Stand by Me by Neta Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

someone said from the back of the room.
    â€œMy praise was all locked up,” the woman at the mike continued. “Lead worship this morning? Are you kidding, Lord?”
    A laugh tittered through the congregation. “Keep it real, Avis!” a wiry black woman called out. “Keep it real!”
    â€œBut as I read this psalm, I was reminded that coming to church isn’t about me. It’s about God! It doesn’t matter if I’ve had a good week or a bad week! We’re here to give praise to the Lord of all creation! The King of kings! The Name above every name! And as we focus on Him, our concerns will take on perspective. Of course God cares about the problems we face! And He’s going to work them out, people. Whatever’s weighing on your heart right now. That’s His job. Our job is to come before Him with awe and adoration and thanksgiving! Because Satan—that dirty trickster—can’t mess with us when our hearts are full of praise!”
    By now, cries of “Praise God!” “Glory!” and “Hallelujah!” were ringing from every end of the room. Kat stole a glance at Brygitta and Olivia, who looked a bit like cornered mice.
    But at that moment the praise band—a keyboard, electric guitar, drum set, bass, and saxophone, as well as several singers—launched into a lively song, one the CCU students sang in chapel services at the university, though not quite like this. Kat’s former thoughts faded as she felt herself swept in with the rest of the voices around her: “Lord, we lift your name on high . . .”

    Two hours later, after an hour of singing, clapping, and praising, followed by a thoughtful teaching by one of the pastors—a tall, rail-thin white man they called Pastor Clark, who seemed well past retirement age and rather frail—Olivia leaned over and pulled Kat’s sleeve. “I didn’t know the service would go so long. I’ve got to get back to school and study. Finals are coming up, you know!”
    â€œShh!” Kat hushed. “They’re welcoming visitors.”
    â€œ. . . stand and tell us your name and where you’re from?” The woman in the plum suit had come back to the mike. A few people stood up—somebody’s parents, an older white couple from Indiana . . . a black teenager who’d brought her cousin . . . a man who spoke in halting English and said he’d just been walking by and heard the music, so he came in.
    The congregation clapped and called out, “Welcome!” after each introduction.
    â€œAnyone else?” The attractive black woman at the mike looked directly at Kat.
    Kat popped up and waved the others up too. “My name is Kathryn Davies—most people call me Kat—and this is Nick Taylor, Brygitta Walczak, and Olivia Lindberg. We’re all students at Crista University and”— might as well say it now —“we brought a couple boxes of still-good lettuce and broccoli that we’ll put out after the service. Free for the taking!”
    She heard a quiet groan from Brygitta as the four of them sat down again. “I can’t believe you did that.”
    Fine . So Brygitta was embarrassed. How else was she supposed to let people know the food was available? There was a table in the back, they could just put it there.
    â€œDid we miss anyone? If not, we want to invite our visitors to join us at the coffee table right after the—”
    â€œHold on, Avis, now.” The wiry black woman Kat had noticed before scurried to the front and took the microphone from her. “We got us an announcement you don’t know about, so . . . no, no, don’t you go sittin’ down. You stay up here. And where’s your man? Peter Douglass! Get yourself up here.”
    Kat craned her neck. A distinguished-looking, middle-aged black man with touches of gray in his close-cropped hair was pushed up to the front to some general