Tides of Truth [03] Greater Love by Robert Whitlow Page A

of poor people. I brushed out my hair and let it cascade down my back. Mrs. Fairmont was dressed and ready before I left.
    “Have a good time,” she said when I left her in the den.
    Sister Dabney’s church was a long, white, single-story building with a crooked wooden cross in front and a hand-painted sign that read: Southside Church—R. Dabney, Overseer. Next to the church was Sister Dabney’s home, a small brick house with low shrubs in front. There were about twenty cars in the parking lot. Some of the people who attended the church walked to the service.
    Inside, bare bulbs illuminated cement-block walls painted a pale yellow. Rows of simple wooden pews stretched from the rear to the front platform. A thin gray carpet covered the floor. The music service had already started. A skinny woman was playing the piano, and the sound of enthusiastic voices reverberated off the block walls. The sanctuary could hold more than two hundred people, but only about eighty or ninety were present. Every color of skin was represented.
    On the platform stood a rickety podium with a purple rocker behind it. Sister Dabney, an obese woman with gray hair wrapped in a bun and wearing a dark blue dress, was sitting in the rocker with her eyes closed. She wasn’t singing but held her right hand high in the air. I slipped into one of the rear pews and opened a hymnbook. The song was familiar, and I quickly found it. Sister Dabney’s hand shook and several of the people in the congregation cried out as the power touched them. I felt nothing.
    The pianist began another song I recognized as the church anthem, an exuberant melody similar to some of the older songs we sang at my home church in Powell Station. My grandmother would have enjoyed it. The message of the lyrics was simple—the sinner’s desperate need and the Savior’s sufficient grace. Sister Dabney stood and began to shuffle around the platform. I’d not seen this before and wasn’t prepared for the congregation’s reaction. Most of the people rushed to the aisle and began dancing toward the front. Those able to do so jumped in the air. Even the older members bobbed and weaved. I didn’t move an inch. We had lively worship at my church, but dancing, of any kind, was off-limits. I was glad Zach hadn’t been able to come.
    The dancing lasted for several uncomfortable minutes until the pianist played a more worshipful song. Sister Dabney sat down and continued rocking. The congregation returned to their seats. After the music stopped, the people transitioned into the prayer service without any prompting from the front. Everyone prayed out loud at once. This, too, was different from Sunday morning meetings at my home church; however, I’d been to informal prayer services where a similar pattern was followed. I joined in, thanking God for his recent direction for the future and praying that he would bless the unknown twists and turns of the path ahead. Then, as if on cue, the room grew quiet. My heart beat faster.
    “Does anybody want to hear the word of the Lord?” Sister Dabney called out in an accent forged in the Appalachians.
    A smattering of “Yes, Lord,” responses could be heard across the room.
    Virtually the entire congregation streamed back to the front of the room. As I joined the group, I wondered what was happening at Mrs. Fairmont’s church. It was probably about time to pass the offering plates.
    When I reached the front Sister Dabney saw me. A slight smile creased the corners of her mouth. I smiled back, relieved that I didn’t have to worry about public exposure of any secret sin or open rebellion. Sister Dabney directed her attention to another area of the room and spoke to a woman about to be evicted from her apartment. The woman had never been to the church. After praying for her, Sister Dabney ordered the woman to stand in front of the platform and receive an offering directly from the congregation. People came forward and pressed small amounts of