The Grocery Store
GISELE
A month later…
The folded letter in my hand trembled as I placed it on the Rector’s desk. His assistant, Mrs. Brownson, had allowed me to walk in and drop off my message, probably assuming it was vestry work instead of what it actually was.
The small office was crowded, filled with books in piles and photos of different parishioners all standing with Father Weaver: smiling faces, blessed faces, judgmental faces.
Mahogany furniture darkened the room, giving it an old, comfortable feel.
A twinge of regret assaulted me as I walked out of the office.
Father Weaver had been a wonderful rector with us for five years now and always encouraged me to grow in my stewardship to the Lord with faith and simplicity.
If only the rest of the congregation were like him, I might not be leaving my work and my home church behind.
But after a year of pretending everything was fine, I couldn’t do it any longer.
Coming to church every Sunday for 7:00 a.m. mass had become a dreaded part of my week. The whispers, the condemnation, the gossip, the expectation for me to be the better person. All of it had become a burden I wasn’t certain the Lord wanted me to carry anymore.
“Thanks, Ms. Brownson,” I said, heading out.
“Where you going, child? The vestry meets in half an hour.”
Nausea rolled, my stomach not ready to contend with the decision I’d already made in the quiet of my own conscience. No matter how right this was for me, the thought of curtailing my responsibilities, my duty…
“I…I won’t be part of the vestry anymore,” I said as Mrs. Brownson’s eyes widened.
“Oh no! I done told Jackson these good-for-nothing busybodies finna run that sweet child away from the house of the Lord. They don’t know what they do, child; they just yap their mouths to have something to say.
And you don’t gotta do nothing you don’t wanna do.
The choir will be just fine with you not singing in that wedding, and I told your momma that. ”
People like Mrs. Brownson were the ones I’d miss, the ones that made this decision so difficult when it should have been simple. I could find another church. Another congregation not invested in my love life, one that hadn’t had front-row seats to the past two devastating years of my life.
“Thanks, Mrs. Brownson. I really mean that, from the bottom of my heart. I’ll miss working with you, but this ain’t Jesus’ only residence and it’s my time to go.”
“See, Jackson gon’ curse up a storm. That’s why he stopped coming, y’know.
When he divorced his wife and my late husband passed away, people just had plenty to say when Jackson and I found solace in each other a few months later.
Talking about it’s too soon, we hadn’t mourned our losses long enough.
And I remember yo’ Daddy tryna do good but getting run outta here too, him and that boy that he was mentoring.
But see, they not the ones at night in the dark when the shadows come.
Oh, child, Father Weaver finna be devastated. ”
Mrs. Brownson meant well, but I couldn’t handle the guilt from her words anymore.
“He’ll understand. And I’ll always come by to visit. This is just… I need a new home. This is best for me.”
“I hear you, child, I really do. What that man did…nasty business, I tell you. Nasty. Clearly, it was not a decision made under the light of the Lord. But well, you know, people do have clay feet. Don’t you forget that, you hear?
And stop by any Sunday night at my home. I’ll make you some good cooking.”
My eyes watered at the kind offer. I rushed to the desk next to Ms. Brownson, my heart brimming with sadness, and she stood up immediately, understanding what I needed. Her bony arms encircled me and with surprising strength, she gathered me as I shook with uncontrollable sobs.
This was the church that watched me grow up. This was my home for so long. The place of my baptism, my confirmation. The place I thought I’d get married, baptize my own children.
“Oh, child, hush, it’ll all be alright. Gone now before the rest arrive and wanna be in your business. Go easy, child.”
Snacks.
I needed plenty of snacks tonight. The plan was to veg out in front of my TV, watching reruns of Living Single and eating all the goodies I could manage until sleep claimed me.
The goal was to stop thinking about tomorrow morning and not having somewhere to go to worship.
Sleeping in on Sunday would be a nice treat for a change.
The chill of the dairy aisle raised the hair on my arms as I aimlessly wandered around, aisle by aisle, grabbing whatever looked appetizing.
My cart had grapes, cool ranch Doritos, cheese dip, cashew nuts, cookies and cream chocolate bars, pretzels, chocolate-covered almonds, and trail mix.
