Lady Preacher, page 1
INDIGO LOVE SPECTRUM
An imprint of Genesis Press, Inc.
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Genesis Press, Inc.
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.
Copyright © 2008 K. T. Richey
ISBN-13: 978-1-58571-494-0
ISBN-10: 1-58571-494-1
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DEDICATION
First, I must give all praise and honor to God who has been my all—Comforter, Peace, Joy, Healer, Provider, and more than I could ever express. Without Him, I would not be here today.
I must thank my family: my daughter, Andrea, who has been the light of my life. Thank you for your support and for being such a wonderful person. My parents: L.C. and Juanita and my siblings: Charles, Russell, Michael, and Rodney; my brother-in-law, Stanley and my sister-in-law, Lola, I thank you for everything you have done for me and Andrea throughout the years. Even when you did not understand my vision, you supported me and I will never forget your help. To my niece and nephews: Charvis, Jewell, Johnathan and Aaron, thanks for keeping me entertained. Charvis, keep your head up!
Everyone should have anointed friends like mine. First to Sandra Allen, the loving, motherly friend, thank you for allowing me to cry on your shoulders and having a listening ear when times were tough. Thank you, Thomas, Mama Rose, Lucky, Ariel and the children for allowing me time at your home to rest and vent.
To Ruby Harmon, the keep-it-real, matter-of-fact friend. Thank you for your encouragement and your diary and all the times you reminded me of what God said. See the manifestation! Keep the faith. It’s not over. Girl, go get that money.
To Melisa Strong, a tiny woman with a big voice, the cheerleader. No one can out-yell you. Thank you for being so upbeat every time I talked with you and reminding me of the goodness of God. God has great work for you. Keep on praising.
To Pastor Ronald D. Barton, the comedian and classmate from Morris College. Thank you for keeping laughter in my life during the good and the bad.
To Victoria Christopher Murray, I thank you so much for your integrity and your help. Thank you for guiding me in the right direction and encouraging me along the way.
To Chandra Sparks Taylor, I could not have done it without you. Thank you for your firm hand and clear direction.
To the Genesis family, Deborah Schumaker and all that help me through this process, I thank you for all you have taught me and allowing me to minister through print.
I have much love for the pastors and ministries that have supported my ministry throughout the years: Rev. C.S. Sanders, the late First Lady Margaret Sanders and the Pilgrim Rest Baptist Church family; Pastor Curtis Johnson, First Lady Charla Johnson, and the Valley Brook Baptist Church family; Pastor Ronnie Williams, First Lady Helen Williams and the Generostee Baptist Church family; Pastor Jerry Greene, Elder Agnes Greene and the Perfecting The Heart Ministries family and Pastor Mary Nance and the St. James Pentecostal Holiness Church family. To the Ananias Christian Center crew in South Carolina, Philadelphia, New York, New Jersey, the Caribbean and Europe, pastor loves you. You hold a special place in my heart. You are the best group of people in the world. I have nothing but love for you.
Finally, I dedicate this book to a great Southern writer, Eudora Welty, who told me when I was eighteen years old that I was going to be a writer and I laughed. Almost thirty years have gone by and now that, which she had spoken, has come to pass.
Chapter 1
Shante Dogan hated these conferences. “Seems like every preacher on the East Coast is here,” she griped to herself as she surveyed the room at the opening day reception of the Seventy-sixth Annual Convocation of the East Coast Ministerial Association and listened to the steady buzz of ministers loudly greeting one another. Last year, almost five thousand had been in attendance; this year, it looked like many more than that seemed to be crammed into this small reception area.
Despite her distaste, she had attended many of these conferences in the past. To her, it was always the same old thing: a bunch of preachers trying to out-preach or out-sing each other hoping to fill their calendars with speaking invitations for the next year. It was always a diverse gathering—Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal, male, female, black, white, Asian, Hispanic. Year in, year out, the overall mix was basically the same. In fact, the only notable change year-to-year has been in the names of the churches. Traditional names like Mt. Calvary, St. Paul, and King David had morphed into names like Worship and Praise Cathedral, Morning Glory Christian Centers International, and Jehovah Jireh Street Ministries. Some had names so far from the mainstream Shante had to wonder what name-changing process they’d gone through.
Everyone had a business card. Preachers love to show off their titles: bishop, elder, right reverend, or prophet. This is definitely the year of the apostle. I have twenty-three cards, and sixteen of them are apostles, Shante reflected, flipping through what she’d collected thus far.
“Hello, Pastor Dogan,” a deep voice said, “I see you made it back this year.” A light-skinned, morbidly overweight man in a bright yellow suit stood in front of her wearing a big, countrified grin.
“Oh yeah.” One look at his suit and Shante found it hard to keep a straight face. Where does he find his clothes, she wondered. “You know I can’t miss one of these meetings. How are you doing, Bishop Thompson?”
“Oh, I’m blessed and highly favored. How are you?”
