Julia-Beth is 'native English' schrijver voor StoryTerrace, interviewt onze klanten en brengt hun verhalen tot leven in een boek. Hieronder lees je een autobiografische anecdote om haar beter te leren kennen.
I remember those childhood Sundays in church as family time. With two pastors
for parents the Holy Spirit sat up front with us. After the service I would stand by
my mother’s side as she shook hands with each congregant on their way out.
Sister Carol drifted over to us on a cloud of perfume mixed with sweat. She
gripped my mother’s hand, saying,
“Sister, behind every powerful pastor is a God fearing woman,”
Out of the many confidences, whispered in my mother’s ear, this one was her
favourite. Something about the syntax of God, Fear and Woman, in exactly that
order had a special kind of music to her. Despite Sister Carol’s best intentions the
correction from mother came swiftly,
“Indeed, Sister, that’s why we are both pastors. My husband is Pastor
Charles, and you may call me Pastor Charmaine.”
This she would say earnestly - her glossy pink lips and fake pearls gleaming.
At home, to my two older sisters and I, they were just Mummy and Daddy. Dad
would spend most of his time in the study, writing sermons – while Mummy
would be on the front lines with us – laying down the law. She would line us up
in the kitchen, a battalion of three. The mission – ‘Operation Sunday Lunch’ –
prepped on a Saturday evening, much to the stifled despair of my teenage sisters.
As the eldest, Janice was on potato duty, seasoning them with salt and
rosemary to cure overnight. Edwina did the vegetables – sliced carrots and
smothered sprouts anointed with oil and spices. This was the secret to ‘Pastor
Charmaine’s famous Sunday Roast’. The delicious rumors of which wafted
down the pews of the upper echelon elders. Us kids called it the ‘Green Aisle’,
because God kept calling them home from that row. After each send off
Mummy would announce, from the pulpit, the availability of a seat at our
Sunday afternoon lunch table. Pearly gates anxiety approaching, the elders
would start tithing liberally, initialing their envelopes so we’d know exactly who
is most faithful. The highest bidder won Mummy’s deepest sympathy and an
invitation to our home after the service. With a direct line to the most high, the
elders banked on the joint prayers of the pastors to ensure a place in the
hereafter. Frill-trimmed apron tightly bound, Mummy made sure the Sunday
birds were royally stuffed and the elders well buttered.