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

money in the woman’s hand while she wept in gratitude. I grabbed most of the bills from my purse and without counting them, gave the money to her.
    Sister Dabney then pointed to a young man who’d remained sitting in a pew. In a loud voice she started naming the sins in his life.
    “Stop!” the man cried out as he scrambled out and made his way to the altar.
    A male member of the congregation knelt down and prayed with him. The young man’s back shook as he sobbed.
    “Tami!”
    Startled, my head jerked up. Sister Dabney was staring at me, her eyes flashing.
    “See me after the meeting,” she said, then turned her attention to someone else.
    “Yes, ma’am,” I managed in a weak voice.
    I stumbled back to my seat. The rest of the service was a blur. I seriously considered simply leaving the building, but a mixture of curiosity and holy fear kept me glued to the pew. With Sister Dabney, it wouldn’t be enough to politely listen. The preacher’s words demanded a response. Accept or reject. Admit or deny. To corral my racing thoughts, I tried to pay attention to the sermon. Sister Dabney was preaching on the parable of the mustard seed from Matthew 13.
    “The kingdom of heaven may start out small in your spirit,” she said, holding her fingers together, “but once it takes root in your heart, God’s will becomes big! Grow where God plants you! Reach out to those in need. Freely you’ve received, freely give. Who dares reject his purpose? Who shrinks back to destruction? Who treats salvation as cheaply purchased?”
    A few people shouted, “Amen.”
    “Don’t say that unless you mean it!” she thundered.
    The room was completely silent. I was taking shallow breaths. Sister Dabney took something from the pulpit and held it up.
    “This is a packet of mustard seeds,” she said.
    Tearing open the envelope, she reached in it and then held up her hand.
    “Can anyone see this seed?”
    No one responded.
    “So it is with you. The people of this world will not see the seed of God planted in your heart, but they won’t be able to deny the fruit when the plant grows to maturity. Cultivate that seed, and it will become a shelter and source of help for many.”
    As the service ended my nervousness increased. Several people went forward to request prayer. I watched and waited. Sister Dabney didn’t seem to be in a hurry. When the last person turned away, I expected her to summon me forward. Instead, she walked slowly toward me.
    “Come over to the house,” she said.
    During the service Sister Dabney was so animated that it was odd seeing the difficulty she had walking. When we left through the building, she didn’t stop to lock the door.
    “We have nothing worth stealing,” she said, answering my unspoken question. “And if someone did, the Lord would chase them down. Everything in the church has been marked as heaven’s property.”
    “The same as the land,” I said.
    “You have a good memory.”
    We made the short walk across slightly uneven ground. Sister Dabney didn’t seem upset with me and my anxiety lessened.
    “Does your family raise chickens?” she asked.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Once a chicken hatches can it go back into the egg?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    I waited for the theological implications of her observation, but she didn’t add anything else. We reached the house. A blue rocker rested on the porch. It was the one Mrs. Fairmont sat in when we’d visited Sister Dabney.
    “Bring that rocker inside.”
    Sister Dabney held the front door open while I carried the wooden rocker inside. The living room was rectangular with an old red rug on the floor, a yellow rocker in one corner, and a red one in the other. Unlike Mrs. Fairmont’s home, it wasn’t suitable to appear in a homedecorating magazine.
    “Put it beside that other one,” she said, pointing to an open spot to the left of the yellow rocker. “Then sit in the yellow one.”
    “Why are the rockers different colors?”
    “All you