The Higher

This afternoon was a cold and rain soaked day in Central Florida. Matthew realized mid morning that he had an afternoon preparatory course scheduled for his MCAT exam and informed me that he would be needed on campus between the hours of one and four. After a brief period spent considering my options I agreed to join him on campus, where he told me I'd be able to either sit in one of the student centers using the internet or browse the University library. Once parked in the cold, soulless garage and past the still lush outdoor common area known as Martin Luther King Jr. Plaza, Matt ordered a large coffee and then made his way up the stairs to wherever it was he needed to be.

Lost in a way, but not at all afraid, I began to wander the corridors of the Marshall Center just like an alumni wanders the halls of his alma mater or a traveler makes a path down the quiet streets of a foreign land. I was at once of this place and not of it. I was at once familiar and unaware. Passing down marbled halls, it wasn't long before I came to a large, open study center housing no more than one or two burrowed students. Truth be told, the entire campus seemed a ghost town to me. The cold outside only accentuating the emptiness of these once and again bustling rooms. It was honestly with some surprise that I began to hear voices. They were coming from a not at all far off place. And when I turned, just slightly to my left, I witnessed a sight that would come to shift and affect me in ways I would never have dreamed.

Today I was saved. By the lord and his people.

Through one large glass window directly connected to a University housed study room I saw a handful of men and women, all black, some of them dressed in their Sunday's best and all standing with their hands raised, shifting to the power of a higher being. Transfixed, I kept walking with the awareness that it is rude to stare, but only a few feet ahead came upon a second equally sized pane of glass. The room was now visible in full. Twenty or thirty individuals stood in this brightly lit, tan walled room. I now saw that two of these individuals were white. All were listening to an enormous barrel chested man speak in a welcoming, even inspiring baritone. I watched in silence, really unable to move away. Perhaps a full minute passed before an older woman standing at the front of this gathering beckoned me inside with a nod, smile and movement of her hand.

Once through the glassed sterile doors, I nervously took an empty seat at the far back of this tiny, square shaped room. The man who was speaking soon finished and made his way immediately towards the back. Before taking a seat in the one chair beside me he extended his hand and asked my name. A simple song began to play on an electric piano and the woman who had beckoned me inside, dressed all in white from her feathered hat to her ruffled skirt, began to sing. The words of the song were unclear to me but everyone else seemed to be familiar, as they all immediately proceeded to chant along with her. At first I believed the lyrics to be, "Remain Whole" and I still think this to be the correct interpretation. But at times the congregation also seemed to be singing "Remain Home" and even later perhaps the words, "We're Made Whole."

The room was filled primarily with African Americans but the diversity amongst this community was astounding. Families, children, infants, the mentally handicapped and the alone all filled the folding chairs that had informally been positioned into rows. A white mother bent down to whisper into the ear of her caramel colored son. A beautiful light skinned girl stared back at me for the longest time as her little sister with matching braids fidgeting in the chair before her. Valentine's Day candy was to be found littering many of the empty seats and periodically a father would leave the room, only to return with a fresh bag of Miss Vickie's potato chips in hand.

After a good little while, a Circle Prayer was initiated and color rushed to my cheeks as I was asked if I'd like to come to the front and be prayed for. I answered back meekly, "Yes" and made my way up to the front of the crowd. Once beside the makeshift altar and hand in hand with an older man who smelled of cocoa butter and baby powder and an older woman who smelled mostly like my grandmother, neither of whom I'd ever laid eyes on before, the prayer began. There were maybe three groups of people, with some of the congregation still opting to remain seated. I can't speak for the other two groups but there were five of us holding hands where I stood, not including a young child. One of the church leaders began to pray for the only caucasian woman, whose five year old son stood beside her, never once losing contact. The title "Lord God" was used between 100 and 300 times over the course of this session and was often used after just one other word. The phenomenon sounded something like this, "Lord God we're praying Lord God for Jessica's eyes Lord God! Help her Lord God to see Lord God! Lord God help her to see life Lord God for what it is Lord God!"

The momentum and volume gained steadily as the prayers continued to flow. We prayed for everything from Jessica's eyes (which apparently afflict her) to her parent's health and the struggles of her past. I noticed a few minutes into these proceedings that tears had started to flow steadily down Jessica's face and that her boy had clung even tighter to her. "Lord God we PRAY Lord God for Jessica to overcome the turmoils Lord God of her PAST Lord God! Lord God we pray Lord God for her SON Lord God! Lord God we pray for her family Lord God! Lord God we pray for HER!" Before very long Jessica's tears had so fully overcome her that she collapsed to the floor, nothing more than a throbbing, lowered life filled all at once with hurt and faith and belief and love.

"You've just encountered...You've just had an encounter WITH Jesus" was giggled out later on by the woman dressed in white who I would come to know as Pastor Carolyn. Along with what I imagined was her husband, a man who introduced himself as Pastor Hill, I was welcomed into the Christ in New Ministries Church, a group of people who in describing themselves said, "We're small but we're Powerful." None of this, however, happened before I was more or less inducted into this gathering. After the circle prayers had ended, Jessica had composed herself and I'd once again taken my seat in the back, certain that my time in the spotlight was over. I, very unexpectedly and along with another newcomer named Will, was called to the front of the church so that the two of us could "pray for each other. "

And so, I once again made my way up the aisle and after a brief introduction found myself hand in hand with this almost purple colored man, a late twenty something who wore a huge tucked-in plaid shirt reminiscent of Burberry and who looked more serious than I even felt capable of. Each of my hands in each of his, heads lowered, this stranger and I stood before a gathering of complete strangers. It was all just too surreal. Some words were uttered by Pastor Carolyn and despite the fact that my eyes were shut as tightly as I knew how, the quivering that shook my hands and the sound that filled my ears informed me that this young man named Will, this young man whose hands were tightly clasped to mine, was crying.

A hard, silent weep shook his body, and thusly mine. This man was moved by either God or prayer or acceptance or perhaps just the touch of another human being standing before this group of people, keeping him from standing there alone. At any rate, he was moved to a feeling that actually frightened me, deeply rattling my nerves. I held on for some time to this person who I'd never, ever know. I held on not for my benefit but for his. I held on not for my life but for the life of every person in the room. And I held on not because I necessarily had faith in me but because I certainly had faith in something higher.