Sunday mornings had their own rhythm in the neighborhood. Many of the families usually headed to Sabathani Baptist Church, St. Peter’s AME Church, or St. Paul Church of God in Christ, dressed in their Sunday best, with kids laughing and chasing each other until they reached the church steps. But the Johnson family—Derrick, his mother, his father, and his two younger sisters—had a different routine. They went over North, to Zion Baptist Church.
That’s where Derrick’s parents grew up. Where half his cousins still lived. Where the choir sounded like it could lift the roof off the building. Where people knew his family before he was even born. Lately, the church felt new again—because it was. At least the building.
Zion Baptist had stood proudly near 6th Avenue North—a red-brick church with long wooden pews, stained-glass windows, and a history going back decades. All that changed though, when the state announced the route for Interstate 94. Houses fell. Businesses fell. And churches fell. Including Zion.
“That building raised a whole community,” she always said. “And we had to watch it get torn down.”
But the congregation didn’t fold. They built again. Bigger. Stronger. And determined to survive.
Sundays in Derrick’s house started early. Too early, in his opinion. His mother woke everyone with a gentle but firm voice. “Up and moving, everybody. God gave us a new day—don’t waste it.” His father ironed his shirt at the kitchen table while reading the newspaper. His sisters ran around searching for stockings, hair ribbons, and misplaced gloves.
Derrick stood in front of the mirror, straightening his tie, smoothing his collar, and groaning at how stiff his shoes felt. Tony once teased him,
“You look like you going to meet the President every Sunday.”
But Derrick didn’t mind. Church clothes meant something. They meant respect. They meant family. They meant pride.
The drive over North was quiet at first. The streets slowly changed—passed the wide blocks of South Minneapolis to the tighter grid and older houses of the Northside. Passed the projects. Derrick watched the scenery go by-corner stores, beauty salons, barbershops, kids dressed up and heading to their own churches.
There was a sense of history in every block, and his father pointed out landmarks as they drove.
“That’s where your Aunt Jean lived back in the day.”
“That corner right there used to be all black-owned businesses before they put that building up.”
“That’s where the store used to be where I had my first job.”
The Northside wasn’t unfamiliar—it was family. Even though Derrick lived over South, he felt the Northside in his bones. Everyone did.
The new church building was striking. Modern, with a wide entryway and big windows that let sunlight pour inside. As they walked up the steps, the familiar smell of coffee, perfume, and polished wood met them—mixed with the warm greetings of people who remembered Derrick when he was too small to tie his own shoes.
“Well, look at Derrick!”
“You getting taller every time I see you!”
“Your mama got you looking sharp this morning!”
His mother smiled proudly.
The sanctuary hummed with life. The choir robe colors popped under the lights. The choir director raised his hands, and a ripple went through the room. Then the music started. Organ. Drums. Tambourine. Voices rising like a wave. Derrick felt the vibration in his chest before he heard the words. A woman near the front shouted,
“Take your time!”
Another said, “Yes, Lord!”
The whole congregation swayed gently, moved by something bigger than themselves. Derrick’s father clapped softly in rhythm. His mother closed her eyes, letting the music lift her. His sisters danced from side to side, unable to be still. And Derrick—quiet as he was—felt something stir deep inside. Something warm. Something steady.
The pastor stepped up, Bible in hand, his voice filling the room. “Church family, we are still here. They took our homes. They tore our sanctuaries down. They split our neighborhood in half. But they did not destroy our faith. And they did not destroy our future.”
“Amen,” someone called out.
“This building? This building right here? It stands as proof that we rebuild. That we rise. That we stand united, with the help of God”
The crowd nodded, murmured, agreed. Then the pastor’s voice softened.
“And we teach our young people”—his eyes swept over the youth scattered among the pews—“that their roots run deep in this city. That their voices matter. That they will carry us forward.”
Derrick felt the weight of the words settle in his heart. Not heavy, but purposeful.
After the benediction, the foyer filled with chatter—people greeting each other, kids running, older women complimenting hats, men shaking hands firmly. Derrick’s cousins burst through the crowd the moment they spotted him.
“Derrick!”
“You coming to Grandma’s house after?”
“We got pound cake!”
He laughed, letting himself get pulled into the chaos of family. They drove to his grandmother’s house a few blocks away.
The house smelled of fried chicken, collard greens, hot rolls, and sweet potato pie. They ate until they were full, then sat talking in the living room where the adults discussed grown-up things Derrick didn’t fully understand. Neighborhood changes. Politics. Hopes for the future. Concerns about the city. Prayers for peace. Derrick listened quietly, absorbing it all. Part of him still felt like the kid who played football and fought bullies. Part of him felt older now—connected to something deeper.
On the ride home, the sunshine was golden and soft, the streets peaceful. His sisters dozed. His mother hummed softly. His father drove with a thoughtful expression.
“Did you like service today”” his father finally said.
Derrick nodded.
“Yeah… I liked it.”
“You understand why we still come over North for church?” his father asked gently.
“A little,” Derrick said. “Feels like… where everything started.”
His mother smiled.
“Exactly.”
“It’s good to remember where you come from,” his father added. “It helps you know where you’re going.”
Derrick leaned his forehead against the window, watching the Southside come into view—familiar streets, familiar houses, familiar feeling. He didn’t know exactly where he was going yet. But he knew he’d carry this day with him. The music. The voices. The family. The history. The pride. The connection. Over North. Over South. Still Minneapolis. Still home.