My first encounters with God were through my foremothers: my great-grandmother Ma Rosella, my grandmother—affectionately known as Mama Hattie—and her identical twin sister, Aunt Mary. In the 1980s they all lived in a one-story, three-bedroom house on Powell Drive in Rocky Mount, North Carolina. My great-uncle Bunk and my aunt Veda lived with them. My aunts, uncle, and mother purchased and took care of the home so that the five of them could live there. My family had a tradition in which the grandchildren spent their summers “down south” in Rocky Mount, where at least seven of us cousins crammed into the tiny space. When I was a child, the space didn’t feel so tiny to me. It was like a never-ending maze that could hold the entirety of our collective family.
The house was more than just a house: it was home. That was how we would refer to it when we spoke of visiting. If my mother said, “We’ll be heading home for the holidays,” she didn’t mean our New Jersey house. She meant the house on Powell Drive.
When my family went down south, we always drove. My mom and dad would pack the car with our suitcases, snacks, and sandwiches. My older brother and I would sit in the back seat prepared for the long drive that took only about eight hours but felt like days. When we reached the exit for Rocky Mount, I would feel myself getting more and more excited. Passing the old Belk Department Store, the Piggly Wiggly, and the Gardner’s Barbeque Restaurant meant we were getting closer to home. I knew we were just minutes away when we passed Hollomans, because the convenience store was about two blocks from where we would turn onto Powell Drive. As the car pulled up to the house, my brother and I would boil over with excitement. My dad would barely have taken the keys out of the ignition before I opened the car door and ran up to the house and through the front door.
Just inside the house was the main living room, which was spacious and bright. Each area had its own unique smell; the living room smelled of lint balls. A plastic-covered sofa sat against the wall facing the front door. (They had the plastic on the couch to keep the “good” furniture from getting dirty.) A table sat against the front window that we knew to be a special table because on it sat a large, white Bible that was described as “the family Bible.” Next to it were pictures of family and a piece of art that had the word Yahweh written in Hebrew on it. A portrait of Martin Luther King Jr., another of Black Jesus, and a rendering of the Twenty-Third Psalm hung on the walls of the living room. The living room was not for frivolous play; it was a space to entertain special company. We didn’t just hang out in the living room, and if we did, we got in trouble. There was always an abundance of snacks waiting for us in the dining room: pork rinds, Little Debbie Zebra Cakes, Oatmeal Cream Pies, cookies, and candy. The freezer was stocked with ice cream and ice pops that my grandfather, Granddaddy Joe, would bring by. (He lived in another part of Rocky Mount.) Through the dining room was the den, which functioned as an alternate living room, where all of us hung out leisurely. At any given time, twenty of our family and close family friends were in the home at once.
When I entered the house after the long drive down, I would run straight into the kitchen to be greeted by Mama Hattie, who was usually there preparing a meal for us. The kitchen often smelled of pies baking or chicken and dumplings on the stove. If we were visiting around the holidays, stacks of sweet potato pies would be waiting for us on the counter. “Hey, Sugar!” Mama Hattie would say when she saw me, her face glistening with sweat from standing over the hot stove for hours. She would wrap her arms around me, swallow up my small body, and kiss my face a few times. She was home. I was home.
Godly is the word I used to describe my grandmother. She was the first person to introduce me to the faith. I knew her to be the main caretaker for me, my brother, and my cousins when we spent the summer in Rocky Mount. I spent a great deal of time with Mama Hattie, so I got to watch her closely. Like with the home, I can picture her vividly. I can see her sitting in her room on the front corner of her bed leaning toward a side table with a small lamp on it. I can even see what she is wearing. She often wore a thin white robe with small buttons in the front and what looked like splashes of colors, either flowers or butterflies. Most importantly, I can see that she is reading her Bible, held with such love and care. She would often spend the morning sitting on the corner of her bed quietly reading, wearing large, oval reading glasses. We all understood that this was sacred time, and she was not to be disturbed. I would sometimes sit on the opposite side of the bed and watch her. Although she wouldn’t acknowledge me until she was finished, she knew I was observing. Sometimes when she wasn’t in the room, I would go in and take a sneak peek in her Bible. It was big for my small hands, and the cover was worn. The first page read, “The Holy Bible. Giant Print. King James Version Containing the Old and New Testaments. Red Letter Edition.”
On another inside page was “Rosella Rodgers” written in cursive. This Bible had been passed down from her mother, my great-grandmother, Grandma Rosella, who also lived in the home. Within the pages of Scripture were notes in the margins. “By faith and not by sight,” one margin read. Scripture passages like “Wait on the Lord” were double underlined, and the word wait was circled. I didn’t quite understand what any of it meant at the time. I just knew that this was a very important book and that it was from God. Mama Hattie believed in the authority of Scripture. To her, Scripture was like medicine. Scripture had the power to heal. The words were meant to be applied daily to keep us on the right path. I believe this is the reason Mama Hattie, Grandma Rosella, and Aunt Mary were intent on passing down Scripture to all of us. To this day, my mother still owns that Bible.
