Life Is Not a Fairy Tale by Fantasia (books for students to read .TXT) 📗

The feeling took me to my knees. I don’t know what I looked like kneeling up there with that feeling rushing through me like warm water. I will never forget it. I asked my mother what had happened, and I remembered her saying, “You have the Holy Ghost. You now have a relationship with God.” She was right. That was my very first love affair. I was anointed. That anointing made me see that music was my gift. Back then, church and music and God were all connected as one. By recognizing that God was within me when he gave me my voice, I finally knew that I was special.

Praisin’ God with song is the main reason for bein’ in the Holiness Church in the first place. Holiness is the only way I know how to be. When someone feels the presence of the Holy Spirit, they need to let it out! Sometimes, the spirit makes us run up the aisles of the church; sometimes it makes us sit still and cry; sometimes it makes us faint. I have fainted. But most of the time it just makes me do my dance, the BoBo.

People who have never experienced Holiness often ask me, “What is it like?” I get that question a lot. Holiness is not somethin’ that I can easily describe, but because I’m tellin’ it all, I’ll try my best.

When I walk into the church, I’m always moved by the sense of order in the room. Church is the only place that people seem to act like they have some respect. Everyone is always dressed neatly and modestly. The walls of the sanctuary are starch white, like new Easter clothes. The mahogany pews are always polished in anticipation of the high emotions that will fly around them, wetting them with sweat and tears. The same wooden cross that was part of that first basement church is hangin’ right there at the pulpit. It’s draped with the same purple velvet that Grandma saw in her vision. The pulpit is small, with six white upholstered chairs arranged in a semicircle where the ministers sit. The choir sings below the pulpit when they are called. The church has an impressive sound system and features a bandstand, which shows that music is a part of my family’s ministry and is a part of every aspect of our family’s life.

Once I sit down, I carry on—shoutin’, praisin’, and doing my BoBo. I always carry on that way when I’m in church. It’s the only place that I feel free enough to let myself loose. The wood pews are a comfort to me when I fall in exhaustion at the power of the spirit in the church.

During the praise and worship service, people who are feeling somethin’ come up and speak about what had happened to them during the last week. They discuss a health problem that has been resolved or a new diagnosis that has scared them and talk about how they are afraid that they’re goin’ to die. They mention family members who are in trouble, sick, or who have died. Most importantly, they speak about what God had done for their life in the last seven days. They talk about the ways that God has healed and solved a problem and had strengthened them to handle whatever it was.

At that point, I always cry. Everyone in the congregation, including me, listens and agrees with the power of God. Hearing these stories relieves my stress and everyone else’s. It makes me feel that I’m not alone in my struggles. It makes me feel the need to say something out loud. Some say, exuberantly, “Yes, God!” or “Praise the Lord!” I say in agreement, “Yes, He did!”

Within several minutes, after the opening songs have been sung and the visitors have been welcomed, the feeling in the air escalates and everyone is thinkin’ about how God has helped them or healed them. Everyone in the room is thinkin’ of their own miracles that God has performed. My mother used to tell me that she would always think about me and how God had shown me and our whole family favor, despite the mistakes that we have made.

Looking around the sanctuary and seeing women and children cryin’ and grown men runnin’ up and down the aisles of the church as if they were runnin’ for their life—or runnin’ from their demons—always moves me. It shows me how fragile we all are. Graying women put down their crutches and jump up and down as though they were exercising. Women sitting next to me begin to shake and quake. I would see them tumbling to the ground. Beads of sweat drench everybody’s foreheads. A woman in a white nursing uniform once pushed me aside to comfort a fallen woman, while I yearned for the breeze of the white blanket to be fanned over my wet head, too.

People scream and shout around me. There are clusters of people behind me repeating: “Yes, Lord, yes, Lord, yes, Lord…” as though they are under a spell. Another chorus from the front is chanting, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord.” A younger woman two rows ahead of me is repeating “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” The musicians in the front of the pulpit are playing a tune that is hyper and jubilant, yet everyone is cryin’ and fallin’ down. I hear unintelligible phrases coming out of my own mouth—that is me speaking directly to God, but others call it “speaking in tongues.”

People are losing their balance all around me. Some are humbled and on their knees. Others are sitting in their seats upright and calm. A young girl is waving her arms like she will fly away. I feel myself going in and out of consciousness. I stand up with new energy and find myself running in place, with my shoulders hunched and my arms in the running position. My fists are balled up as if I’m beginning to box.