Most kids Derrick knew spent their Sundays, if they went to church at all, at one of the neighborhood churches— Sabathani Baptist, St. Peter’s AME, or St. Paul Church of God in Christ to name a few. Churches, along with the schools, were anchors of the community. If you lived in the neighborhood, you knew them: Gospel music spilling out onto the sidewalk, women in bright hats and gloves on Sunday mornings, men in crisp suits shaking hands on the steps, teens gathered in groups talking amongst each other, and kids playing, but on their best behavior, because they knew what would happen if they acted up at church. That was the neighborhood rhythm. But Derrick’s world stretched farther. Every Sunday morning, his family went “over North” to go to church.
Derrick had been going to Zion Baptist Church all of his life. His parents used to talk about “the old building”—the one before the freeway. Before I-94 cut through the heart of the Black Northside the same way it cut through Rondo in St. Paul. He remembered the old building well, the stained glass windows, the lights hanging from the ceiling, and the big painting of Jesus ascending to heaven with the disciples looking up at Him. He could also feel the tension in his parent’s voices whenever the talked about it being torn down.
“They said it was urban renewal,” his mom said, as she folded laundry. “But we had a whole neighborhood right there. Homes. Stores. Churches. All gone.”
His father would nod slow and heavy.
“We lost a lot,” he’d say. “But Zion didn’t die. We built again. We always build again.”
And they did. The new building was clean, bright, full of life—where the light hit the stained-glass windows just right, casting blues and golds and reds across the sanctuary.
Derrick’s father was a deacon—quiet, steady, and respected. He prayed with people. He checked on sick church members. He showed up early and locked up late. He wasn’t loud about his faith. He just lived it. His mother sang in the choir— and when she sang, her voice filled the whole room. Warm. Strong. Comforting. Derrick loved hearing her voice rise during the hymns. Even Tony, who barely ever stepped foot in church except for Easter, once told him:
“Man, your mama can SING. She should be putting out records.”
Every Sunday morning, Derrick followed the same pattern. He would wake up to the smell of bacon, eggs, and biscuits. He would put on his pressed slacks and button-up shirt, comb his hair, tie his tie, and then help his little sisters with their shoes, and then they would all pile into the car around 9:00 AM.
The drive across town always felt like traveling between two worlds. The Southside, where his friends lived, where he played ball, where he went to school, where his summer happened, and the Northside, where his church family was, where his granny, and some of his cousins lived.
By the time they reached Zion Baptist, the parking lot was already filling with cars and people dressed in bright summer church clothes. Derrick always loved the moment he stepped inside, with the cool air hitting him after the heat outside, the smell of perfume and cologne, the sound of the pianist warming up, kids chattering, old deacons humming, and mothers whispering greetings. Then, when the choir started singing? The whole church felt like it really came to life.
His mother always stood on the second row, third from the right. When she smiled while singing, the entire sanctuary lit up. During the sermon, Derrick usually sat with John, Ken, and Wayne, trying to pay attention, but sometimes his mind drifted to football, Tasha, school, and life in general.
Even though his mind sometimes drifted, he loved being at church. It grounded him.
After service, the fellowship hall became a community center. Punch and cookies would be served. Adults would talk about the news, teens talked about what they did the previous night, and over the past week, and little kids played tag between the tables. This was where Derrick learned about his family, his history, and his people. He heard older members talk about thehe old Northside before the freeway came through. They talked about the businesses, the store, the clubs that were lost. They talked about the families that had to move out. He didn’t understand everything they talked about— but he felt the weight of it.
On the drive back home, his sisters always fell asleep in the back seat. His mom hummed softly. His dad tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm. And Derrick stared out the window, thinking quietly. He thought about the split life he lived: Southside kid during the week. Northside church boy on Sundays. He thought about football coming up. About turning fourteen next year. About high school. About what kind of man he wanted to be. And lately… he thought about Tasha.
He wondered what she’d think of his church. Whether she’d like the choir. Whether she’d smile hearing his mom sing.
That night, sitting on the steps with the fellas, Derrick didn’t brag about church. He didn’t preach. He didn’t act holier than anyone. He just felt… centered. Grounded in something his friends maybe didn’t see but could feel whenever they were around him. Marcus noticed it first.
“You good today?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Derrick said.
Leon nodded.
“You look peaceful or something.”
Derrick shrugged, smiling a little.
“Just had a good Sunday.”
And he did, because Zion Baptist Church wasn’t just a church. It was a reminder of where his family had come from, what they had survived, and who he was supposed to grow into. It was the other half of his world. The part that kept him steady while the rest of life changed around him.