It was Mama Hattie and not the church that taught me some of the foundational Bible songs. When it was bath time or playtime, she would sing the songs and have me repeat after her. I knew that Mama Hattie believed the lyrics she sang to me, and because of that I trusted the words too. When I reflect on this, I realize those songs were all interpretations of Scripture. I was learning the Bible through the lyrics to the songs. “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” is a reflection of Psalm 24:1–2: “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the world and those who dwell therein, for he has founded it upon the seas and established it upon the rivers” (ESV). “This Little Light of Mine” is about Matthew 5:16: “In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven” (ESV). The song “Jesus Loves Me” is explicit that Jesus loves us. How do we know? “For the Bible tells me so.”
Mama Hattie took us to church every Sunday. Sleeping in on Sunday mornings was never an option for anyone in our household or any of our neighbors’ households. I wore frilly dresses and patent leather shoes, my brother and male cousins wore suits, and Mama Hattie would have on a dress, with a glorious, wide-brimmed church hat to match. We would all pile into her old wood-paneled station wagon to take the ten-minute drive to Ebenezer Baptist Church. Though I didn’t know what a megachurch was at the time, Ebenezer felt like one to me. The large, brown-brick building sat at the end of the first section of Raleigh Road. There was an Ebenezer Baptist Church sign, and the pastor’s name, Rev. Thomas L. Walker, was directly underneath. As we walked into the church, we were always greeted by friendly people, all who knew Mama Hattie and the Clark family by name, even if I did not recognize them. In the church lobby, I was always met with cool air and an ambrosial smell that was so distinct that it continues to be difficult to describe and I have only ever associated with Ebenezer. The choir was usually singing or someone would be up front at the altar praying as we entered the sanctuary.
Typically, my brother and cousins would go off to Sunday school, and I would stay with Mama Hattie. As a young girl, I could not comprehend what was happening and would lean over to ask Mama Hattie to explain. One time as the Communion plate was going by and I asked her why I could not take Communion like everyone else, Mama Hattie explained to me that I had to be “saved and baptized” to take Communion. In the Baptist church, unbelievers could not take Communion. I wanted to be baptized, but then I was told that I was too young to understand. I remember hoping that nothing would happen to me before I was old enough to get baptized because I did not want to die as an unbeliever. Yet I was confused because I did believe as I had been taught.
The pastor, Rev. Walker, would walk to the pulpit during the middle of the service. Rev. Walker was a Black man with a very distinctive and commanding presence. He always wore a black and red cape over his suit and shook hands with anyone already behind the pulpit before kneeling to pray at the large chair in the middle and taking his seat. He had a slow, deep, raspy speaking voice that would oftentimes rise as the congregation would yell, “Yes!” and “Amen, Pastor!” throughout the sermon. The message he preached always found its sole source in Scripture. From time to time, Mama Hattie would lean over to see if I was understanding. For the most part, I did not understand, but she would explain as much as she could. At the end of the sermon, Rev. Walker would always sing his signature song, “One Day at a Time.”
One day at a time, sweet Jesus,
That’s all I’m asking of You.
I heard that song so much that one Christmas I asked my parents for the vinyl record that Rev. Walker and his ensemble recorded that included that song. Upon receiving it, I played it repeatedly on my record player over the next few months.
When we stayed in Rocky Mount for the summer, the seven of us cousins would sit around the table for every meal. At the center of the table was a plastic box shaped like a loaf of bread. It was labeled with the words “Our Daily Bread,” and in the box were different verses from the King James Version written on small, rectangular cards. If one of us touched our meal before we read Scripture, we would get in trouble in the form of a slight rap on the hand or a reprimanding glance. Mama Hattie would have us pass around the small box and take out a Scripture passage at random. When we were done, each of us would take a turn reading. This household practice went on every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“John 6:51,” my brother, Shaun, would read. “I am the living bread which came down from heaven: if any man eat of this bread, he shall live for ever: and the bread that I will give is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.”
My cousin Tara would read, “Psalm 19:14: ‘Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer.’”
Because I was so young and newer to reading, I would read at my own slow pace, “Proverbs 3:5: ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.’”
Reading the Scripture was not enough. Mama Hattie would ask us what it meant to us. I would interpret the Scripture the best I could from my childlike perspective, and even if I was far off topic, Mama Hattie would say there were no wrong answers. She taught us to interpret the words the best we could for ourselves: an integral approach to hermeneutics, which deals with methods of interpreting the Bible. Mama Hattie read the Bible for herself, an approach most commonly known as personal devotion. She, in turn, taught us to read for ourselves as well. My introduction to Scripture was not academic or historical but personal. How else could a six-year-old Black girl find relevance in a centuries-old historical text? I did not understand the nuances of biblical hermeneutics—a term that I would later come to use frequently in seminary. Without knowing it, as a Black woman, Mama Hattie embodied a womanist approach to the Bible.
Content taken from Womanish Theology by Khristi Lauren Adams, ©2024. Used by permission of Brazos Press.
