Chapter 6
SIX
LYNETTE
“A watched pot never boils and worrying the stew cooks up a bad brew.”
My mother’s whispered homily snatched my attention. We were in church. The choir was singing, but I wasn’t truly listening. I was clandestinely checking for admissions email notifications like an unchurched heathen versus worshipping.
I’d had my fair share of being reprimanded by Justus in the movies yesterday. Thankfully, he was attending Youth Ministry and not present to see my regression. I slid my phone in my purse and focused on the front of the sanctuary in time to hear apropos lyrics.
“He may not come when you want Him but He’s right on time…”
The choir was singing what Granny called a mish-mash of traditional lyrics sung against a background of new school rhythms and beats meant to attract the younger generation while placating the elders.
Sometimes that mish-mash is pure-D trash.
I glanced at Granny seated in the front row of our two-hundred-seat sanctuary with other members of the Mothers’ Board to see if her previously voiced opinion held true for today’s rendition.
She was clapping and swaying, looking like the queen of the Church of God in Christ in her peach and cream bedazzled suit, lace gloves, and matching Texas-worthy crown of a church hat.
I couldn’t see it, still I knew splayed daintily across her knees was the requisite sanctified lap rag—a matching handkerchief meant to demurely cover anything a skirt hem didn’t.
Granny got me feeling basic in my ankle-length denim skirt and fuchsia Shein sweater.
At least my hot pink wedge-heeled boots were giving, and my “wig” was bouncing and behaving. My Versace perfume had me smelling rich, even if it was an outlet knock-off.
I grinned at my foolery and refocused on Granny.
A diehard believer who could quote the Bible better than a theologian, she sometimes recounted sermons going back to the infancy of New Bethel C.O.G.I.C.
She was exquisite in this house of worship.
Fully present, seemingly impervious to disease and faulty memory lapses.
My grandmother’s serene profile triggered my smile as I recognized a treasure and gift I couldn’t take for granted. Being here—a member of Terracina Braxton’s third of five generations—with family sprinkled throughout the edifice, upholding a tradition of faith, was priceless.
“He’s an on time God, yes He is…”
Granny’s petite hands raised in joyful praise as the choir continued their harmonious, uplifting serenade.
And that, Lynette, is the message of the day.
I was a free-will being in partnership with my Creator.
I practiced daily affirmations and calling what I desired into existence.
Even so, I believed the Creator was committed to and fully involved in orchestrating my outcomes.
My manifestations would align with God’s plan for my life and according to heaven’s divine time. Not merely mine.
Constantly checking my email for anything from UT Austin hadn’t produced a thing except aggravation and anxiety.
At least there’s no denial letter.
Neither was there a notification of admission. Leaving the classroom to improve my career trajectory and better my existence was blossoming into a near obsession.
Girl, enjoy the choir and breathe.
I tapped a hot pink boot in sync with the music swelling through the sanctuary, longing for change.
Growing up middle class, I liked nice things as much as the next woman.
I owned my townhouse, was a single mother who sometimes struggled but nonetheless supplied our requisite living expenses.
I managed to afford yearly vacations with Justus—often within driving distance.
Not because of a good salary or high paying position. But because of frugal living.
I opened the Bible app on my phone as the choir finished to exuberant applause and Bishop Elmore took the stage. I was disinterested in penny-pinching, saving every dollar, and—like Mama would say—squeezing it until it hollered. I didn’t want to feel stuck anymore. Professionally. Or personally.
Running into Paul Giles might’ve been a touch of serendipity.
Maybe, but I did the mom thing and pushed that thought aside to consider my son’s needs.
Thankfully, his therapy was covered by my health insurance.
School district cutbacks made services such as social skills training and assistive technology no longer available.
I’d been proud of how he’d interacted with Paul when meeting him yesterday, but that wasn’t always the case.
He often exhibited awkwardness in social settings and didn’t always recognize a need for proper spatial distance.
We were working on that as well as what was acceptable versus unacceptable comments in public. It was all a work in progress.
I thought about Thrive Time—an outstanding program offering life and social skills, assistive technology, occupational therapy, and more—that I learned about through a colleague.
I’d taken Justus to their open house last fall.
