Page 11 of At Her Will

“And with you.”

When he offered her his arm to escort her to a pew, she knew why Rev’s gesture at the school, to keep her from falling on the wet floor, had seemed familiar. She thanked the usher quietly and slipped into the back row.

The church was two-thirds full. Potted plants set in the narrow windows dressed up the surroundings. A carved and polished cross was mounted in the transept. To the left side of it was an area for the choir, dressed in purple and silver robes. The pulpit was on the right side.

She had the pew to herself, except for the usher who took a seat at the other end of it. From her glimpse of the phone now balanced on his knee, she saw he had a view of the parking lot to know when any stragglers had arrived, so they could be greeted as she had been. A customer-oriented marketing technique Ros would approve.

The minister, a tall and compelling man with a clipped beard, single gold ear stud and shaved head was finishing up a rousing call to serve Jesus. The price of his tailored suit didn’t mesh with the plainer setting, but his message was passionate, even if a little overly scripted.

In dealing with the rejection of her family, she’d explored a lot of Christian denominations, as well as the paths of otherfaiths. She’d eventually found her home in Wicca, and was now a spiritual leader in NOLA’s pagan community. She routinely led Sabbat rituals and officiated at handfasting and crossing over ceremonies.

Wicca wasn’t a conversion faith—it respected other forms of worship, so she was comfortable attending most churches. She ignored the tenets that harped on being the only right path, and focused on what connected it to hers.

Do no harm. Love one another. Give more than you take.

No matter how humans managed to twist and fuck up those messages, the common thread endured. Religion didn’t trump faith, which in her mind was always about cherishing life through compassion, kindness and service.

The oil paintings mounted on the walls between the windows were done in bright, bold colors and looked like the work of local artists. Most depicted the Gospels, Jesus’s journey and teachings. In one of them, Jesus was healing the leper.

He’d understood what faith was, too, and had loved humanity, despite their thickheadedness.

She reminded herself of that when she thought of her ex-husband. Or the family she’d had to leave behind, but remembered daily in her prayers before she quietly shut the door on that heartache and got on with her day.

And while it might startle some people, she also felt closest to what spirituality and faith were about when she was in a session with a submissive. Raising that sacred sexual energy connected them to the Lord and Lady, the male and female divine principals.

“Let’s hear Brother Rev’s take on what I just told you.”

The preacher’s announcement pulled her out of her head and into the present. From the expectant shifting in the audience, the highlight of the service was about to happen. Calls of “Amen” and “Blessed Jesus” confirmed it.

Then they stilled. And remained still.

Vera glanced at the usher. His smile at her seemed to say, “Get ready for this.”

A single note filled the air of the church. Not from an instrument. From a human throat.

No words. Not initially. Just that note, drawing out, filling the room, touching down, touching her, touching everyone. The energy in it turned all souls toward it, like sunlight after six days of clouds.

Vera’s fingers were in a knot in her lap as the note expanded into harmony. Still no words. None were needed. She shut her eyes to get closer to it. The male voice reached for the heavens, the earth, and everything in between. Gathered it up. Then the words evolved from the notes.

“Gather the wheat. Gather the souls. Show them light. Show them hope. Show them truth.”

A voice so fluid and strong, she could have listened to it forever. She’d already heard that voice speak words. Now it sang them, moving closer. She opened her eyes.

Rev was coming down the steps from the small balcony over the chancel and transept. She expected he’d been listening to the sermon, waiting for his cue. While acoustically the elevated position would have helped the power of his voice, she had no doubt it would have felt the same from ground level. Even from a cellar. He wasn’t using any sound enhancement, not even a mic in his lapel.

His brown suit, white shirt and plain brown tie weren’t expensive, maybe secondhand off a rack, but it had been altered well for the body she’d felt beneath the coveralls. Shoes shiny. Short crop oiled and gleaming. As he sang, he reached out toward the congregation.

The calls to “Praise Jesus” and “Bless the Lord” rose and fell as he moved down the two steps from the transept and into thenave. Half of the congregation were on their feet, their hands in the air. From the profiles she could see, many had their eyes half closed as they swayed like that wheat he was singing about.

He kept singing, but his gaze was moving, left, right, left, right. It wasn’t the passing eye contact of a performer, but a purposeful scan. A seeking. When Rev came to a stop, his attention was on a woman in the middle of that row. Her shoulders were bowed, and from the way they were shaking, she was weeping.

Though no obvious direction was given, the standing members settled back into their pews, though quite a few were energized enough they perched on the edge, ready to surge to their feet again when the spirit moved them.

Vera noticed a faint tightening on the preacher’s face. He shot a glance toward an older woman, sitting on a short bench perpendicular to the pulpit. She made a slight quelling motion.

“Sister, come sit here,” Rev was saying to the woman. “Help her come. She needs all y’all’s help.” Rev pointed to the aisle seat. Obligingly, the eight people between him and her shifted, the one closest to the woman encouraging her to rise. She seemed to lack the strength to do it on her own, and multiple hands helped support and get her there. Including the man on her opposite side, whose face held pain. Her husband, from how he touched her waist, his simple wedding band gleaming.

When the woman at last sank down in the aisle seat, her head was still bowed, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

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