I Ain't Me No More Read Free Page A

the right to take a needle, fill it with all our hurt, pain, and misery, and then inject it into other people’s lives. And on that note, I’m still with Tamarra. I say we put her out on that tail of hers, which she’s always trying to show everybody with them little bitty ole skirts.”
    â€œAnd then be having the nerve to fall out at the altar in ’em,” added Unique, a younger member of the Singles Ministry.
    In agreement, Paige high-fived Unique.
    â€œI just can’t see ever putting folk out of the church.” Mother Doreen closed her eyes and shook her head. She then opened her eyes. “Let’s say the child is already hurting, which I’m willing to bet my last bingo chip in a close game that she is. Church hurt is the worst hurt, so imagine what that could do to her. We could be her only hope. The child ain’t but what? Twenty-five, twenty-six? She ain’t even lived half her life yet. Imagine her having to go through all those years with church hurt.” Mother Doreen shook her head again and adamantly stood by her beliefs. “The church ain’t where you throw sick people out. It’s where a sick person should always be able to come to get healed.”
    â€œAmen,” Deborah agreed. “Jesus saves.”
    â€œYeah, but that Sister Helen is beyond being saved,” Paige chimed in.
    â€œAnd we can’t save nobody who doesn’t want to be saved,” Tamarra added.
    â€œAnd just who are you to determine that Sister Helen doesn’t want to be saved?” Deborah asked Tamarra with her hands on hips. “You’re a caterer, not some psychoanalyst. We have no idea what is in her mind or what she’s been through.” Deborah couldn’t believe this was her talking, seeing that Helen had been her nemesis, a thorn in her side, ever since Helen had joined New Day. But Deborah knew something about past hurt and pain herself. Her life hadn’t been a bed of roses, but a cot of dandelions instead.
    â€œAnd that’s why we should let the doorknob hit her where the good Lord split her,” Paige said. “We know absolutely nothing about her.” Paige looked around the room and pointed at all the women. “Each of us, we pretty much know some of each other’s stories—enough to help and enough to know what to pray about. But Sister Helen, we don’t even know the first sentence of her story.”
    â€œSo you want to know my story?”
    A hush fell over the room when all the ladies looked at the doorway and saw Sister Helen Lannden herself standing there, posing her question.
    â€œIs that it? Is that why the women of New Day always walk around here like divas with their noses in the air, looking down on me like I’m trash?” Helen asked. “Because you don’t know my story? Y’all think y’all are so perfect, huh? Well, isn’t there a saying that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones?” Her eyes x-rayed the room. “Which is why I keep all mine in my pocket.”
    All the women became a little nervous and somewhat discomfited that Helen had been served an unintended and undetermined portion of their conversation.
    â€œSister Helen, we were j-just t-talking about you,” Deborah stammered, standing up.
    â€œYou don’t say,” Helen replied, shaking her head. “So y’all want to know my story, huh?” Helen looked around the room, but no one replied. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. I really want to know if you ladies want to know my story.”
    â€œNot me,” Deborah was quick to say. She knew from experience that once one person got to testifying, a whole clan of others would be in line next. She was not about to entertain it. “I have to go.” She gathered her things and walked toward the doorway where Helen stood. She momentarily looked into Helen’s eyes, then cast her own eyes down