So whenever I’ve found myself caught up in my inner turmoil, church had always been a way of releasing that pressure.
My drive back to Atlanta was surprisingly fast. There was no traffic on I-20. I tried calling LeShard once I reached the city limits, informing him that I had made in back; there was no answer.
Blaq’s timing was uncanny. “Are you going to church this morning?”
I answered, “I was thinking about maybe a surprise visit at J’aron’s church.”
“I see. I was thinking about catching an early service, you know what I mean? But I hadn’t yet decided where I’d go.”
“You’re welcomed to come with me.”
“Sounds like a plan. I really didn’t want to go anywhere alone.”
I noticed that I did not have any time to waste if I wanted to make it to Victory Love Outreach for the 8:45 a.m. service. My brother, who’s the pastor, is known as a stickler for punctuality and order. So, as I swooped into the section of parking closest to the church, I barely missed hitting a black BMW 745i that straddled two spaces with its nose out too far. I slowed down and allowed some of the parishioners to pass in front of me.
Then I signaled to turn into a spot next to J’aron’s merlot Infiniti FX-45 SUV when one of the self-proclaimed church dignitaries came out of nowhere motioning me to lower my window.
“Can’t you read the sign? You can’t park in this area. This is for the church’s ministers and invited guests.” He then pointed to another section in the parking lot. “You need to move your car elsewhere.”
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