The facilities, staff, and presentations felt like an answer to prayer.
But that price tag was hellish. Still, the older Justus became the more pressing was the need to ensure he was equipped with tools to help him successfully facilitate his new normal.
Absolutely, Rodney would split any fees with me.
Still, coming up with my half would cramp my budget severely.
Rodney would pay it in full… except you didn’t ask.
We were no longer a couple. I didn’t always want his assistance.
I was damn near fifty and prided myself on being self-sufficient.
My bestie, Nichelle, claimed I put too much pressure on myself to perform and needed to give up my membership to some fictitious Super Single Moms club.
True or not, I needed more income, and at present grad school was my way up the ladder of advancement.
Plus, I was growing weary of being in the classroom and wanted to explore other options in education.
Specifically, becoming a school guidance counselor.
“I tell you, beloved, this choir liked to sing me happy today!” Bishop Elmore’s voice terminated my rumination.
His comments of appreciation for the music ministry were met with laughter and shouts of agreement that eventually faded as he invited us to bow our heads.
“Come with me, children of God, to the throne room of grace and the presence of our Savior.” A slim, compact man with the voice of angels, he offered a melodious prayer as soothing as any song beneath the heavens. “And let all of God’s beloved say…”
Our “amen” was collective.
Dutifully, I located today’s scripture text on my Bible app. My head snapped up when hearing Bishop Elmore’s sermon subject. “Saints of God, look at your neighbor and tell them for me, no matter your test, or your trial, a divine delay is not a denial.”
I turned to the woman on my left, deftly avoiding Mama’s satisfied grin prompted by Bishop Elmore’s forthcoming sermon aligning with the caution she’d given earlier.
Watched pots. Divine delays. Clearly, the Creator was humorous and wanted my attention, or thought I was thick-headed and needed various modes of the same information like some of my students.
Either way, perhaps my being present to encounter such messages today was a sweet reassurance that all would happen as it should.
And when. What was required of me was to trust, and stop driving myself zany with the neurotic checking, rechecking, and borderline fretting.
I turned to Mama, ready to concede the point of her homily, except a woman across the sanctuary stole my attention.
Seated on the same row with Granny, at the opposite end, there was a sturdiness and undeniable strength despite her small stature. Her features were obscured not by distance. The brim of her fancy hat made sight difficult. Still, she was wholly familiar.
“You okay, baby girl?” Mama whispered when I shivered.
I didn’t respond. I was too busy clocking the fact that what I could see of the woman’s ensemble was a perfect replica of that worn by the dress dummy in Granny’s attic.
I watched her stand. She applauded Bishop’s salient wisdom before turning, seemingly floating towards the right-side exit.
Pausing before opening it, she turned in my direction.
Visage hidden in the shadow of the hat’s brim, she opened sturdy brown hands and extended them in my direction.
Flower petals fell from her palms in slow motion.
“Lynette?” Mama tapped my thigh, breaking my concentration.
I stared at her, speechless. She narrowed her eyes and leaned in. “What’s going on?”
I looked at the place where the woman had been and found it empty. She was nowhere to be seen.
Mama followed my gaze before looking at me again.
I shook my head, denying anything was amiss, and turned to focus on the man in the pulpit, feeling my mother’s stare, and praying hallucinations weren’t something to add to my health concerns list.
“Mama, who’s Miss Zinnie?”
I watched my mother pull two oversized pans of her famous milk rolls from her oven. She slid them atop cooling racks on the counter before looking in my direction. “Miss who?”
“I mean Grandma Zinnie. The one Granny says we wouldn’t exist without.
” I paused basting the onion, celery, potato, and carrot medley nestled about Mama’s melt in your mouth pot roast with hot au jus to further prompt her memory.
“Friday. When I stopped by on the way home, and y’all had me playing scavenger hunt in the attic… ”
“Oh, Grandma Zinnie!” Mama placed a small ramekin of butter in the microwave and grabbed a pastry brush from a drawer. “My grandmother used to tell stories about her when I was little, but I honestly don’t remember the details.”
I replaced the lid on her fancy Le Creuset oval-shaped enamel Dutch oven dish responsible for that tender pot roast and slid it on top of the stove. “What do you recall?”