The Icing on the Cake

  By the time seven o’clock rolled around, I’d somehow been able to meet with the participants, change into my MC dress, and touch up my lipstick. I stood before the people and greeted them, though the vast number crammed into our small sanctuary almost took my breath away. And it didn’t help that a reporter from the Galveston Daily sat in the front row with a notepad in hand.

  Oh. Yikes.

  Still, the show must go on and all that. We opened with one of the teen boys playing a rousing number on his guitar, which got everyone hyped up. From there, the teens did their human video about addiction. I couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.

  When it came time for our trio to perform, my legs felt like lead. I somehow stood in front of the crowd, but I felt completely nauseous. Honestly, if Bonnie Sue and Jolene hadn’t been there on either side of me, I probably would’ve fainted. Or thrown up. Something.

  But as the music kicked in, a strange calm settled over me. And as the first notes were sung, as my mouth opened and the harmony I’d just learned poured out, I found myself relaxing. By the time we hit the second song, I was having fun. And by the time the audience begged for an encore, I felt like diving into a solo rendition of “I Believe I Can Fly.” Not that “I Believe I Can Fly” was on the agenda, but I would’ve sung it if asked.

  Which is why, five minutes later, when I sat down on the front pew and Twila opened her mouth to thank me—when I realized she was in full voice—I almost lost it.

  “You could have sung?” I whispered, trying not to make a scene while little Gracie Williams sang “Happy Birthday, Jesus” from the stage.

  “Yeah.” Twila hung her head. “Sorry about that. Guess I told a little white lie, but I’ve already asked the Lord to forgive me.” She patted me on the back. “If it makes you feel any better, I do have a sore throat, and my voice was really scratchy this morning. But the other ladies don’t have a clue. They really think I’m voiceless.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Honey, you needed the boost,” she whispered. “You needed to see for yourself that you still had it in you to do it.”

  “I suppose.”

  I thought about her words as the show continued. Really, the whole “stand up in front of the church and sing” thing had felt good. Really, really good. Once the nerves passed, anyway. And the harmonies had come, no problem.

  Guess you were wrong, Auntie.

  Either that, or my voice had grown and developed since third grade.

  I stole a glance her way when I stood to introduce Donny. She had that “I’m so proud of my man” look on her face. Totally threw me. But I had to remain focused on the show.

  Donny made his way to the front, the usual aroma of gasoline a little fainter than usual. He looked pretty spiffy in his button-down shirt and khaki pants. Auntie must’ve dressed him. Well, not literally, but she must’ve given him some advice. And the scent of an expensive cologne wafted by as he gave me a little hug before starting his number. Alrighty then.

  I took my seat, completely mesmerized.

  My awe continued as the man pulled out his saw, which he introduced to the audience as Prince William. He even included a funny little story about how the saw had acquired its name.

  Then the song began. I listened, completely spellbound, as Uncle Donny played “Amazing Grace” on his saw. If you had told me that a saw could sound like this, or that a man could usher in the presence of God using a common tool from his shed, I would’ve said you were crazy. But the moment was undeniably holy.

  I thanked God that Uncle Donny hadn’t been able to play for us last week at the rehearsal. Had I known this was coming, it would have been less powerful, no doubt.

  I glanced across the room and took in my aunt’s face. I’d known the woman for over twenty years, of course, but had never seen any emotion on her face—other than frustration or angst. What I saw now took my breath away.

  Tears.

  Lots and lots of tears.

  As I listened to “Amazing Grace” peal forth, a few tears of my own started. I wasn’t the only one. I could see Armando’s eyes welling over. And my mother’s. And . . .

  I could hardly believe it, but as I looked across the aisle, I noticed Devon’s mother had come. My heart quickened at once as I noticed the tears in her eyes. They started as a little trickle down one cheek, but before long full-fledged tears streamed like a river rushing past its banks.

