Stand by Me by Neta Jackson

She was showing her age, brought up in another era when her mother scrubbed and braided and dressed Avis and her sisters in their best frilly dresses, Mary Jane shoes, and hair bows. Besides, she was here to worship the Lord , not worry about a bunch of curious white college students.
    Closing her eyes, she let the words of the first worship song, taken from Psalm 42, sink into her spirit.
    â€œAs the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul longs after You . . .”
    Oh yes, Lord! Her spirit felt so dry and thirsty lately. Avis raised her arms upward, wrapping herself in the words of the psalm. Thirsty . . . thirsty . . . so thirsty, Lord . . .

    After the children were dismissed to their Sunday school classes, Pastor Joe Cobbs took a text from Matthew 5, challenging people to consider what Jesus meant when He said we were to be “the salt of the earth” and “the light of the world.”
    â€œCan anyone give me a definition of who Salt People and Light People are?”
    â€œI thought Jesus said He was the Light of the world!” protested Pastor Clark from the front row. The room tittered. Everyone suspected Pastor Cobbs had told him to say that to provoke discussion.
    A teenager took the bait. “Yeah, but if we let our light shine—living the way the Bible says—people will see Jesus.”
    â€œThat’s right, that’s right,” several murmured.
    â€œLight People bring clarity, not confusion,” someone in the back piped up.
    â€œGood, good,” said Pastor Cobbs. “What about Salt People?”
    â€œWhen Salt People show up, the ‘flavor’ of the situation improves!” another suggested. That got a laugh.
    As the lively sermon continued, Avis wrote in the back of her Bible, “When Salt People show up, the ‘flavor’ of the situation improves,” and “Light People bring clarity, not confusion.” She wanted to think about that. Her marriage could use a little more “salt” and “light” right now.
    After getting everyone on their feet to sing “This Little Light of Mine,” the young worship leader invited everyone to stay for the Second Sunday Potluck after the service. “Any other commercials?” he deadpanned. “Announcements?”
    There were the usual: Youth group at six, making plans for their Memorial Day outing. Elder David Brown and his family were moving next week and could use some help loading the truck. A key ring had been found, could be claimed in the church office.
    Then one of the visitors, the girl with all that dark hair, bounced up and waved her hand. “Hi! I’m Kat. We”—she indicated her three friends—“were here last Sunday from Crista University. And we’re looking for an apartment in this area that we could rent for the summer. Or we’d be willing to house-sit if you know anyone going out of town. We’d be glad to take care of pets and plants and stuff.” She grinned. “If anyone knows any leads, let us know, okay?” She sat down.
    Avis felt a flicker of annoyance. They wanted to move into the neighborhood? Which meant they were planning to hang around awhile. But . . . why this neighborhood? Were they intending to show up at SouledOut all summer?
    So what, Avis? she scolded herself. Wasn’t her concern. It was just . . . they seemed so full of themselves. The girl, “Cat,” anyway. What kind of name was that? Sounded like a pole dancer.
    But she forgot about the Crista students as chairs were moved out of the way and tables set up, and she joined the flock of women bustling in and out of the kitchen with steaming hot dishes. Soon the serving tables were loaded with beans and rice and macaroni and cheese—Avis’s standard potluck offering—as well as fried chicken, greens and ham hocks, pasta salads, large pitchers of lemonade, and pans of chocolate cake, brownies, and chocolate chip cookies.