Can I Get An Amen?

"Of course, I am upset Nora. How could I not be very, very upset?" Estelle was holding her phone with one hand, shaking her head vigorously and holding her other arm straight in the air signaling her "sheer and utter frustration." One thing and one thing only causes Estelle this much strife: The Baptists.

Before I was born, my parents left the Holiness and Pentecostal churches prevalent in the Appalachians for the sophistication and sanity of the Southern Baptists. First Baptist was steadfast in our lives. Wednesday evenings filled our schedules with fellowship dinners, Royal Ambassadors and choir rehearsals. Sundays brought Sunday School felt board stories, robust and hearty hymn singing and a Georgian-inspired sanctuary where morning light glistened on the pastor whose close resemblance to Christopher Plummer's Captain von Trapp made the sermons equally eloquent and romantic.

Summers were no respite for our work as Southern Baptists with church picnics and pig pickin's, building houses for the poor, canning food with widows and the firm grasp of Vacation Bible School, that bastion of Bible story boot camp and macaroni art. Church was life and life was church. This became evident at the Country Club pool, the summer oasis for many members of the Women's Missionary Union and their offspring. Once, confusing Sunday's sermon about Peter's lack of faith contributing to his potential drowning and the previous night's bedtime story, The Little Engine That Could, I stood on the edge of the kiddy pool with water barely at my ankles, clad in floral swim trunks and orange inflatable floaties, earnestly praying, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can." Each time as I stepped out on the pool water, it was the floaties that sustained my buoyancy, not my faith. Soon other children abandoned their ritual of Marco Polo for a game of Peter on the Water. Religiously, these were the salad years. Then, the 1970s ended.

The 1980s brought many ill-conceived changes for the Baptists and borrowing from Toole's post-suicidal novel, Estelle began referring to the Southern Baptist Convention as the "Confederates and Dummies." Gone from the pulpit was the allegory and eloquence of Reverend Captain von Trapp and in this vacuum the formulaic, three-point tirades of "the new preacher" did not fill the void. Singing all stanzas of the hymns slowly vanished and sparse choruses accompanied by the hand waving of new congregants arose amongst the flock. Estelle and other members of the Women's Missionary Union ignored the encouragement to abandon their efforts with the local needs of migrant men for hulling coconuts as primitive banks to be used for the annual Lottie Moon offering for foreign missions.

Estelle's first descent was in reaction to four words heralded from the pulpit: "She was a hooker." Autumn had ushered in the falling of leaves and the social standing of Mary Magdalene. "It's in the true word of God for all to read and behold," the preacher's rant continued. Estelle's body stiffened and her face became terse with The Look. I feared that she would secretly stretch her arm and miraculously reach "the new preacher" from her perch on the front row and grab his abounding flesh twisting with a retributive and stinging pinch.

After the service when socializing had ceased, the car door closed with the simultaneous explosion of "Where did that jackass go to seminary and what kind of person uses the word 'hooker' in mixed company?" The showdown began. "Truth be told Mary Magdalene supported that whole lot. Is that where he's getting that garbage? Oh, just because she could afford to carry a bagful of boys that wouldn't work she is a hooker? Believe you me, I know hookers and I know my Bible. Mary Magdalene was most certainly NOT a 'hooker?'" The last word mocked the slow and wide Texan accent of the minister. "By Crackies," the audible warning that Estelle was fired up filled the car. "I've heard more sensible preaching out of the Merita bread truck."

There was no retreat in this crusade as made evident by the following Sunday's church announcements. This week for "the new preacher" did not bode well for Estelle when in his call for deacon nominations, he stated , "Before we nominate let us pray and ponder on the words found in First Timothy. 'Let the deacons be the husbands of one wife, ruling their children and their own houses well.' These are the true qualifications for the men representing our church." In one simple didactic prayer, and following the new fundamentalist surge, women deacons were obliterated at First Baptist.