  Devon slipped into the space beside his mother and put his arm around her shoulders. By now she was visibly sobbing. This stirred my mother to action. Mama hurried toward the woman’s pew and slipped into the spot on the other side of her. Soon the sobs were under control. Still Uncle Donny continued on, now playing “In the Garden,” one of my favorite hymns. From there he shifted into “Softly and Tenderly.”

  Uncle Donny continued to play, his eyes closed. I was pretty sure at one point that I heard a heavenly angel choir chime in. Lord, are those angel voices, or are the people singing? The people were singing. Most, anyway.

  I glanced back at Armando, who seemed completely mesmerized by all of this. No doubt. We had been ushered into the presence of God, and it caught us all completely by surprise.

  So this is what heaven will be like. I smiled as I thought about how comfortable I felt in the Lord’s presence, like a daughter curled up at her daddy’s knee. I wasn’t distracted by weight issues and men on golf carts. This holy moment had nothing to do with people being successful in business or feeling like they had no value. In this place, all of those things were irrelevant. Here, I focused on praising God. Worshiping him.

  When Uncle Donny finished his song, the crowd rose in spontaneous applause. Now, I’d seen a lot of things in my day. Mostly in other churches. In our little church, folks rarely rose and cheered. But with the Splendora sisters shouting “Hallelujah!” and “Amen!” my heart wanted to sing.

  This is what heaven is going to be like, Lord. All of us, from all denominations, worshiping together and enjoying your presence.

  Sister Twila took to dancing a little jig in the aisle, which, under ordinary circumstances, probably would’ve thrown my conservative pastor father into a panic. Not now, however. He was too busy with his arms up in the air, praising the Lord. And Mama? Well, Mama was pretty busy too as she prayed with Devon’s mother, who continued to weep.

  I somehow managed to make the transition from Donny’s songs to the final act—a beautiful aria by Bubba, another anointed moment. I had to admit, the whole evening had been orchestrated by God—every single bit of it. I wouldn’t change a thing, not even my role in the trio.

  When the event came to its rightful end, the offering plate was passed, and I could see folks reaching deep into their wallets. I didn’t stress over how much money came in. God had this one covered. I could sense it.

  After I dismissed the audience, people lingered, many of them congratulating Uncle Donny and the others who had performed. I made my way back to Armando, who remained at the soundboard, now talking to Devon’s mom. I waited until they were finished, then slipped my arm around his waist and whispered, “Thank you” in his ear.

  “What are you thanking me for?” he asked. “You’re the one who pulled all of this together.”

  “Maybe, but the lights and sound were the icing on the cake.”

  “Icing on the cake.” He grinned. “Hey, that reminds me, don’t you guys have refreshments in the fellowship hall? I’m starving.”

  “Sure do. That’s where everyone’s headed now. I brought all the sweet stuff I could manage.”

  “You brought the sweet stuff, all right.” He pulled me close and pressed a kiss into my hair. “You’re here, after all.”

  I giggled.

  “By the way, I told you that you could sing,” he said.

  “You did.” I offered him a smile.

  “That first time in my car. When you were singing along with the radio. I realized it then.”

  “I didn’t know you
were paying attention.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in to whisper his response in my ear. “Oh, trust me, I’ve been paying attention to every little detail from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

  I gave a nervous giggle and glanced around, happy to see we were the only ones still left in the sanctuary. Well, almost.

  More nerves kicked in when I turned to see my aunt and Uncle Donny standing behind me in the aisle. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her in a church, but knowing she might offer a critique of my singing made me nervous.

  She reached to pat my arm. “Scarlet, that was lovely.”

  You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Still, I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the whole evening or to my singing in particular.

  “Maybe when I die, you ladies can sing at my funeral.”

  I did my best not to groan at that proclamation. Apparently her words didn’t sit well with Uncle Donny either. He crossed his arms at his chest and gave her a scolding look.

  “What, old man?” She glared at him.

  “You know.”

  “I don’t. I’m not a mind reader.” She rolled her eyes.

