In our neighborhood, the only time you could have some peace and quiet was between the hours of four and six o’clock in the morning. Four was about the time that the last of the gang members on duty went to bed. Six was just before the crackheads started roaming the block like zombies, looking for somebody to sell them something. Our block always had voices on top of voices, talking or screaming or somebody calling a kid to come home or a friend to come to them, their names echoing around the playgrounds and parking lot.

Sometimes there were dogs barking or planes in the sky or a motorcycle zooming down State Street. In our apartment, Mama kept the radio or TV on. There was nowhere in my life I could just be quiet except in church. It didn’t take but a minute before I was hooked. Eventually, I learned that you could find quiet anywhere. I started doing it at home, early in the mornings, when both Mama and the block were still asleep. I wanted to hate church, but I failed. The things that I liked piled up so fast. It started with the dresses and shiny, clicking shoes. There was no place I could dress like that.

At church, people tried to be nice to you, wished you well, and gave you hugs. These men hung out at the door to say “Happy Sabbath” to people coming in. They dressed in suits, and their smiles didn’t drip with nasty thoughts. They were the grandpas that I never had. Even though I was young, they still called me Sister. “How you doing, Sister?” and “Happy Sabbath, Sister.”

Every time I went to church, it was like I paused what was going wrong in my life. No one talked about the Robert Taylor Homes. We talked about God: What God had done that past week. What God said God would do for us. We praised God just because. We looked for God in each other. At church, we looked up for so long, that when we came back down to our lives, we felt stronger to deal with the mess.

That’s why I knew I could save Meechie, because I’d have God to help me. For the longest time, I had such a simplistic idea of what it meant to save. You’d hear it all week: Jesus saves. You’d read it everywhere. I was praying and going to church, so you couldn’t tell me that Jesus wouldn’t give me what I asked for.

One of the best things about New Hope, I found, was that they fed you after the service. In the church basement, these ladies worked like elves, whipping up pasta dishes and bread that always seemed warm and ready for butter.