Poised for retaliation, Estelle had predicted such a move and was ready for action. During the prayer, I kept my eyes open enough to view Estelle and her fury. Her pen was drawn and attacking the five slots on the deacon nomination ballad. As the congregants prayed she caught eyes with several other of her sister-friends, signaling a coup. I watched her pen as she scribed:

1. Betty Jean Smith

2. Rosemary Jackson

3. Emily Anne Garret

4. Barbara Lunsford

5. ESTELLE

The prayer concluded with the congregation's "amen" having a slight feminist tone.

Conrad Garett called Estelle midweek with shocking news from the deacon's meeting. "He_did_what?" Estelle continued, "Well that jackrabbit." Although securing ample votes from the congregation, Estelle and her fellow suffragists had been excluded and discarded from the nominations. Shockingly, their names only found solace in the bottom of the choir room trash can. "What? The new preacher just threw them out?" Her inquiry of Conrad Garret was short and her gaze void and quiet. There was no news to joyfully sound.

Checking her lipstick in the mirror of the foyer, Estelle delicately filled the lining with an appropriate fall shade of plum. "Where are you off to?" My dad was not prepared for Estelle's stoic response, "I made an appointment with the new preacher. It's about time we had a talk." The meticulous application of plum was the soldier preparing her weapon for battle. Silence lingered and my dad understood there was no chance for armistice. He stuttered, "Well . . .uh . . .I'll pray."

Sitting in the pastoral study, ankles crossed and hands resting in her lap, Estelle listened as the new preacher explained his Biblical stance on the subjugation of women. To these upstart Baptists, the women of the Bible were only vessels for reproduction, conniving adulterers, or prostitutes. Her rebuttal of biblical heroines continually being dismissed by the south Texan, Estelle resigned her battle knowing to save her strength for the war.

She grabbed her pocketbook and firmly stood, her pants suit was well tailored and graceful. She straightened her coat and then met the eyes of the minister. "There is one more thing. A few Sundays ago you referred to Mary Magdalene as 'a hooker.' You were wrong. She was a strong woman who offered not only her financial support but her love to Jesus and the church. Young man, I know many women, including me, who have given their money and support to the church and that new children's building is proof of it. I assure you we are not prostitutes unless you have a new definition of the word. And if that is the case, what does it say about men like you who take our money?"

These were the last words exchanged between the minister and the congregant.

The new preacher left the mountains for the more docile landscape of south Georgia and Estelle's attendance is now elsewhere. The Episcopal church is more welcoming to women and she will snidely offer that "Baptist is what you are when you struggle. Episcopalian is what you are when you've made it in the world." Yet, she misses the hymn singing and the eloquence of a well-delivered allegory coupled with the emotions and passions of Baptistry. There was a reason Lot's nameless wife looked back.

Estelle's voice was pitched high and loud, "That was Nora Ridges from First Baptist and you will not believe what she had the nerve to ask me." I was still and silent being careful not to provide further agitation. "She wanted to know if she could cancel my subscription to 'Road on the Journey,' you know, that devotional I still get because your dad and I don't go to church there that much and it would save the church eighteen dollars a year." Nora had clearly crossed a line with her mention of monetary savings and my mother's attendance record. "Eighteen dollars! Eight_teen_dol_lars! Well, I just told her. Is First Baptist that hard up for money? Good Lord Jesus on the cross, I still pay my tithes to them and donate money for their building fund and they can't spend eighteen dollars on my spiritual well-being! That is the love of Christ in action." There was silence and then a sigh, "Those Baptists get me riled up."

The next Sunday found me at the breakfast table reading the paper when Estelle waltzed by calling for my dad to start the car. "Oh, I am going to First Baptist this morning. It is deacon nomination Sunday." Annually, Estelle attends deacon nomination armed with her Bible, her pen and the names of five godly women; it is an event that she never misses.

Although her nominations are never allowed on the ballot at First Baptist, she continues to volunteer with the local migrant and immigrant populations, she takes care of her elderly parents and the elderly parents of her friends, she visits the hospitals and donates clothes that would be the envy of the Junior League to the battered women. All of this and she is still the wife of one husband, ruling her children and houses well. Yet, for the Baptists, she is missing a pivotal chromosomal letter and is therefore left out of the deacon pool. I think they are the ones missing out.