  “All this foolishness about dying.” He reached to grip her hand. “I’ve had enough of it.”

  “It’s not foolishness,” she said. “We’re all gonna die. Surely you know that.”

  “Yes, but maybe you’re only focused on it because you’re not sure where you’re gonna go after you die. Is that it?”

  Whoa. Go, Uncle Donny!

  Auntie squirmed and pulled her hand from his. “I really don’t think we need to have this conversation. Not standing here in the aisle of a church, anyway.”

  “Sure we do.” He grinned, a beautiful, godly grin. “And no better place than the aisle of a church, sweet girl. You’re in the safest place in the world to start living life to the fullest.”

  She glanced around, and I could read the embarrassment on her face.

  Donny slipped his arm over her shoulder and gazed straight into her eyes. “I say you get past your fear of dying and focus on living. How about that? Focus on the time you have left . . .” He gave her a wink. “And who you get to spend that time with. Start thinking about it as a gift, not a curse.”

  “Curse?” She sputtered like a car running low on gas. “The things you say.”

  “No, the things you say.” He brushed one of her curls out of her face. “You say a lot of things you really don’t mean, and it’s time to admit it.”

  “Well, I—”

  “What you’re really saying—whether you admit it or not—is that you’re scared. You’re scared of being alone, and you’re scared of what’s on the other side of the great beyond. But you don’t have to be afraid of either of those things. We can take care of that right here, right now.”

  She seemed to wilt at this proclamation. I’d never seen Aunt Willy gaze at a fella with such admiration, but she did now. And as he drew her into his arms, as he planted kisses in her wispy curls, she melted like butter left out in the sun.

  The duo faded into a quiet conversation about the Lord, and before long I saw Auntie bow her head. Now, I’d always believed in miracles. Mostly for other people in faraway countries. But I’d never witnessed one firsthand until that very moment.

  Overcome with emotion, I turned to Armando. He pulled me close and held me. “It’s been a good night,” he said.

  “A very good night.” I glanced up at him and smiled. “I’m so proud of you, Armando. Proud for the role you’ve played in Devon’s life, and his mom’s too.”

  “She’s going to do the program.” He gave me a little wink.

  “I knew you would convince her.”

  “Don’t think I had anything to do with it.” He pointed up. “He did.”

  “Well, God used you along the way. Don’t discount yourself.” I paused, deep in thought. “You’ve been such a great influence on Devon. I can’t wait to see what the Lord has in store there. It’s gonna be great.”

  “We’ll take that fishing trip. That’s one thing I’m determined to see happen.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Regardless, I just love the idea that Devon’s got you to confide in now. He’s never had that before. When I think about the impact you could have in his life, I get so excited. You’ve already given him hope that he can make something of his life.”

  “Well, he can. He’s got skill.”

  “See what I mean? You recognized that in him, and now he believes it too.” I hesitated, my heart heavy. “I only wish you could see it in yourself as well. You’ve got skill, Armando. Lots of it. And I for one am very proud of you. You’ve made a huge difference in the life of this church, in the lives of the kids going to Nicaragua, and specifically in my life.”

  Armando messed with a couple of levers on the lightboard, then flipped a switch to shut it down. He looked up at me, his nose wrinkled. “Do you mean that?”

  “I do. Nothing would be the same if you hadn’t gotten involved.”

  He stepped away from the board. “Can I ask you a question then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is it too late to sign up?”

  “Sign up?”

  “To go to Nicaragua. Is it too late to sign up? I’d really like to go.”

  “You . . . you would?”

  “Yeah. You’re going to need someone to help with the boys, right?”

  “Right.” I swallowed hard. I could hardly believe Armando actually wanted to go to a third world country to minister to kids. Was I hearing things?

  He paced the aisle, finally coming to a stop in front of me. “Say it again.”

  “What?”

  “That I have value.”

