Free Like Sweet Potato Pie by Jennifer Rogers Spinola Page A

round glass. There, in the very back: a space on the blue-cushioned pew between a blond couple with a toddler gobbling fistfuls of Cheerios and an older African-American woman in yellow, all with plenty of room between us.
    I wonder where Mom sat. I wonder what she wore.
My heart pounded as I sat down, dropping my purse and Bible and glancing around the large, airy sanctuary. Globe-shaped lights suspended from a vaulted wooden ceiling, its shiny beams a homey, comforting golden brown.
    The sanctuary retained a crisp coolness, despite the warm lights and rows of people, but I unwound my scarf and placed it in a soft pile over my purse. I wrinkled my nose, smelling new carpet and a hint of flowers from the altar. Chrysanthemums. Golden orange and sweetly pungent. I knew their smell.
    I dropped my head, fingering a ring and trying not to think about the yellow spider chrysanthemums that covered Mom’s casket, tendrils quivering in the summer breeze.
    The man in front—who wore khakis and an open-collared shirt, not the full suit I expected to see at a pulpit—stepped down. Piano and violin music streamed, and I groped for Mom’s Bible, turning my head from side to side to catch someone’s movements.
    No, I need a hymnal, not a Bible to sing, right?
But I saw none, except a blue book tucked in a pocket of the pew in front of me. Nope. Another Bible.
    People stood, and I followed them.
Should I try to find a hymnal? Should I sing? What should I do?
My clenched fingers, white on the bulletin, relaxed as the yellow-clad woman pointed to the overhead screen, on which song lyrics suddenly appeared. Oh. Easy. Okay. More modern than I’d expected.
    As the music swelled, I forgot my nerves. Simply listened. And, for the first time in my life, hesitantly opened my mouth and sang with the others. About Jesus. How He died for our sins, and He is everything we need.
    Strange words, but enchanting—calling my name in the same beautiful tone as Mom’s journal. Wrapping around my heart like warm arms, filling the empty spaces.
    All of a sudden, I needed Faye, my second mom. Needed Becky and Tim. I should have told them to expect me. Should have … I don’t know. Done more than throw on a dress.
    “Excuse me,” I whispered to the woman in yellow. “You don’t happen to know Tim and Becky Donaldson, do you?”
    Without missing a beat, she put her arm around me and pointed.
    “Thank you,” I whispered back, returning her hug and gathering my purse. And I fled headlong to the space.
    When I slid in beside them, Tim nearly bowled over a pewmate with his double take. He slapped me with a high five and hugged me, rattling my teeth.
    “Well, I’ll be!” Tim hooted. He forgot about the music, grinning so much his cheeks nearly split. Scooted his Bible and stuff to hastily make a space. “Welcome to our church, Shah-loh, and to the people a God!”
    People turned and stared, chuckled at Tim, and I ducked my head. Becky just sniffled and smiled and tried to sing then dug in her purse for some tissues. I looped my arm around her shoulders, and hers around mine, and lost myself in the glorious music that had somehow become my very own song.
    “I know somebody who’s gonna be real excited,” Becky whispered, beaming through her tears.
    “Huh?” I bent closer.
    And then a few rows up on the opposite side, I saw a head turn. Tall and sandy blond, dressed in a crisp blue dress shirt and tie. Arm on the shoulder of a kid who looked like Todd Carter—the little guy who stole my heart when I doled out medications for Rick while Adam rushed their dad to the emergency room with a broken arm.
    Yep. That’s my life. One ridiculous crisis after another.
    Blue eyes swept across the congregation in midsong and then did a double take when they met mine. Adam faltered and dropped his arm. He turned partially then whispered something to Todd, who grinned and waved.
    I wish I could have preserved what I saw in that shock of blue—the thousand