Diary of a Mad First Lady Read Free Page B

for the second. My husband, being the prolific and astounding preacher that he was, enticed the crowd from the first service to stay for the second. He and the board members had been in constant talk about possibly going to a third service, but Darvin wasn’t hearing it. He was determined not to let the preaching gift be the cause of his early death.
    I finished my food, put the dishes away, and then went into my oversized closet and contemplated what I was going to wear. Thankfully, my clothes were still behaving as they should, in spite of the pregnancy and slightly expanding waistline. I passed a row of St. John knits, a section of Donna Vinci, and stack of Manolo Blahniks to make my way to the “jean section” of my closet. I eyed the jean outfit that I was about to wear and laughed to myself. I was known for not being your traditional first lady, and I couldn’t care less that everybody expected me to be sharp every single Sunday. I also laughed because I knew that the deaconess was going to have a natural fit because I wasn’t wearing white today. It was first Sunday, communion Sunday, and this first lady was wearing a jean outfit. Like it. Love it. Leave it.
    I trucked to the bathroom, took a shower, got dressed in a jean skirt that had a spray of rhinestones cascading down the right side, a black camisole, a matching jean jacket, and applied my makeup. I took one final glance in the full-length mirror next to my vanity, admiring the way the jean skirt tugged at my thighs, just enough for my husband to notice that my shape was still intact, and not enough for the “Mothers in Zion” to start the I-can’t-believe-she-calls-herself-a-preacher’s- wife gossip. Once again, I laughed to myself, because it wasn’t like I cared anyway.
    Later on in my car, I opened the sunroof to my Navigator as I merged onto I-75. Spring was definitely in full force. The wind was blowing, the birds were singing, and I felt good.
    I turned up my radio to hear the sounds of Kirk Franklin blaring through my radio. “Imagine Me” had become one of my favorite songs, and I couldn’t help but reflect over my own life each time I heard it. That song was followed by a song written by the praise and worship maestro in his own right, Mr. Fred Hammond.
    I was jamming to the beat of Fred when I pulled into the parking lot of Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church. By the looks of the already full parking lot, you would have thought that I was a couple of hours late. Parishioners had already filled every empty space, and the parking attendants were directing traffic into the empty lot across the street that was being preserved for the next part of our building phase, the Mount Zion Youth Development Center. I drove to my own reserved parking space, remembering when the parking lot used to be only half full. Those were the beginning days, when we were struggling to keep members.
    Darvin’s innovative approach to ministry had ruffled more than a few feathers and had ultimately sent people scattering to find a more traditional church. Darvin and I persevered, and two years later, we had the fastest growing ministry in South Atlanta.
    The parking attendants greeted me with warmth as I maneuvered my way into the space, and before I could turn off my engine, my armor bearers (known to some as amateur security guards) were already rushing toward me. I smiled, because while most first ladies saw this as an opportunity to take advantage of someone’s servanthood, I actually respected my armor bearers as being critical components who ensured that my worship experience was uninterrupted from the time I stepped foot on the grounds.
    “Good morning, First Lady,” Chanice, my newest assistant, said.
    Twylah, my armor bearer for the last two years, came right behind Chanice’s greeting.
    “Good morning, ladies.” I put on my “first lady smile” and exited the truck. Thankfully, today was a good day, and my first lady smile was real.
    “First Lady,