Falling Into Grace - Michelle Stimpson

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to study the Bible, how to honor God with talents, gifts, and treasure. Someone would also come to visit her home and conduct a one-on-one “guidance session,” which would give her an opportunity to ask questions about her personal salvation, the church, or any other concerns she might not want to address in front of her group. Then and only then could she join the church on the first Sunday of the month after successful completion.

      This is for the birds.

      Camille shuffled all her papers back into the folder and stomped out of the meeting as soon as the ambassadors dismissed the group. She threw the folder in the trash on her way out the church’s main doors and caught the first trolley back to parking lot D, row fifteen.

      Who knew joining a mega church would be so complicated?

      CHAPTER 8

      Medgar Evers to the rescue again. Camille spent Monday afternoon researching churches’ membership processes. While none of the churches listed their procedures online, she found plenty of people voicing the good, bad, and ugly about joining area churches in online forums and discussion boards.

      Unfortunately, her findings pointed toward Grace Chapel. One could pledge membership immediately there and begin serving in a ministry right away, but they were “encouraged” to attend “Christian Growth” classes. That was the good news.

      The bad news, aside from the whole minimum-wage thing, was the church store, which appeared to stock almost exclusively the pastor’s books and tapes. Something would have to be done about this nepotism, perhaps by way of response to the church’s annual survey, which, according to the head deacon’s Web page, weighed heavily in how this “community” church operated. She had already missed her chance for input this year, but it wouldn’t happen again.

      Ten o’clock service was more Camille’s speed. She put on the same dress she’d worn to The King’s Table. This time she was smarter about her choice in footwear, however. A wedge sandal did the trick. She arrived in the sanctuary in one comfortable piece, sporting a brand-spankin’-new Bible and a gray knit sweater to take an edge off the cooler temperature inside. She could get the hang of the big-church club.

      Grace Chapel had a praise team, too, which opened the morning affair. Seven members. Two sopranos. Just like The King’s Table, each one managed a song with the congregation while the words flashed on screens. Both sopranos were, in Camille’s estimation, a’ight. They could probably go beast on a song written specifically for them, but they didn’t have voices or styles that could adapt to anything set before them. The poor worship team leader probably had to sing their parts for them a few times before they caught on.

      And, speaking of the worship leader, he was well within a few years of Camille’s age and actually had a cute thing going on. Even from hundreds of feet away, his coffee skin, strong jaw line, and broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist put him around a five plus on a scale of one to ten. The camera close-up gave him another two points for a full hairline, white teeth, and an ensemble of favorable features. The absence of a wedding band brought him all the way up to an eight. Not to mention his vocals, which bolstered him over the top.

      Camille could definitely work with this man, assuming he was straight. Well, even if he wasn’t, she could work with him, but it wouldn’t be as much flirty fun.

      After church, Camille finally got her chance to approach the wide-open platform along with twenty others who wanted to join the church, just like she’d imagined. Pastor Collins led them in the prayer of faith, something Camille had done at least a dozen times while growing up, mostly at her mother’s direction.

      The congregation clapped for the new additions to the flock. One of the ushers handed Camille a folder. Following the benediction, the elders lined up, walked down the aisle of fresh congregants, and shook their hands. Then, hundreds of Grace Chapel members took the time to greet Camille, and the rest of the audience dissipated.

      Pastor Collins and his wife made up the last of the official welcoming committee. Camille took note of the sincerity in his eyes when he articulated, “We’re so glad to have you. Is there anything I can pray with you about?”

      “Oh, no, thank you . . . Pastor. I’m just glad to be here.” She didn’t want to get on their radar as one of those needy people who had come to the church only looking for a father figure. She was there to roll up her sleeves and help herself. And maybe help them, if they wanted a rockin’ praise team.

      With Pastor Collins out of view, Camille and the others stepped out of the greeting line. She glanced back at the band pit and gave an innocent smile to the drummer, who happened to be looking her way. Sooner than later, he’d know her name.

      “That’s it! I’m in!” Camille screamed after locking her car doors. She’d taken the first step to reclaiming her life, her entire reason for being born: to sing.

      First thing Monday morning, Camille hopped out of bed humming an old Faith Evans song. Hearing her own voice scroll up and down the notes precisely warmed her like a cup of hot cocoa in December. This was her element. She needed her voice, needed to know she could do something better than anyone else.

      Some kids kept their noses in books growing up. Camille had been tethered to a headset, listening and singing along to whatever blared through the earpieces. Ballads, solos, jazz, pop, neo soul. Across genres, she imitated her favorite artists, rewinding and replaying the toughest notes until she could hit them exactly the way Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, or even Dolly Parton did. She ran through player batteries like water, costing Bobby Junior a small fortune. He didn’t mind, though. He always said his baby girl had simply caught the creative bug from himself and dear, rich singing cousin Lenny Williams.

      Camille sang morning, noon, and night. When she wasn’t singing, she was learning about music. She spent her weekly English class library time researching lyrics on the Internet, following her favorite groups. Momma trained her in the children’s and young-adult choirs. Jerdine didn’t let her daughter lead every song. Wouldn’t be fair. But at almost every Pastor and Wife’s anniversary event or women’s fifth Sunday program, someone would request that Camille sing their favorite number, usually “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” or “The Safest Place.” Like so many other vocalists, she had been tried and tested in church first. She had learned to sing whether she felt like it or not, whether she knew all the words or not. The best singers could skip a whole line and the audience would never know.

      Over the thousands of hours she’d spent practicing, Camille became one with her voice. She could make it do exactly what she wanted it to do. Hop, dip, twist, stretch, climb, whatever.

      People at school knew she had pipes. She performed many a recess concert for her friends. Every now and then, some new student would fall under the mistaken impression they could sing better. This, of course, forced Camille to go slamp off on the poor child. She’d pull out an old song most of her classmates hadn’t heard, maybe Shirley Murdock’s “As We Lay,” and demonstrate how a real diva blew.

      She watched videos and learned the choreography and words of every week’s top-ten tracks. In short, she was obsessed with music and singing. After studying Star Search and Showtime at the Apollo, Camille convinced herself that she had what it took to make it big.

      Jerdine insisted that Camille finish high school before she started chasing her dreams. “No matter what happens, no one can take your diploma away from you.”

      Nowadays, Camille wished her mother had added a college degree to the request, because the value of her high school diploma was shrinking right along with the American dollar.

      Nonetheless, Camille had honored her deceased mother’s wishes. She completed twelfth grade before she allowed her brother to circulate the cheap demo she’d recorded of a Deborah Cox instrumental. He caught a few tugs on the line and traipsed Camille all over Dallas and Houston until she finally got a meeting with an up-and-coming producer, T-Money, who was trying to start a new record label. He needed a female group to get the

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