  “You—you have value, Armando.” Frankly, it broke my heart that he had to ask. “And God wants to use you. So I’m thrilled that you want to go to Nicaragua. We’re going to have the best trip ever.”

  “We are.”

  He reached to flip off the overhead lights, and the sanctuary faded to dark. I could hear the joyous voices of people coming from the fellowship hall. Seconds later the trio of Splendora ladies erupted in song—Twila leading the way. Go figure. Then the strains of Uncle Donny’s saw added the perfect background.

  I knew we should join them. Of course we should. But right now, nestled into the arms of a good old boy from Galveston Island, I couldn’t seem to convince myself to leave the sanctuary, no matter how hard I tried.

  24

  Baked to Perfection

  A pinch of patience, a dash of kindness, a spoonful of laughter, and a heap of love.

  Anonymous

  The week after the church fund-raiser, we held a sugar-filled fund-raiser extravaganza at the bakery. I did my best not to think about my backside as the day progressed, but I found it difficult, what with so many people talking about sticky buns and all. Strangely, Aunt Willy didn’t show up for the big event. I’d expected her to be there with bells on. Nope. She didn’t show. Of course, nothing she did—or didn’t do—these days surprised me anymore. No, since that night at the church, the whole Wilhelmina world seemed to be tilting off its axis. The rest of us simply watched it transpire and wondered what would happen next.

  Not that I had time to be thinking about Auntie today. Our bakery had done great business in the past, but nothing like this. By the day’s end, we’d brought in over 2,100 dollars for sticky buns alone. Once folks heard about the fund-raiser, they offered crazy-high money for the sweets. This all proved to be great news for the missions trip. We now had all of the money we needed to take the group to Nicaragua. I could hardly wait.

  At the end of the day, my family, along with several of the Rossis and the Splendora trio, gathered around the little tables to finish off the sweets. I even had a sticky bun myself. To celebrate, of course. I lifted it high in the air and made a proclamation, a motto I’d recently adopted: “Reach it, raise it!”

  “What’s that?” Bella asked, taking a nibble of a brownie.


  “Never heard that expression,” Jolene said, clutching a cookie in each hand. “Something new?”

  “It’s a sermon my dad preached a few weeks back.” I glanced at my father and smiled. “He said we should think like high jumpers when we set goals. Then when we reach them—”

  “And we will,” my father chimed in.

  “We can raise the rung, as it were. Set the next goal a bit higher. Raise the bar. So that’s my plan with next year’s missions trip. Reach it, raise it. We’ll take more people on the trip, and we’ll plan for an even larger fund-raiser. Who knows, we might have to rent a hall to accommodate more people.”

  “Ooo, sounds great,” Mama said.

  “Reach it, raise it.” Bonnie Sue grinned. “I love it!”

  “Me too,” Twila added. “Count on us to sing next year. I, um, well, I promise not to have laryngitis.”

  Jolene punched her in the arm. “Like you ever did.”

  Bella grinned. “I like this ‘reach it, raise it’ slogan, Scarlet. Sounds like a good business plan too. I think I could use a dose of that enthusiasm with Club Wed. We’ve been thinking about expanding. Maybe starting a facility in Splendora.”

  “No way!” This really got Bonnie Sue in a tizzy. “Maybe I’ll be your first customer!” She dove off into a conversation about her upcoming wedding, at which point Twila reminded her that one needed a husband in order to make a wedding happen.

  “I’ve got someone in mind,” Bonnie Sue said, then crossed her arms. “Sorta.”

  “I love the idea of expanding Club Wed,” I told Bella. “And I think the motto fits. Setting goals is critical, no matter what you do. I just know one thing—if you don’t set any goals, you surely won’t reach them. And if you never challenge yourself to go farther, you won’t. So . . .” I looked at my audience and raised my hands as if leading a choir.

  “Reach it, raise it,” we said in tandem.

  “Yep.” I nodded. “And you get that sermon absolutely free. I won’t charge you a penny for it.”