“I’m quite well. How is Mother? Is she feeling better now?”
“She’s doing much better. You know she got out of the hospital. The doctor thinks they got all the cancer during the surgery. She’ll be starting chemotherapy next week. I wanted to stay with her, but she encouraged me to come here. Thank you so much for the flowers. Yellow roses are her favorite,” Bishop Thompson said as he moved closer to her and lowered his voice. “So, have you found that husband yet?”
“Bishop, don’t start that again.” She smiled, taking a sip from her cup of juice. It was her protection from the flesh-pressing horde. As long as she held on to it no one would get too close. But Bishop was a different story. He had taken it as his mission to get her married and was always telling her God was sending her a husband.
Getting married was the last thing on Shante’s mind. There were times when she had thought about it, but she was much too busy to get into a serious relationship. Besides, many men seemed intimidated by her success and the fact that she was a preacher.
“Well, you know I told you what the Lord revealed to me,” he said, moving closer still and practically whispering. “He’s probably here at this conference. Mingle a little. He just might find you.”
“Bishop, leave me alone,” she said, smiling affectionately. “I’m getting away from you. Tell Mother I’ll continue to pray for her. I’ll call her when I get back home.”
She left the bishop and walked quickly toward the refreshments table. Midway there, she heard a voice that made her shiver: her ex-husband, Kevin Bryson.
“Hey, Doobie. Where are you going so quickly?”
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t call me that,” she responded. “Excuse me. I have to go speak to someone,” she said and kept walking. She dreaded running into him. Their marriage had not been a happy one, and she had gone to considerable length to distance herself from him. The mere sight of him caused memories from a deep part of her heart to surface, followed by emotions she had fought hard to repress. She had to keep thoughts of him at bay and tried to stay focused on her sermon and on her purpose for being at the conference.
The room reeked with clashing colognes. She hated shaking the hands of many of the male attendees, as their scents would transfer to her hands. God forbid they hug her. Then the foul mix would be all over and she would smell as if she had bathed in something concocted by aliens. She tried hard not to touch too many people, but touching was almost an art form at a conference like this and almost impossible to avoid. The smell was beginning to sicken her. She dug into her purse for a mint to calm her stomach.
“Look a here, look a here,” a hoarse voice said from behind her.
Shante sighed, knowing what was coming next. At that moment, she thought about how hard it was for a lady preacher to attend these meetings and remain untouched by random acts of lechery. There always seemed to be a piranha in the midst trying to hit on you.
In this setting where it didn’t matter how many degrees a woman had or how long she had been a preacher, she was bound to encounter someone trying to test her faith. She thought it troubling people saw women preachers as temple whores and felt free to make suggestive remarks in their presence or even touch their bodies at will. She felt the reason for this kind of behavior was fairly simple: Some men didn’t take a wo
Shante had earned her master’s degree in counseling. She had been in the ministry nine years and had been a pastor for the last seven at the New Pilgrim Baptist Church. She was proud to have been unanimously elected pastor after serving under Reverend Claude Anderson until his death.
She was recognized as an astute businesswoman, a dedicated community leader, and a dynamic minister of the gospel. She had taken New Pilgrim from 250 members at the time of Reverend Anderson’s death to more than two thousand members today. Her leadership had put New Pilgrim in the forefront of community improvements, educational reform, and economic development.
She was highly respected and loved by young and old; the young for her honest, straightforward talk and sense of humor and the old because she continued to incorporate the old songs and sayings into her sermons. Everyone loved her for her teaching, preaching, and bright personality. She was a much sought-after speaker for conferences, revivals, and other events, but none of that mattered to this man, and she knew it.
She knew he was looking at her butt. She was forty-five years old and she knew she looked good. She worked out daily to remain fit and physically able to meet all the pastoral demands of a busy metropolitan church.
“Hey, pretty lady.”
She turned and was face to face with a short, elderly man who was openly leering at her. He looked old enough to be her grandfather. “Hello, Apostle Jenkins,” she said, looking at his conference badge.
“I was checking you out across the room. You know you’re a classy piece of ass,” he said, subtlety not being one of his finer virtues.
That he tried to come on to her did not surprise Shante. However, she was stunned he was bold enough as to say something like that to her in a roomful of ministers. Staring at the old man dressed in a shiny gray suit with a jacket ending below his knees she said, “Excuse me?”
“You’re a classy piece of ass. As I always say, ass without class don’t do anything for me. So what are you doing later on tonight? Maybe we can . . .” Taking no note of her expression, he continued his clumsy come-on. She was insulted. Here she was at a conference of ministers—one of the keynote speakers—and this man didn’t care. He was only looking at her as a female and, therefore, easy prey. Well, today he picked the wrong sister.
“If you think I’m one of those temple whores you meet at these meetings, you better think again. I’m a woman of God. I’m not interested,” she whispered in a tone that left no doubt she wasn’t playing with him. But the man had the sensibilities of a rhino and the finesse of a charging bull.
