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THE LADIES OF EBENEEZER

Miles C. Daniels


��He used to have a penis. At least that is what they are whispering from the pews of Ebeneezer First Baptist Church. Sister Novella remembers him playing Barbies with her two daughters. He had loved to dress them in tight-fitting party gowns, and was known to steal Mary Kay products from her vanity.
��The local teen darlings had idolized him, so did the church music director.
��When she first premiered Hair Spray, nobody recognized the fashionable woman. D-o-n-n-a, the beautician’s name flashed in pink lights outside her corner salon. She owned a one-woman operation: hair, nails and appointment-only rubdowns.
��Kneading was reserved for late evenings and that really flustered the god-fearing. At age seven, he’d been able to reach notes higher than any tenor in Camden County’s cluster of church choirs. Each and every Christmas Eve he blessed the congregation with his own rendition of “Joy to the World”, which sounded much like rock pianist Jerry Lee Lewis. Some church folk found it wicked, others commented on how Mrs. Johnson’s boy could really tickle those ivories.
��His minister, Reverend Chase, often preached against worldly knowledge. “Education, the Don Juan of faith” was one of his most famous deliveries. The church’s tape engineer alleges that he sold fifteen copies of the exhortation that Sunday.
��Male bars and dancing on tables in Raleigh were popular coffee conversations. Sister Pauline first heard about the jelly boobs and long hair at her Monday evening Bible study. The prescription for the permanent removal of facial hair bewildered the ladies missionary circle.
��Three months and two days before she was diagnosed with the four-letter disease, Donna graced the old white church and sat on the pew next to the nursery. She sang the soprano line for “It is Well With My Soul”. And Sister Mazola, who just celebrated her thirtieth year as the church’s organist, swears she noticed a black tear dripping from her chin.
��When the alter call was given, Donna quietly grabbed her purse and swaggered out the back door. Until today, that was the last time members of the Baptist church saw her.
��She looks angelic all decked out in front of the communion table. Her hair is perfectly teased and her boobs look to have grown since the last time she haunted the sanctuary. The twelve-inch heels and sequenced black dress seem heavenly atop the maroon pillows.
��The crowd is so large that the deacons had to fetch metal folding chairs from the fellowship hall. Mrs. Johnson is perched on the second row with a few distant cousins. Mr. Johnson decided to go possum hunting.





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