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

already guessed by the special decorations around the room.” People laughed as he swung an arm to indicate the piles of sleeping bags and duffels piled against the walls. “Praise God, this room was full of young men and women last night—our own teenagers and youth we invited from the neighborhoods here in Rogers Park—having a Lock-In. And if your kids were here, you know they weren’t hanging out on some street corner last night, gangbangin’ or doin’ drugs, praise God.”
    Laughter swept the room and some people clapped. Which felt odd to me, since my boys wouldn’t be out “gangbanging” or “doing drugs,” whether they were at the Lock-In or not. Probably talking about the non-church kids they’d invited.
    â€œWell, you know they made a lot of noise, ate a lot of pizza, played some crazy games, and listened to music that would bust our ears.” Pastor Cobbs stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it. “Mine anyway.” Which got another laugh. “But they also got into the Word—and I believe they have something to share with us this morning. Brothers and sisters, the SouledOut Steppers!”
    Heads turned and necks craned as the double doors at the far end of the room opened and two lines of teenagers walked in, both boys and girls, and even a couple of the youth leaders—Josh Baxter and another guy whose name I didn’t know—all wearing black T-shirts. As the congregation murmured and threw out smiles to their kids, the teenagers lined themselves up at the front of the room two deep, some on the six-inch-high wooden platform, the rest on either side. I tried to catch the eye of my sons—P.J. was in the group on the left, Paul on the right—but both of them avoided looking at me.
    â€œWhere’s Sabrina?” Precious whispered, scanning the group. “That girl better not be tryin’ no steppin’, not in her condition!”
    â€œThere,” I whispered, pointing to where Edesa Baxter stood off to the side holding little Gracie, Sabrina by her side. The pretty girl looked as if she’d been crying. Poor thing. The reality of being a teenage mom-to-be was hitting home.
    A good-looking young man I hadn’t seen before—he looked college age, not high school—took the mike. “Thank you, Pastor Cobbs. Good morning, church. My name is Omari Randall. I’m a junior at Northwestern University, majoring in African American studies. Some of you may have heard about our gospel choir at NU, and we’ve expanded our repertoire a bit.”
    â€œAll right now!” The mood in the room was definitely going up.
    â€œI was invited by your pastor to come to the Lock-In, and I gotta say—you folks here at SouledOut have some great youth leaders and a great group of kids. Let’s give it up for these folks!” Omari Randall led all of us in giving the youth and leaders a standing ovation—which was funny in a way, since they hadn’t done anything yet.
    But as soon as we all sat down, a CD began to play through the sound system, more of a beat than actual music, and suddenly the kids on the “stage” began to clap in rhythm . . . slapping their chests, their arms, their thighs . . . then clapping their hands under one leg, then another. After a noisy prelude, Omari started to rap into the mike as the kids clapped, stomped, turned, and slapped in rhythm.
    Gettin’ down an’ gettin’ dirty ( clap, slap, stomp )
Not knowin’ what we missin’ ( slap, slap, stomp, stomp )
Smokin’ hash an’ talkin’ trash ( clap, slap, stomp )
But it was God we was dissin’ ( stomp, stomp, clap-clap-clap ) . . .
    The grin on my face was replicated on nearly every face in the room. A few people stood up, calling out encouragement as the “Steppers” performed. The teens on the wooden platform in the center were obviously the most experienced, doing more