“That’s what they all say until they find out I drive a Bentley,” Jenkins boasted.
Shante’s heart began beating faster as she tried to keep her voice low. She wished she could attend one of these conferences without someone insulting her and treating her like a piece of meat. Tensed and exasperated, she strained to keep her cool so as not to draw attention to her flushed and furious face. In a low but firm voice, she spat out, “Let me tell you—”
“Hello, Apostle Jenkins,” someone said, interrupting their exchange. Turning, Shante was relieved to see her friend Maxwell Patrick standing behind them.
“Hi, young man,” Jenkins said, giving him a big smile. Trying to look innocent, he stepped back from Shante and began sipping his coffee.
“It’s good to see you again. You’re looking mighty sharp in that suit. Is that your Bentley I saw them parking outside?” Max asked as they shook hands and embraced.
“You know I’m the only one around here who drives that car. Of course, it’s mine,” Jenkins replied, sounding aggrieved.
“You’re trying to make it hard for us young men. We can’t keep up with you.”
“Well, you know I do what I do.”
“And you do it well.” They both laughed. Shante was glad someone had interrupted them. She was sure she could not take much more of this man’s insults. She took slow, even breaths and felt her calm slowly returning.
“Pastor Dogan, how are you today?” Max asked, turning to Shante.
Her body relaxed as she tried to keep relief out of her smile. “I’m well. How are you, Reverend Patrick?” she asked, shaking his hand and fighting the urge to throw thankful arms around him.
“I’m blessed. I wanted to talk with you about speaking at a conference coming up at the church,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She could feel peace, like a refreshing breeze, pass from his hand to her body.
“I see you two have business to talk about. I’ll see you later,” Apostle Jenkins said and began making his way through the crowded room.
“My knight in shining Armani. Thanks for rescuing me, Max.” Again, she was tempted to hug him but did not for fear people would assume something was going on between them.
“I saw him walking toward you. I tried to get to you as soon as I could,” Max said.
“Do you know what he said to me?” Shante asked, trying to pretend she was focusing on the table rather than on him.
“He gave you that classy ass speech, didn’t he?”
“So you’re familiar with that ignorant pickup line?”
“Yeah. He’s used that line all over the place. Did he tell you about his car? He thinks his car will help him get anyone he wants. Shake him off.” Max looked around the crowded room. “There are a lot of people in here. Have you eaten?”
“No, I was going to eat here tonight, but the food looks less than appetizing.”
“I know. As much as we pay to attend this thing, you would think they would have better food. Hey, meet me at the restaurant around the corner.”
“I don’t know . . .” she said, hesitating. “There are too many people here.”
“Come on, you said you were hungry.”
“I can order room service.”
“I’ll tell you what. There’s a little Japanese restaurant a couple of miles from here across from the beach. You can get there in a few minutes. Why don’t we meet there?” Max persisted. “I’ll call you with the directions.”
“A couple of miles from here? Okay. Can we meet in thirty minutes? I want to go to my room and change clothes,” she added, gladly seizing the opportunity to get away from the assembly.
“Thirty minutes is fine. I’ll see you there,” Max said as he walked.
Shante greeted a few people and then made her escape, casually strolling to the elevator. She ran to the bathroom as soon as she entered her room; she had been waiting all day to get out of her clothes. Ready to relax, she was glad she had requested a room facing the ocean. Being in Hilton Head in March before the summer heat had taken over always relaxed her. The sound of the waves had already begun to strip away her tensions. She had arranged her schedule to arrive there a day early to pray, work on her sermon, and unwind. She slipped into her favorite pair of jeans and her Delta Sigma Theta sweatshirt and removed her makeup. Looking in the mirror, fixing her hair, she saw the scars on her face—the remnant of her marriage to Kevin. The half-moon-shaped scar under her right eye where he had hit her with his fist and the ring he wore cut her; the long scar that ran from her left ear to the corner of her top lip that came from hitting the edge of a sofa table after Kevin hit her; the small keloid that formed after he slammed her against the doorframe and cut her chin. They brought back unpleasant memories for her. She wore heavy makeup to cover them up and most people could not tell she had them. But, having known Max many years, she felt no need to get dressed up for him. She could relax and be herself. Having a few minutes left before she had to leave, Shante went out on her balcony to savor the cool ocean air.
The moon beamed down on the Atlantic Ocean, its light shimmering on the dark water. She watched the white waves move to and away from the shoreline. The tranquil scene and the coolness of the March air soon took her into a spirit of worship. She closed her eyes and listened to the roar of the ocean.
“God, you are awesome. You are mighty. You are the one who created the heavens and Earth. All the Earth proclaims your glory. I love you. Each and every day you have shown your grace and mercy. I thank you.”
The sound of her cellphone ringing interrupted her meditation. The caller ID showed it was Camille, her daughter, who was away at college. She wondered why she was calling. She knew Shante would be at the conference and would have a busy schedule. Sighing, she answered the phone.
