Dell Jones
Just Show Me a Sign
This Sunday, Dell arrived at church before anyone else, standing tall at the church doors as the congregation filled the pews. He was a quiet, kind man, who greeted each member with a head nod, and a respectful, “God-speed to you brother/sister.” well-groomed, incredibly handsome, he was the picture of dignity.
When Ms. Odetta Thomas arrived, she stopped in front of Dell and glared at how handsome and majestic he stood at the Lord’s doors.
“Brother Jones, baby, you got a calling on your life, I just know it. A man like you, a true servant of the Lord. We’re blessed to have you in this church,” she marveled.
“Thank you, Sister Thomas,” he replied as she and Lydia walked into the church. She patted his arm.
“And don’t you ever forget, —God don’t make mistakes.”
Dell couldn’t help but notice Lydia looked exceptionally beautiful this Sunday. He found pleasure in the fact that she was unlike anyone he’d ever met. She was indeed beautiful, but it wasn’t her looks that drew him to her. It was the way she moved through the world, as though she were always just slightly apart from it, observing it through a fog. Maybe questioning God’s existence like he did. There was an air of melancholy around her—and an elusive sadness in her eyes that he’d recognize in his own. Something about her felt familiar, like reflections of his struggles.
“How are you Ms. Lydia?” he said as he removed his hat and stepped aside to allow her extra room to pass into the church doors.
“I’m fine Brother Jones,” she responded, noticing how well he was dressed.
Dell always wore his Sunday’s Best, an impeccably pressed shirt, hat and shining shoes, —so that no one could see the hurt he had buried deep inside. He became a master at hiding the truth. He had built his life on the facade of perfection, a life in which he was admired by the town, respected by his peers, and loved by those who saw him from the outside.
The truth, however, was far different. Dell was a man at war with himself, unable to reconcile the God his wayward mother taught him to believe in and the man who wrestled with whether or not there was a God at all. He constantly hoped going to church would help. But it seemed church was a mere medicine. Just allowing one to soothe the pain, never actually healing it.
Sunday service began promptly at 9:15am. Dell sat in the second pew, listening to Pastor Washington’s booming voice echo through the sanctuary. The words should have felt like home, like truth. But instead, they sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and unmoving. And that terrified him. Because wasn’t faith supposed to be natural? Especially a Black man from the South? God and church were supposed to be in his blood, stitched into his very being. He had been raised in the church. But all he felt was doubt.
“If there was a God, why did the world feel so broken? Why did good people suffer while the wicked thrived? he asked. Yet, he never brought himself to ask the question that really caused him to lose faith.
”Why had his mother allowed the abuse to continue. Why didn't she save him?”
He had prayed for answers, for a sign, but none ever came. He felt it reaffirmed that God was not real, just a shallow belief weaponized by slave-owners. Force-feeding black folk to believe in something that would never save them.
If God didn’t make mistakes, like Ms. Odetta said, then why did he feel like one? A man pretending to believe, afraid of what it would mean if people knew the truth about him, what his mother did, and how mad he was that God would let it happen.
“God,” he prayed silently, bowing his head, tears starting to fall down his cheeks. “If you’re there…, if you’re real, give me something. Anything.” Just then, Lydia and Curtis joined him on the second pew. Lydia took his hand in hers, while Curtis sat quietly next to him.
Dell sat silent. Shocked. Surprised.
Maybe that was the answer