The Last Odd Day by Lynne Hinton Page B

find the man who’s responsible for bringing her into this world! That she doesn’t have the right at least to see his face, learn his voice, hear him say his daughter’s name, her name. Because whether she does or doesn’t isn’t for anyone else to decide, anyonebut her. She gets to make up her mind all by herself. All by herself,” I repeated.
    Maude was afraid of me, but that did not make me hush.
    â€œAnd I strongly suggest that you and those nosy, backstabbing church ladies remember that the next time you carelessly raise your hands to vote on something you know nothing about. You remember that.” And I walked out of my own house, leaving my neighbor alone to sort through what had just exploded before her eyes.
    By the day of the funeral we were friends again, and in spite of all the screaming I did to Maude about her church cronies, they all showed up at the funeral. They were fidgety around me, careful with their words, and just a little too affable toward Lilly. They probably came more out of obligation or curiosity than concern, but I appreciated the effort and was kind to a fault. I think they all mean well and that their intentions are generally honorable. It’s the meddling and the malicious appraisals rendered without thought that leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
    The church is full of self-righteous people who love to claim grace for themselves and their families but who have a hard time doling it out to those who don’t quite measure up.
    O.T. was active in his church while he was growing up, his mother took care of that. But after the war whenhe wasn’t convinced that he still believed in God and couldn’t sit without moving for more than ten minutes at a time, he went only for family weddings and necessary funerals, making sure he sat on the end and near the back.
    Since I was used to going to church services in a tent, a living room, or out under the trees near a creek, when I got married and moved down from the mountain, I never found a church building in which I felt comfortable. So that when O.T. came home and made his religious change I was glad not to have to sit in a luxurious sanctuary pretending that the gold and the stained glass and the well-rehearsed choral music ordered things and helped me to pray.
    If I worship anywhere, I go to the A.M.E. Zion Church just up the road and situated down a long driveway in a grove of trees. The music, like the people who attend, is soulful and ardent, the sermons fiery and made plain, and the love and the pleasure are without pretense or burden.
    The pastor, the Reverend Vastine Yarborough, works full-time at a sheet metal plant an hour and a half away and is only at church the first Sunday of every month. The other three Sundays a deacon or an elder, a college student or Bible teacher, leads the service. I have found that with the humility of a lay leader fumbling with the words of Jesus and the soft, low hums of the elders help-him or her along, it feels the most like church to me I have ever known.
    The message is always simple, informal, and to the point that God is not partial to anyone. We must all, regardless of what we have or have not done, kneel at the throne of grace with only ourselves and the risen Christ, who stands ready to intercede. It is just simply a reminder to love, and I feel the same way there as I did with the church folks in the mountains. God is most impressed with us when we undo ourselves before him; and church happens when, without judgment, we allow others to do the same.
    It was because of the ease and the acceptance I have received both before and since I have become a full member of the Sharpley Grove A.M.E. Zion Church that I decided to have O.T.’s funeral there. He went with me to worship only once, but it was the only time since the war that I have seen him sit still through an entire church meeting.
    I watched him out of the corner of my eye for the entire two hours. He