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the Valley” was my favorite sermon. The song that whites had come to use in mimicry of the Negro accent, “Dem Bones” was inspired by that particular portion of the Old Testament. Their ridicule—“De toe bone connected to de foot bone, foot bone connected to de ankle bone, ankle bone connected to de …”—in no way diminished my reverence for the sermon. I knew of no teaching more positive than the legend which said that will and faith caused a dismembered skeleton, dry on the desert floor, to knit back together and walk. I also knew that that sermon properly preached, could turn me into a shouting, spinning dervish. I tried for the first few minutes to rise and leave the church, but the preacher swung his head to look at me each time I poised myself to leave. I sat again. He told the story simply at first, weavinga quiet web around us all, binding us into the wonder of faith and the power of God. His rhythm accelerated and his volume increased slowly, so slowly he caught me off guard. I had sat safe in my own authority in so many churches and waited cautiously for the point in the service when the ignition would be sparked, when “the saints” would be fired with the spirit and jump in the aisles, dancing and shaking and shouting their salvation. I had always resisted becoming a part of that enchanted band.
    The minister's voice boomed, “These bones shall walk. I say these bones shall walk again.”
    I found myself in the aisle and my feet were going crazy under me—slithering and snapping like two turtles shot with electricity. The choir was singing “You brought my feet out the mire and clay and you saved my soul one day.” I loved that song and the preacher's voice over it measured my steps. There was no turning back. I gave myself to the spirit and danced my way to the pulpit. Two ushers held me in gloved hands as the sermon fell in volume and intensity around the room.
    “I am opening the doors of the Church. Let him come who will be saved.” He paused as I trembled before him.
    “Jesus is waiting.” He looked at me. “Won't somebody come?”
    I was within arm's reach. I nodded. He left the altar and took my hand.
    “Child, what church were you formerly affiliated with?” His voice was clear over the quiet background music. I couldn't tell him I had joined the Rock of Ages Methodist Church the month before and the Lily of the Valley Baptist the month before that.
    I said, “None.”
    He dropped my hand, turned to the congregation and said, “Brothers and sisters, the Lord has been merciful unto us today. Here is a child that has never known the Lord. A young woman trying to make her way out here in this cruel world without the help of the ever-loving Jesus.” He turned to four old ladies who sat on the front row. “Mothers of the Church, won't you come? Won't you pray with her?”
    The old women rose painfully, the lace handkerchiefs pinned in their hair shook. I felt very much in need of their prayers, because I was a sinner, a liar and a hedonist, using the sacred altar to indulge my sensuality. They hobbled to me and one in a scratchy voice said, “Kneel, child.”
    Four right hands overlapped on my head as the old women began to pray. “Lord, we come before you today, asking for a special mercy for this child.”
    “Amens,” and “Yes, Lords” sprang around the room like bouncing balls in a cartoon sing-along.
    “Out. Devil,” one old lady ordered.
    “She has come to you with an open heart, asking you for your special mercy.”
    “Out of this baby, Devil.”
    I thought about my white atheist husband and my son, who was following in his nonbelieving footsteps, and how I had lied even in church. I added, “Out, Devil.”
    The raspy voice said, “Stretch out, child, and let the Devil go. Make room for the Lord.”
    I lay flat on the floor as the congregation prayed for my sins. The four women commenced a crippled march around my body.
    They sang,
    “Soon one morning when death