For nearly all my life, for as long as I could remember, I had heard those words from John, chapter fourteen, recited by a deacon every Sunday morning that I attended church. But for some reason, hearing them from Papa that morning as I sat on a hard wooden pew in Greater Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church on the last Sunday in September, right after having watched my own people go through so much change in such a short time, the words had more meaning than usual.
“Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.” Jesus spoke those words. I knew that because the words were in red in my Bible. I believed in God even though he didn’t answer my prayer and make me pretty like Queen and Sugar. As I grew older, I realized what a silly prayer it was anyway. God didn’t care what I looked like. He didn’t care what any of us looked like. According to Reverend Jenkins, John the Baptist looked like a wild man, but God used him anyway. It didn’t matter how dark my skin was or how nappy my hair, I was still somebody. I was named after a saint. My name meant “courage.” And in one language, my name even meant “dew.” And dew is refreshing.
“In my Father’s house are many mansions . . .” Papa always said he never needed a mansion on earth because he had one waiting for him in heaven. It was hard for me to picture heaven, or even to believe in it, honestly. When I thought of all the people who had died on earth and all the ones still left to die, the idea of a place in the sky that could house all of us simply made me dizzy and confused. And mansions? Were they real mansions, or did that idea of a mansion represent something else? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know, which is why it’s called faith, as Papa always said.
But one thing I did know as I sat and absorbed those words that Jesus spoke: if there was a heaven, Papa would surely be there. But because I had not “put my trust in Jesus,” as Ma Pearl frequently pointed out, I would not. I was destined for hell.
A lump rose in my throat. And before I could retrieve my handkerchief from my dress pocket, tears flowed. As much as I tried to fight them, I couldn’t hold back the tears. According to the Bible, Jesus said he was preparing a place for his people so that where he is, there they would be also. People like Papa and Reverend Jenkins believed this. Who was I to deny it simply because I had something to prove to Ma Pearl? I was doing what Papa called cutting off my nose to spite my face, the same thing whites in Tallahatchie County, Mississippi, had done when they set two killers free.
Without my permission, my legs straightened to a standing position and began walking to the front of the church. They were so wobbly I thought I would crumble to the floor any minute. But I didn’t. I made it to the front. The look on Papa’s face as he stood before the altar podium told me I had made a huge mistake. It was against protocol for anyone to come before the church unless specifically called to the altar. But he didn’t chastise me.
When the church completed singing “Pass Me Not,” everyone sat except me. I stood there trembling, nervous sweat dripping from my armpits and down my sides. When Papa took his seat among the deacons on the side pews facing the altar, Reverend Jenkins came from the pulpit and stood beside me. He placed his arm around my shoulders and whispered, “What is it, Rose?”
“I want to be baptized,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I want to be saved.”
“Have you asked Jesus to be your Lord and Savior?”
“Yes, sir,” I choked out. “But I didn’t get a sign.”
My body couldn’t stop shaking. I knew Reverend Jenkins was progressive in his thinking, but I didn’t know whether he would accept my confession and allow me to be baptized with the others on the following Sunday, as I hadn’t crossed over during revival.
Gently, with his arm still around my shoulders, Reverend Jenkins turned my body to face the congregation. “Our sister Rose,” he announced to the congregation, “has confessed her hope in Christ and would like to become a candidate for baptism. Is there a motion?”
When no one spoke, I glanced up. My gaze met Ma Pearl’s. Hers was so fierce I thought I would faint. What if I had made a fool of myself? What if no one moved that I become a candidate for baptism, because I hadn’t gotten religion during revival like everyone else? I stared down at the floor, too ashamed to face the church. Then, as if in a dream, I heard Papa’s voice from the deacon’s bench. “I move that Rose Lee Carter become a candidate for baptism.”
A moment passed before another deacon said, “I second the motion.” My mind was so foggy that I didn’t recognize the voice, but a sense of relief washed over me.
“It has been moved that our sister Rose Lee Carter become a candidate for baptism on next Sunday, October second,” said Reverend Jenkins, his right hand raised high in the air. “All in favor, say aye.”
A hearty “aye” rose from the congregation.
“All opposed, say nay,” said Reverend Jenkins.
My heart beat faster with the silence, but no one opposed my baptism.