Mint Memories of Pleasant View

First time visitors, please stand up. One of the ministers called. I rose beside Jane half-smiling, half-hoping it wouldn’t be too dramatic. But this was America, drama is part of their being.

A beautiful welcome song was sang to me by the choir. I stood there wrapped in awe.They reminded me of St.Agnes where we sang to guests overly recited songs whose meaning we barely understood. Even then, the gesture is very warm and welcoming.

Welcome to pleasant view.
The biggest little Church in town.
Our doors always swing on welcome hinges
We seek the unsought, bring the unbrought, catch the uncaught, teach the untaught.

Welcome, this is pleasant view church……
We are family,
We love Jesus, oh yes we do….the choir chorused in highly spirited notes.

Welcome, this is pleasant view church……
We are family,
We love Jesus, oh yes we do….the choir chorused in highly spirited notes.

A church named after aesthetics, a pleasant view not overpromising statements like Miracle-fire-healing- poverty and ancestral-diseases-International like many of my mother’s churches. Outside, white hydrangeas flirted with hot pink blooms along the brick brown wall. I had taken photos earlier, during a sun break between Bible class and the main service. The flowers, like the church, did not shout, they were simply pleasant!

Keeping up with Jane who is nearly twice my age seems harder than I imagined. Jane is the sister to George’s wife BJ. GA and BJ my loving hosts in Kentucky. Unlike BJ who speaks with a gentleness and softness of the early morning Kentucky breeze, Jane speaks faster than a second hand. Her speak sounds like DMX and Missy Elliot in a colabo. Even in black heels, she is still walking faster than me. BJ tells me that she is a retired police officer which explains the inquisition in her tone when she asks about Africa. Like many others, Africa is spoken of generally like a small village where people speak one language, have one king and eat cassava as their staple food. ” I want to come to Africa” and as you guessed, my next question “which part?”

I have attended this church since I was 5 years old, my mother used to bring us here. She speaks of her mother with longing fondness like BJ when she says
“My mother was so kind to us. If she would have a chicken, we would have half of that too.”

I served as a Treasurer for 23 years until I decided it was time to take a break. Jane continues the tale.
My first born is now 53 years old.
We have had three ministers and changed location three times.

The new location is a spectacle, pleasant in many ways but it sounds underwhelming for a church to be named after a view and not what it stands for.

Jane sounds like a historical, kasangwawo and it shows in the way she is greated by both young and old folks, with adoration and respect.

The bible class teaching about patience was interactive. We should not judge. Jane shouted the loudest Amen. She forgot quickly the unsolicited judgment she had passed the night before.

“What does the colour purple mean in African? A question that seemed heavier than the words it carried with accusatory undertones.

My neighbor painted his house purple.
He just returned from Africa.
I was wondering the meaning of the colour purple in African.

I had seen vomit green, egg yolk yellow, ocean blue houses in her neighborhood when we visited with BJ. Her own windows were painted red, the colour of fresh blood.

Why was she was loosing peace over someone else’s house painted purple?

I had dismissed the question the same way I have dismissed many times; do you have giraffes in your airport?

Be slow to anger slow to speak, the Deacon repeated in an American accent. Had he heard the conversation in my head?

This is Florence, she is visiting from Uganda.
Jane introduced me to the church family, her tone sounding more showy than informational.

The women are dressed in “Sunday best” silk dresses, sequined denim, blue shirts punctuated with blue lipstick, colourful shoes and matching jewels. Most men kept it simple in casual attire unlike the men at my church frowning in matching bitenges their wives forced them to wear.

Clothes like religion are experienced differently. Some like Daddy Flo (R.I.P) and me prefer to pray in silence sometimes writing letters to God when words and emotions overwhelm. Silent prayers to a silently listening God. Mummy Flo and Pleasant View brethren shout their souls out as if God was slightly hard of hearing.

When we sat down for the main service
Jane placed four white round mints in my palm.
I smiled at her, a smile of gratitude.

“I thought we were NOT allowed to eat,” I whispered to her, the sound of the piano and other instruments overpowering my whisper. There was a sign on the white talking walls “NO EATING inside church”.
“Suck on it then, don’t eat.” Jane whispered back.

I took her word literally and placed a mint sweet on my disobedient tongue in a way that suggested that sucking is sooo different from eating.
I like Jane even more, her youthfulness escapes. I see it in her long nails. They are painted colours that look like pepperoni pizza. Her white and black dress has stint of playful youthfulness. She wears her hair short.

We wait for the Pastor to make a gravitas man-of-God entrance. Maroon chairs labeled “Pastor” and “First Lady” await them. When they finally come in, the Pastor is tall, debonair dressed in man of God clout,a customized grey suit with contrasting shoes. The wife besides him, a true meaning of beauty seen and not heard. She is as light skinned as they come, her designer baby pink dress and silver stilettos speak. She doesn’t say a word but seats in the reserved chair with the poise of Zari (before she drinks). Boss Lady vibes!

The choir breaks into worship. The song bird Sharon, a woman in her glorious years takes centre stage. (It’s hard to guess age, American women wear their ages sparingly). Sharon’s hair was a silver crown on her head. Her black t-shirt ,like all other choir members, reads PVBC. She is a lady of short stature, the lectern covers her, we can only see the silver crown. In one hand she holds a three wheeled walking stick and in the other a black microphone. What God denied Sharon in height, he gave abundantly in voice. Her voice, a voice of worship mastery, filled every corner. Even the empty seats stood in attention. A rising voice that stirred the heart and invoked the spirit into tears of Joy.

“I c a n’ t t h a n k G o d e n o u g h
f o r e v e r y t h i n g h e h a s d o n e.” (sing in slow motion)

That hymn becomes my personal sermon, tears of gratitude trickling down my face covered in MAC powder. The thought of God’s gracious love in this land humbles me. My heart has been the colour of a happy purple hibiscus and lighter than it has felt in years. I have not been home sick for my own land, the land of my umbilical cord even though I have missed my people so.

Everyone speaks musically. It is a singing church. The moment Pastor Shaw steps onto the podium, voices rise. His preaching like TD Jakes is rigorous. The word as he calls it breaks his body into a victor’s sweat.

We don’t have to stay in no situation
I am the way in, the way out, the good shepherd” he roared.

Pastor Shaw’s tempo rising like tides of an angry ocean in Mombasa. The house is on burning bush fire. They stand up chanting, some pounding their chests speaking on top of each other’s voices.

Amen Pastor
I hear you
Preach it
Hallelujah (read this loudly)

Pastor’s song preaching grows even louder with the excitement of a racing car engine. The Holly ghost seems loudest in America.

“Let me not hear anybody complain about nothing”

He wipes his bald head, a sign that he is either about to finish or start a new teaching.

Either way, my cup was overflowing.

Full of song, full of spirit, full of mints and memories.

Until next time, Pleasant View!

I look forward to swinging on those doors with welcoming hinges again.

Words are my precious gift to you.

Thank you for being part of my story.