I’d only open one or two and the rest of the items would languish in my pantry, but I wanted choices.
And I had no idea what I’d be in the mood to eat once my couch and I merged into one.
My chest cavity gaped, hollow. A current of nervous, unresolved energy raced through my veins. The items on the shelves needed to be my focus and not the decision I’d just made. I’d find a new place. It was not the end of the world. But it sure felt like it.
A loud vibration startled me out of my deep concentration as I reviewed different wheat crackers.
Mom: What did you do? The senior warden just called me. You ain’t in the meeting. I’m on my way to the church for the Altar guild meeting. Meet me there.
If I’d been worried about disappointing Father Weaver, it was nothing compared to what my decision would mean to my mother.
That church had been her salvation, her home during the hard years of her life.
That church supported her while raising me.
But this was my life, and she’d been able to make her own decisions.
The nervous energy all converged at the bottom of my throat as I typed my response.
Me: I’m so sorry, Mama. I know you don’t agree, but it’s time for me to leave St. Mary Magdalene.
I dropped my phone in my purse and kept pushing the cart, deciding I didn’t need crackers. What I needed was wine.
Throat tight, eyes watery, I ambled toward the wine aisle.
A cheese, cracker, and wine display was right by the front of the aisle, and a few people stood by, tasting samples.
Passing everyone, I went straight to my favorite Riesling.
Resting two bottles in my cart, I ignored the hole in my chest and the pressure building behind my eyes.
Behind me, people gathered around the tasting display.
Not wanting to navigate around them, I kept my head down, walking in the opposite direction.
My purse lay open on the cart, my phone face up.
Another message popped up and I slowed down, attempting to read it without moving the cell phone.
Mom: “Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.”
The letters blurred as my vision filled with tears. She really knew what to say to make me hesitate, as if I hadn’t searched and searched for other solutions. In the end, that church was not a good environment for me. Why couldn’t she support me?
The cart’s wheels squealed as I jerked it around the corner, my grip hard on the handle.
My hands jerked back, an immovable force meeting the front of my cart.
A symphony of metallic containers hit the tiled floor and?????????????????? my heart skipped a beat.
Hard plastic and metal dug into my belly, air whooshing out in surprise.
My chest jolted first, followed by the clang of metal on metal, and I blinked up…
right into someone else’s overflowing cart.
The man’s face was unreadable as he inspected the collision.
I’d pushed his cart into a display of stacked canned peanuts, which now rolled all over the floor.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
The man searched my face, his raw, commanding presence reaching me even in the fog of sadness.
He couldn’t be more than six feet tall but he towered over me, bolstered by sheer confidence.
Smooth dark chocolate skin, penetrating eyes, a majestic beard, and a sexy bald head—my kryptonite.
In another time, another life, a man like this would have me flushed and flustered, but my heart was breaking for the third time in the past two years.
I didn’t know if I had any more tears left to cry.
I waited. He studied me while I searched the floor, wanting to pick it all up, but something told me to wait, to let him speak first.
“You good, beleza?” His raspy, deep voice flowed to me, making me want to stand straighter.
“I… Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention and?—”
He halted me with one raised hand. Words stopped flowing out of my mouth as if he himself had blocked them from coming out of my larynx.
“You good, no need to apologize. I wanted to make sure you were alright. You seem upset.”
“Oh.” There should have been additional sound with that, but nothing came out of my mouth, just air. Ruffled, I bent to pick the cans?—
A callused hand slipped over mine, a shock of pure raw current freezing me on the spot.
“Stop,” the man ordered.
Again, that same sorcery as before, as if an invisible hand clasped my neck and straightened me until I stood still.
“Now breathe…can I call you beleza? Yeah? Okay, breathe for me.”
I finally inhaled, sweet oxygen filling my lungs.
“Good—” The man bit his plump bottom lip, and all my attention focused on that simple but mesmerizing action.
“I got this. You go ahead, beautiful, keep shopping; I’ll handle this. You’re good. You may not feel it now, but I promise you’ll be straight.” He nodded, my hand still nestled in his, that bright, lively current flowing through us.