Imitation of White

"What about white socks or a white shirt?" My inquisitor,not from the United States much less the South, exhibited his confusion about not wearing white pants or white shoes after Labor Day, a notion simply known as The Labor Day Rule. The bewilderment on his face surely was akin to the those men and women of the Supreme Court who had to decipher the complexities of scheme liability, voter identification or, as in 2003, the true copyright of Victoria's "little" Secret.

"No, " I began. "It is just white pants, white shoes and linen clothes." Evidently, his silence questioned this sartorial discrimination. I continued, "Really, you can wear a white shirt anytime. It's great with a sweater or jacket year round." With his look, I knew instantly this was the same confusion indicting poachers of their ease and ability to club a baby seal. "Oh, and you can't wear sandals." I had made the kill.

The swan song of white linen flowed through the backyard on Sunday as my family soaked up the tepid mountain air unmoved by wind or sun. Estelle's strategically placed glass trifles charged with local apples and mums adorned tables already prosperous with crowder peas, barbecued chicken and my grandmother's potato salad. "Laaaaawwd have mercy, look at these tables," declared June. This commentary was for the place settings and not the food. The vacuum of Estelle's desire to stand over a stove is over filled with her ability to set a table. She is the only woman I know who utilizes the multiple of eight exponentially when purchasing silver, china and water glasses. "You never know when you will need these" was her almost apocalyptic acquittal the day she purchased forty-eight ramekins.

That evening found Estelle and her sister in the den lounging on opposite couches and clad in floral pajama sets with Estelle's reading basket open. The wicker chest resembling a casket-sized picnic basket contains back issues of my mom's current magazine subscriptions: Ebony, Essence and Jet. Seeing my mom read a magazine with Michelle Obama, Queen Latifah or Spike Lee on the cover has become common place in the past several years. Estelle will tell you that her favorite Christmas Eve was when the traditional pageantry and communion was put aside for popcorn and a viewing of Ice Cube's Friday After Next. Last month, while away presenting at a conference, I received a phone call from Estelle that initiated with "Did you see the BET awards last night?"

This should surprise no one. Since being very young, I can recall Estelle's aural diet of Roberta Flack and the Commodores was acoustically and racially different from the Southern Gospel Quartets preferred by my grandparents. Estelle lived through integration and shunned the norms of xenophobia for her newly found friend, Joanne. Estelle still recalls funny stories of two girls enjoying careless rides in my grandfather's Cadillac while secretly quaffing the unmentionable sin: Cigarettes. To my grandmother Joanne became known solely as the reason my mother forfeited cotillion classes. "Why would I go if they wouldn't let Joanne in?" She still protests. If Estelle's racial awareness was birthed in music and schooling, it matured several years ago when she sold one of her estate lots to Mrs. Miriam Jackson and her husband, The Right Reverend Collins Jackson.

"I just sold some of the land to the nicest lady," Estelle recounted. Miriam and her husband had relocated from Beaufort where Reverend Jackson had been a long-standing Methodist minister. Like most everyone, they moved to Hendersonville to retire. Selling the land to the Jacksons signaled Estelle acknowledging good home training, no drunkardness and the ability to pay the rather outrageous land value. In a single signing, Estelle integrated the neighborhood.

Estelle and Miriam had much in common: only sons, a love of reading, husbands who were overly involved with video games and the Lord's work, and an unequivocal endurance for shopping. Estelle and Miriam were fast and true friends enjoying each other's wit and wisdom. During a meeting of the Women's Missionary Union, one of Estelle's peers commented on her new relationship with the wife of the old Methodist minister. "Really I think it is wonderful and I, myself, I don't see color." Estelle looked the woman up and down slowly before exhaling a slow , "So I have noticed."

Soon, Estelle and Miriam began delighting in mornings at the country club pool and casual dinners of poorly cooked salmon at the club's pro shop. With Miriam as her companion, Estelle would invoke her guest privileges as much as possible without overstepping the twice-a-week boundaries. In order for Miriam to have open accessibility to pool side chatter and Thursday night's Prime Rib dinners, Estelle sponsored the Jacksons for membership to "the club."

