Who Is My Shelter? by Neta Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

since Josh had recruited Sabrina and some of her friends for the Lock-In. But I hadn’t showered or gotten dressed or anything!

chapter 5

    Precious and I were a few minutes late arriving at SouledOut Community Church, but I needn’t have worried. Chairs were still being set out, replacing the sleeping bags that had been rolled up and stacked around the edges of the large room that functioned as the sanctuary. I didn’t see many of the teenagers, but I heard music coming from the back rooms and a rhythmic thumping. Working on their “special presentation,” no doubt.
    When the service was finally ready to start—only fifteen minutes late—Avis Douglass announced the call to worship from Psalm 73. The fifty-something African American woman was my favorite worship leader at SouledOut, though I wished I knew her better. I’d first met her at the shelter—she was the wife of Peter Douglass, the Manna House board chair—and at first I was intimidated by her serene presence. Then I found out she was also the no-nonsense principal at Bethune Elementary where Jodi Baxter taught third grade and she led Jodi’s Yada Yada Prayer Group, which I’d visited a few times. Avis had prayed a few passionate prayers on my behalf in the group, which had touched me deeply. Still, I had yet to have a personal conversation with her.
    â€œ ‘. . . is what the wicked are like,’ ” Avis was reading, “ ‘always carefree, they increase in wealth. Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure . . .’ ”
    I quickly flipped pages in my Bible to find Psalm 73. Kind of a strange call to worship.
    â€œâ€˜When I tried to understand all this,’” she read, “‘it was oppressive to me’”—here Avis paused dramatically, lifting her chin—“‘until I entered the sanctuary of God.’”
    â€œOh yes!” someone shouted from the congregation. “That’s right” . . . “Thank You, Jesus!”
    Avis continued, “ ‘Then I understood their final destiny. Surely you place them on slippery ground; you cast them down to ruin.’ ”
    â€œThat’s right, that’s right!” . . . “Lord, have mercy!” The comments and affirmations from the congregation almost drowned out Avis’s voice as she continued to read the doom and judgment that was going to happen to the wicked.
    But then she paused, waiting for the room to quiet before she read the last few verses. “ ‘Whom have I in heaven but you, Lord? Earth has nothing I desire beside you! My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever!’ ”
    â€œHallelujah!” . . . “Praise the Lord!” . . . “Oh, thank You, Jesus!”
    Two members of the praise band with violin and keyboard played a short introduction and then the praise team began to sing a hymn lifted straight from that psalm: “Whom have I in heaven but Thee? My flesh and my heart faileth, but God is the strength of my life . . .”
    Wow , I thought, when we finally sat down. That psalm felt as if it had lifted thoughts and feelings out of my own experience the past few months—except the psalmist had written them centuries ago. Guess King David knew what it was like to be down-and-out, too, with nowhere to go but to God.
    Pastor Joe Cobbs bounced up onto the low platform, grinning from ear to ear. He was a short, sturdy black man—and seemed even shorter when he stood next to his copastor, Hubert Clark, an older white man with whom he shared the pulpit since their churches merged a few years ago. Today I noticed that Pastor Clark seemed paler than usual and stayed seated even when the rest of the congregation stood, though he seemed fully engaged, smiling and nodding.
    â€œPraise God, church!” Pastor Cobbs said. “Our service will be a little different today, as you’ve probably