We chatted through our short flight and when we landed, Curtis asked me to accompany him to his church for Sunday morning service. Everything was going according to plan. At the passenger pickup, two oversized bodyguards and one overzealous personal assistant greeted us. The assistant wore coke-bottle glasses, standard missionary drag, and sported a perm badly in need of a touch-up.

“Praise the Lord, Pastor! We prayed that God would extend His traveling mercies while you were on your trip. That the anointing filled the room, breaking yokes, freeing captives, making the lame to walk, causing the dumb to—”

“Sister Shonda, Sister Shonda,” Curtis cut her off, as he was obviously used to her long, drawn-out greetings. “Zip it up? Amen. I preach. You assist. Me preacher, you assistant. Blessed is he who gets in where he fits in, amen?”

“Amen, Pastor.”

“Amenthen. I’m sorry, Montana, you have to forgive Sister Shonda. She was sent to us from the Sam I Am Christian Academy for the Academically Challenged. But God doesn’t discriminate and neither do we.” He turned his attention back to Shonda. “Sister Shonda, meet Sister Montana. She’s a dear friend, and by the Grace of God, we have been reunited. Reunited and it feels so good. Reunited and we understood. Sister Shonda, I want you to have a driver take Sister Montana to her hotel so she can freshen up and then immediately back to the House of Deliverance for Sunday morning service, amen?”

“Amen, Pastor.”

“Sister Montana, may the Lord watch over thee and me, until soon we meet again. And the church said…amen? Amen. And again, amen.”

One hour later the town car pulled up to my hotel and off we went. With a sign in the car that said “Clergy,” we raced down the expressway, exited on Peachtree Avenue, turned right on Peachtree Drive, and took a quick left on Peachtree Lane where almost a mile away you could hear the hand-clapping, foot-stomping, knee-slapping sounds of an old-fashioned Sunday morning throwdown.

Suddenly the driver’s lead foot hit the gas as the town car sped forward, kicking up dust. Apparently I wasn’t the only one feeling a tug from the spirit and eager for a Pentecostal praise party. Being in the air as much as I am, it was a long time since I’d been to a good service, especially a good Southern praise and worship service.

Upon reaching the church, the driver opened my door and I hopped out of the car, one hand on my oversized church hat that I had quickly grabbed from the hotel gift shop, the other hand on my flowing flowery sundress that barely reached my knees. I hadn’t packed anything longer, so I figured the least I could do was keep it from flaring up and revealing God’s good handiwork that lay beneath.