It was with horror that Estelle received the news that her sponsorship of Miriam had been denied. "Well, those jackasses!" This is one of the very few obscenities Estelle will let slip out when she loses her temper and I had seen her this livid on only few occasions. I knew this action would not be without recoil.

Once, on a visit home from that "allegedly elite university," Estelle and I were visiting my good friend Susan and her mother on the porch of their bed and breakfast, the Hendersonville Inn. During our porch talk, a teen stopped at the light yelled a racial epithet towards an elderly woman crossing Third Avenue. Susan's mother lowered her head as Susan and I were stunned and immobile. "Well that jackass" boomed from Estelle's voice as she made a straight shot for the stopped car.

"Oh dear Jesus, go get the phone and call the sheriff," Susan's mother shuddered. We knew this call was for the safety and well-being of that teen boy. Too late. Estelle had the over six foot teen out of his car with her finger vigorously shaking in his face. The whole street was stopped with other cars frightened to honk their horns at the petite woman in St. John Knits yelling "that is about the most shhtupid and ig_no_rant thing I have seen in my life." The tirade continued "What kind of home training do you have yelling that nonsense on the city street? It is just not appropriate" her voice echoing from the library to the court house. The teen's blushed face was lowered briefly before her, "Now look at me when I am talking to you. Now I suggest you get back in that car, get yourself a job and think about a thing or two before you go yelling craziness out and about of your car window again. Do you understand me?" The sullen boy cautiously returned to his car and proceeded through the light with his window rolled up.

The individuals rejecting the Jacksons' application for membership could not be solely chided on the downtown streets for their ignorance. Although I am sure Estelle entertained that idea, her solution adhered to my grandfather's almost unintelligible old saw, "i' ya cain be' um, jine um (if you can't beat them, join them)." Estelle, through ample charm peppered with Machiavellian endeavors, became the newest member of her country club's committee for new membership.

Of all the committee members, Estelle is the one whose interpretation of "an association of mutually compatible people" varied from the historical norm. While this made the Jacksons' efforts for membership impossible, it fired Estelle's desire for integration. "Miriam, really, who needs those jackasses?" Estelle has expanded her protest as she now only uses her club membership with Miriam as guest-in-tow. The other day as I was off to work out at the exercise room, she suggested, "Hey, why don't you take Joe or Vladimir with you?" Most people take an iPod to the workout room, Estelle takes a middle aged African-American nursing student or Ukrainian refugee.

Perplexed by her presence and unable to unearth her, the committee still includes Estelle. She is gracious in her protest of "qualified" applicants. "Is someone who made their money through questionable businesses involving night time entertainment in New Jersey really upholding the ideals of this club? Well, it just seems a little trashy." Her latest round of nominations included the African-American police chief, the former Jewish mayor and the gay wine merchant. Although neither a prohibitionist nor a wine aficionado, she respects a level-headed business plan, the proclivity to say "thank you" and the accoutrements of Brooks Brothers casual attire.

Last night, Miriam walked over to the house as she usually does for a glass of tea. In the living room you could hear the mutually compatible laughing and discussing the events of Labor Day. "Narlena does look good but her mind is going . . well, she is ninety-six and still drives," Estelle sighed. "Oh you looked so elegant in those white pants. I loved those." Miriam's sentences are more like songs in tones and inflection. Estelle just graciously smiled, acknowledging her friend over her glass of tea. Miriam continued, "White pants are my thing, girl. I like khakis but I wish I could wear my whites all year round." The women finished their tea and laughter with Estelle walking hand-in-hand with her friend to the front door before she promised, "I'll call you tomorrow, hon." She then went to her bedroom and gathered the folded white pants and white sandals for a resting place awaiting an Easter Resurrection, a time when saints and white pants arise.

Late Monday evening the chime on my phone indicated a new text message from my friend still confused about The Labor Day Rule. It simply read "What about white socks?" Being the only kid in ninth-grade gym class who wore argyle socks with his gym uniform was a source of much ridicule. Estelle's disdain for white socks is still summed up with "That is just not appropriate." After a few moments of finger fumbling, my reply was short: "White socks are o.k." Some rules are meant to be broken.