The Soloist: A Praise You Could Feel in Your Bones

The Soloist: A Praise You Could Feel in Your Bones

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Let me tell you something about an old Southern Baptist church on a hot Sunday you haven’t lived until you’ve sat through a three hour service with no air conditioning and a preacher who refuses to land the sermon plane. That kind of heat wasn’t just physical it was spiritual. Your soul got steamed like a pot of collard greens, and your edges didn’t stand a chance.

The wooden pews groaned like they were tired of everybody’s sins. The fans those cardboard hand-flappers with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. on one side and Rhodes Funeral Home on the back were the only thing standing between you and a full-blown Holy Ghost heat stroke.

Everyone showed up dressed like they were meeting Jesus and going to a wedding. Floral dresses, hats with whole flower arrangements on top, polished shoes that pinched toes into repentance. And don’t forget the stockings because apparently, salvation required pantyhose in July.

Now let me tell you about my grandmother. Lord, bless her name and keep her glory shining. She didn’t play with three things: the Lord, her grandchildren, and her pocketbook and not necessarily in that order. If she said, “We’re going to church,” you better not even think about staying home. One time I faked a fever this woman laid hands on me, prayed, and told me, “Get dressed, God already healed you.” I was in church fifteen minutes later, sweating out my imaginary symptoms.

When she got ready, it was like preparing for battle. Hair curled, pearls on, shoes with just the right click-clack to make the devil nervous. And when she sprayed that final mist of Chalie Blue perfume, it was over. “Everyone in this house will praise the Lord,” she said. “If I’ve got to drag you by the ear, we all going to meet Jesus together!” And don’t let her find you lounging when she was walking out the door. She’d give you that look the kind of look that made even the devil consider repenting.

We’d pile into the car like sardines baptized in sweat and conviction. By the time we got to church, the sanctuary was already alive. The ushers had their gloves on, the deacons were half-asleep and half-anointed, and the choir was just warming up.

Let me talk about our choir. Honey, our choir was anointed, slightly off-key at times, but dripping in Holy Ghost fire. We didn’t sing we poured out. When the Spirit hit, notes got lost, wigs tilted, heels came off, and tambourines took flight. It was beautiful chaos.

But every first Sunday, it got extra holy. That’s when Sister Mildred George would get up and sing her solo.

Now, Sister Mildred wasn’t just a singer. She was a storm wrapped in a soprano, a praise wrapped in polyester. She’d glide down from the choir stand like she was floating on faith, her eyes already closed, holding that microphone like it was the staff of Moses.

She’d reach the front, pause by the organist (who, by the way, was already playing chords that made your spine tingle), take a deep breath like she was inhaling glory, and then

WHEW!

She’d let loose a note that made angels blink and demons trip over themselves trying to get out of there.

OHHHHHHHHHHH LAWWWD!

That woman didn’t sing notes. She sang testimonies. Goosebumps would break out like an altar call. Your knees would get weak. Grown men who hadn’t cried since Vietnam were sobbing into handkerchiefs. And here’s the hilarious truth: she wasn’t technically a good singer. I mean… if you asked a music teacher, they'd probably give her a C-minus. But spiritually? A plus every time.

She sang from her marrow. From her taxes being due and no money in the bank. From that one child that still wasn’t living right. From prayers whispered into pillows and faith held together with duct tape and Psalms. She sang like the rent was due and Heaven was giving out vouchers.

Even folks who swore they didn’t believe in “all that shouting” couldn’t help but be moved. Brother Ellis, who claimed he was only there for the fried chicken after service, once ran out the back door mid-song, came back with his eyes red and said, “Y’all got onions in here?”

After she finished, the church would erupt. Old women shouting with bobby pins flying like confetti. Kids ducking under pews. One time, Sister Jenkins threw her purse up and hit the ceiling fan ushers had to dodge it like they were in boot camp.

And Sister Mildred, glowing like she'd just

seen the throne room itself, would humbly say, “I didn’t come to impress nobody. I just want the Lord to know I remember who brought me through.”

Now let me give you a parable. There once was a woman who cooked stew in an old rusty pot. Folks from every part of town came just to get a taste. One day, a young man asked her, “Why does your stew taste like no other?” She replied, “Because I stir it with everything I’ve been through. My sorrow seasons it, my joy tenderizes it, and my faith gives it flavor. You’re not just eating you’re tasting me.”

That was Sister Mildred’s solo.

And me? I’d sit there next to my grandmother, who by now had shouted herself into a holy hot flash. Wig twisted, fan broken, stockings halfway down her calf, and still yelling, “SANG, MILDRED! Don’t you let the devil have the last word!”

In that old wooden church with the ceiling fans that barely turned, the smell of starch and peppermint, and the Spirit of the Living God so thick you could taste it we were transformed. Our pain was lifted, our doubts quieted, and our souls stirred into praise.

And here I am today, in my little boat called life, still writing from that same place of marrow and memory. No matter how stormy the waters, the Creator sends the winds. Sometimes they’re gentle. Sometimes they toss your whole boat. But always, always they guide.

I don’t write for show. I write because like Sister Mildred, I’ve got something in me that needs to be let out. My pen is my solo. My pages are my pulpit. And I don’t care who’s listening as long as the Spirit hears me.

Like my grandmother always said, “You better praise Him now, ‘cause when He comes to collect, He don’t take rain checks.”