term unruly behavior on my part.
The hug knocked my pew mate’s hat askew, so
when she ultimately released me, she straightened it, smiled
brightly upon me, and said, “I haven’t seen you here before,
sister. Did you hear the call?”
The call? “Um . . .”
She evidently didn’t need anyone to respond
to her questions in order for her to carry on a conversation,
because she went on as if she hadn’t expected a reply from me. “So
many people are being called by the Lord to come to Jesus through
Sister Emmanuel.” Enthusiasm. The woman definitely had enthusiasm
for this new breed of evangelism.
I tried again. “Um . . .”
“Isn’t Sister Emmanuel wonderful? Why, I can
hear Jesus speaking right through her! I’m sure you could,
too.”
“Um . . .”
“The Angelica Gospel Hall and Sister Emmanuel
have changed my life since I began coming here.” She clasped her
hands in a frenzy of worshipful ecstasy.
It had changed Mrs. Chalmers’ life a whole
lot, too, thought I, rather more cynically than was normal for me.
However, I was truly unaccustomed to this sort of freewheeling
behavior in church. I knew even then that my distaste was primarily
due to my stuffy upbringing, but some personality traits are
difficult to change when they’ve been drummed into one from the
cradle. It was one thing for me to move to Los Angeles and secure
employment. It was an entirely other thing for me to jump up and
down and holler in church, for heaven’s sake. Or embrace perfect
strangers.
“Please,” said the woman, still floating on a
cloud of glory, “won’t you tell me your name and why you chose to
come to the light today?”
“Um . . . why, yes. My name is Miss Mercedes
Allcutt. Everyone calls me Mercy. I actually came to this church
today because a . . . an acquaintance of mine had started attending
here not long ago.” That was true. In a way. I’d met Mrs. Chalmers
a time or two before she was murdered.
“Oh?” The woman seemed even more enthusiastic
at hearing I had a congregation member as a friend than she was
before. I wouldn’t have believed such a thing to be possible unless
I’d seen it for myself. “Who is that?”
I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Persephone
Chalmers.”
“One of my dearest friends!” squealed the
woman. Then she lowered her voice. “My name is Elizabeth Pinkney.
Mrs. Gaylord Pinkney. He—Mr. Pinkney—doesn’t attend church with
me.” She appeared downcast for a moment, as if regretting that
Gaylord wouldn’t end up in heaven with her when God blew his golden
trump. Or was it one of his archangels who was going to blow the
trump? Well, I don’t suppose it matters.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, sensing
that perhaps I could actually learn something from this trip to
church after all. “I don’t believe Mr. Chalmers attended with Mrs.
Chalmers, either.”
“I don’t believe he did, but I don’t think he
dislikes the place as poor Mr. Pinkney does.”
Aha! I was getting somewhere! Maybe. “I’m
sorry your husband doesn’t . . . appreciate Sister Emmanuel’s
message.” There. That had been tactful, and it was even the
truth.
“It’s a shame. But I’m sure he’ll come ’round
in the end. I pray for him every day.”
“How very kind of you.” I hoped she did
her praying in private and didn’t do so in front of the poor man.
If the latter situation prevailed, it wouldn’t have surprised me to
discover an article about the decease of Mrs. Gaylord Pinkney in
the Times one day.
“It’s all I can do, pray for him. I think
he’s weakening.”
I said, “Let us all hope so,” although I kind
of felt sorry for Mr. Pinkney.
Fortunately, Mrs. Pinkney dropped the subject
of the prayed-over Mr. Pinkney and looked around at the milling
throng. People had begun to exit the sanctuary. “I don’t see Mrs.
Chalmers in church today. We usually sit together, so that rather
surprises me. Did you say you’d planned on meeting her here?”
Oh, dear. This
The hug knocked my pew mate’s hat askew, so
when she ultimately released me, she straightened it, smiled
brightly upon me, and said, “I haven’t seen you here before,
sister. Did you hear the call?”
The call? “Um . . .”
She evidently didn’t need anyone to respond
to her questions in order for her to carry on a conversation,
because she went on as if she hadn’t expected a reply from me. “So
many people are being called by the Lord to come to Jesus through
Sister Emmanuel.” Enthusiasm. The woman definitely had enthusiasm
for this new breed of evangelism.
I tried again. “Um . . .”
“Isn’t Sister Emmanuel wonderful? Why, I can
hear Jesus speaking right through her! I’m sure you could,
too.”
“Um . . .”
“The Angelica Gospel Hall and Sister Emmanuel
have changed my life since I began coming here.” She clasped her
hands in a frenzy of worshipful ecstasy.
It had changed Mrs. Chalmers’ life a whole
lot, too, thought I, rather more cynically than was normal for me.
However, I was truly unaccustomed to this sort of freewheeling
behavior in church. I knew even then that my distaste was primarily
due to my stuffy upbringing, but some personality traits are
difficult to change when they’ve been drummed into one from the
cradle. It was one thing for me to move to Los Angeles and secure
employment. It was an entirely other thing for me to jump up and
down and holler in church, for heaven’s sake. Or embrace perfect
strangers.
“Please,” said the woman, still floating on a
cloud of glory, “won’t you tell me your name and why you chose to
come to the light today?”
“Um . . . why, yes. My name is Miss Mercedes
Allcutt. Everyone calls me Mercy. I actually came to this church
today because a . . . an acquaintance of mine had started attending
here not long ago.” That was true. In a way. I’d met Mrs. Chalmers
a time or two before she was murdered.
“Oh?” The woman seemed even more enthusiastic
at hearing I had a congregation member as a friend than she was
before. I wouldn’t have believed such a thing to be possible unless
I’d seen it for myself. “Who is that?”
I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Persephone
Chalmers.”
“One of my dearest friends!” squealed the
woman. Then she lowered her voice. “My name is Elizabeth Pinkney.
Mrs. Gaylord Pinkney. He—Mr. Pinkney—doesn’t attend church with
me.” She appeared downcast for a moment, as if regretting that
Gaylord wouldn’t end up in heaven with her when God blew his golden
trump. Or was it one of his archangels who was going to blow the
trump? Well, I don’t suppose it matters.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, sensing
that perhaps I could actually learn something from this trip to
church after all. “I don’t believe Mr. Chalmers attended with Mrs.
Chalmers, either.”
“I don’t believe he did, but I don’t think he
dislikes the place as poor Mr. Pinkney does.”
Aha! I was getting somewhere! Maybe. “I’m
sorry your husband doesn’t . . . appreciate Sister Emmanuel’s
message.” There. That had been tactful, and it was even the
truth.
“It’s a shame. But I’m sure he’ll come ’round
in the end. I pray for him every day.”
“How very kind of you.” I hoped she did
her praying in private and didn’t do so in front of the poor man.
If the latter situation prevailed, it wouldn’t have surprised me to
discover an article about the decease of Mrs. Gaylord Pinkney in
the Times one day.
“It’s all I can do, pray for him. I think
he’s weakening.”
I said, “Let us all hope so,” although I kind
of felt sorry for Mr. Pinkney.
Fortunately, Mrs. Pinkney dropped the subject
of the prayed-over Mr. Pinkney and looked around at the milling
throng. People had begun to exit the sanctuary. “I don’t see Mrs.
Chalmers in church today. We usually sit together, so that rather
surprises me. Did you say you’d planned on meeting her here?”
Oh, dear. This
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