scary part is that I don’t know how to fix us.
I remember when we were dating and Troy used to talk about his dreams and ambitions. He painted a real pretty picture back then, but now it’s gone out of focus. Our life reminds me of an impressionist painting, and if you squint really hard, you can tell what the picture is supposed to be. We’re supposed to be a happy nuclear family with two and a half children, a well-furnished colonial, two cars and maybe even a dog. Well, all the squinting in the world is not going to produce that scene out of our household.
Troy promised that he would work full-time during the day and concentrate on his music at night. Then when he got his big break, he was going to move me and our children into a five-bedroom mansion and get me a maid, a cook and a nanny. Before I got saved, all I could talk about was me and Troy being rich and famous. Now he says all I talk about is Jesus. I guess I just wanted to converse about something real.
Somewhere along the way, Troy got too comfortable. I sure don’t know how that happened, because me working was supposed to be a temporary situation. I wasn’t supposed to be building a career or climbing anybody’s ladders. I was helping him out, until . . . well, I don’t even know how long I was supposed to be helping. I just know that it wasn’t meant to be forever.
When Troy cut his hours at the warehouse from full- to part-time, I wasn’t alarmed. He assured me that it was for our best interests. He wanted to devote more time to his craft, and we were not struggling financially. We even had a nice little chunk of change in our savings account. The rainy-day fund.
I wasn’t even all that worried when Troy finally quit the warehouse. From what I could hear, his music was really coming together. I thought that it would only be a matter of time before he got a record deal. He said top talent scouts were interested in signing him and some of his artists. We were going to be on easy street soon, and I’d never work another day in my life.
The first hint of apprehension set in when Troy decided to withdraw our emergency funds to purchase studio equipment. He called it a business investment. He called the keyboards, microphones and speakers assets. What bothered me most was that he didn’t even think to consult me. I’m sure he knew what my answer would be.
Even after so blatant of a betrayal I still supported Troy. I still respected him as an entrepreneur and risk taker. I didn’t back him one hundred percent, but I was still in his corner. I smiled in his face and whispered my concerns under my breath, all the while hoping that everything would turn out fine.
I believe my feelings for Troy started to take a downward spiral when I turned my life over to Christ. I’d always been a churchgoing woman. I was raised in church but decided when I got grown that I needed a taste of the world. I went and found myself a man and married him, but the Lord never left my heart. The day I made up my mind to really surrender to him, there was a change in me, and Troy couldn’t help but notice. In Troy’s eyes I don’t think that the change was for the better. He’s been complaining about it ever since.
Of course, I still wanted my husband to succeed, but I could no longer tolerate “the business.” I did not want those rapping thugs or singing hoochies in my house or around my children. I didn’t want my hard-earned money going toward promoting music that glorified sin. I wanted to play gospel music all day every day. I even suggested that Troy try writing gospel songs. He just laughed at me and said that there wasn’t enough money in it.
One day I got tired of my utilities getting disconnected, so I stopped willingly giving Troy money. I would send checks out for bills before my paycheck even hit my checking account. That did nothing but anger him, and he just started taking money out of the ATM, not caring if a check was going to bounce. For three months in a row our account was overdrawn for hundreds of dollars.
I went to my pastor’s wife for advice. She told me to get on my face and pray for my husband’s salvation. She told me to continue being a good wife and to demonstrate the gospel instead of trying to preach it.
Maybe it’s easy to pray for your husband if he’s a pastor and he’s taking care of you. But I find it difficult asking the Lord to bless a man whose only purpose in life is to get on my nerves. Maybe I’m one of those WIP Christians—you know, a work in progress.
Actually, the Lord has been dealing heavily with me on so many things. And it seems that the more I seek God’s face, the more I alienate my husband. I’m still a wife in every way that matters to Troy, but my heart isn’t really in it. It’s almost like I want him to run into the arms of another woman. I don’t think that I really want that, but I could be free of him if he did.
