Free Boaz Brown by Michelle Stimpson

forth in the main room. The praise team was singing a medley of “Jesus Is Mine,” “You Don’t Know Like I Know,” and “Victory Is Mine.”
    I had a surprise that morning when the children filed into the classroom. A little white girl visited our class. Maybe at another church, a white child wouldn’t stand out. But in our African-American southern Church of God in Christ, having a white face among the crowd was not a regular occurrence.   I   never really stopped to ask myself why, because I rather enjoyed being “at home” in church. As far as I was concerned, the less   I   saw of white people, the more I could be myself.
    The little girl’s name was Emily, and she told us that she was visiting with her mother. Her pale face was sprinkled with outstanding brown freckles, which were upstaged only by her bright, contagious smile. Something about children—perhaps the innocence of their beliefs, the blindness of their love—made me   stand   in awe of how close they are to ideal.
    Emily participated in the discussion and drew an awesome depiction of   herself   praying. When we finished class, I made my usual call for students who wanted to accept Christ in their lives. Emily came forward with a few others. We all clapped for them and asked them to repeat the prayer of faith. Then we hugged them and officially welcomed them to the body of Christ. Deep down inside, I had enough sense to know that everybody needed Jesus, regardless of their skin color.
    After serving the snacks, the ushers assisted me in getting the children to their parents. A few of my former students, now in the junior class, helped clean up the room, and then we all went back into the sanctuary.
    The Spirit was high, and Pastor Williams was whooping—preaching hard and catching his breath between the organ’s hits. The crowd was on its feet, giving him the impetus he needed to go higher and higher. I stood and joined in, catching on to the last part of his sermon and praising God right along with the congregation.
    “I stopped by to tell you this   morning.   . . that God is able. . . to deliver you. . .   mmm   hmmm. . . from whatever is stopping you.. .   from   receiving the fullness. . . of His blessing!”
    “Yeah!”   The Mothers on the front row cheered him on.
    The older sisters waving their white linen handkerchiefs. “Go ‘head!
    “Preach, Pastor!” The Pastor’s mother, too ill to stand, sat with her hands in her lap but showed her involvement by poking   out   her lips and tossing her head left to right with such fervor that her whole body swayed. Pastor preached so intensely, even some of the deacons got up off their bench, crossed their arms, and nodded. Folks shouted for a good ten minutes before someone calmed us all down with the one-word song that wound us all down—“yes.”
    After the altar call and prayer line, we were all in a good, peaceful mood to be dismissed. Pastor made his usual comments about our minds turning toward food and football, and the congregation laughed.
    Finally, he asked the head usher to come again and recognize the first-time visitors as well as those who invited them. I saw a white woman, unmistakably the only visitor left in the crowd, and obviously Emily’s mother. I’d catch her after service, I figured, to tell her what a wonderful student Emily was and invite her to come again.  
    Sister Wilson, dressed far too stylishly to be an usher, smoothed out her white gloves and spoke from behind the white veil poking out of her hat. “Pastor, this is Shannon Potter. She is a guest of Brother Paul Pruitt.”
    The congregation clapped as Shannon pushed herself up and nodded graciously. Paul stood up next to her—I hadn’t even noticed that he was on her pew. He closed in the space between them with his body and smiled broadly.
    “Would you like to have words?” Sister Wilson asked Emily’s mother.
    Shannon smiled and flipped her blond hair in that irritating