In a novel reminiscent of the work of Maya Angelou and Ntozake Shange, Rita Coburn Whack tells the story of how a young woman’s spiritual awakening leads her to maturity and self-fulfillment.
When Meant to Be opens, thirteen-year-old Patience Jan Campbell is called upon to read and interpret her favorite scripture for the church congregation: “I think this scripture means that children know every shut eye ain’t sleep and every head bowed ain’t praying, so grown-ups ain’t fooling us or God. . . . So nobody should hold a child back from God just ’cause they may be having trouble finding Him.”
But a traumatic experience causes Jan to stumble and lose her “voice.” Unable to turn to those around her, she calls for her grandmother Hannah—who died before Jan was born—in prayer. Unbeknownst to Jan, Hannah does come, and through her wise eyes we follow Jan into her early twenties as she moves to the big city, goes to college, and begins a career. A reflective father, a misunderstood mother, a sage aunt, and two pivotal lovers all build emotional bridges that help Jan progress on her journey to womanhood.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of Romance eBook: Meant to Be|
|Release Date: 11-25-2008|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||Meant to Be|
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Meant to Be
Turning around, I was just in time to see old Mother Brock hike her long white skirt above her knees and climb onto the pew.
“He ain’t nothing but a honey!” A white handkerchief held high in one hand waved surrender toward heaven and the joyous shout signaled all of us in the old woman’s path to clear the way. Scooting sideways, I watched her legs, stockings knotted just above the knee, rise above one pew and thump down on the next. The Spirit had “gotten a holt” to Mother Brock and she was pew-stepping, bench-hopping happy, going at it from row to row.
“Walk that bench, Ma Brock,” Essie Tolbert encouraged. “Walk it now!”
Elder Yancy stood. Tall enough to reach the ceiling fans and as dark as the sin he rocked back and forth against, he closed his eyes. His arms, reaching out, trembled over the heads beneath them as he moved in the rhythm of his tambourine.
With a “Hallelujah! Praise His name!” Sister Hattie Jones sailed from the choir stand. Her robe flared, then billowed like a large puff of cotton. Descending, it settled close to her waist, held tight by two balled fists. She swished the robe around her body and headed for the side aisle.
Combing each aisle like a lost traveler, Sister Jones asked folks for directions most Sundays. Eyeballing whomever she felt called, she’d stick her pointed face in theirs: “Will you praise Him? Can you rebuke the Devil? Won’t you give all glory to God?”
I rubbed the piece of paper in my Bible as if it would help me. My aunt Ada always said the church was “the be