The Tea, by Bisa Butler Spilling The Tea I see them every Sunday when I go to Church. Sunday is the most important day of the week saved for worshiping our Lord. They walk into church like three haughty peacocks. The tall one is drawn to two piece suits in bright colors, a crisp blouse with a bow The other two are partial to prints, bold florals, wide stripes, colorful polka dots. Seems like every week there is a new hat, jauntily tipped to one side. They sure know how to turn some heads. Of course we are all there for the preaching. The gospel, the hymns, the fire and the brimstone. We are here to listen to the Reverend whose impassioned words bring us up, and carry us back down. We are there to praise Jesus and ask HIm for forgiveness for our sins. And after the preaching is over, we shake hands and wish our neighbors peace. I watch as the three of them make their way through the crowd of worshipers, nodding and saying hey there, nice to see you, wasn't that sermon great, but all the while they are squeezing through the crowd, making a beeline for their spot under the huge white oak. The tree is far enough away so that they are out of the hubbub, but close enough so they can see everyone leaving Church. Under that white oak is where they spill the tea. Now don't get me wrong I'm sure their words are all said with love for Jesus is still fresh in our hearts, but from what I can see from under that tree Jesus just set their mouths on fire. I can only imagine who and what they are talking about but I'm would guess they begin with the new Reverend and the power of his sermon, but somehow wind around to how the ladies in the first pew can't take their eyes off of him. How they laugh extra loudly at his jokes, and wave their fans demurely. Word has it, he had supper with a different one of them each night last week, the women all fantasizing that he won't stay single for long. I would guess that next they move on to rumored affairs, which husbands and whose wives are tangled up with each other in the beds where they don't belong. How they get their information is a mystery to me. Maybe the butcher saw eyes meet across the meat counter, and passed his suspicion on to one of the ladies when they came in for pork chops. Perhaps a car was parked for too long in front of a house where it didn't belong. Of course this is pure conjecture, but you can see the ladies tongues wagging as they spill the tea. Now I'm not one to gossip as a rule, but I'd like to be a fly on that tree. I can tell things are getting nice and juicy as I watch them throw their heads back in laughter snatching glances of people as they walk to their cars. The ladies stay as the noon day sun rises above. The crowd of worshipers is long gone, home to their Sunday dinners. But eventually the conversation slows and It looks as if they are sharing one last joke at someone else's expense. They hug each other gently, not wanting to wrinkle their clothes or nudge those hats and go their separate ways. I have to wonder what is going on in their heads now. Are they thinking about each other In that sad and hateful way they've talked about the rest of the congregation? From where I'm standing there would be plenty to talk about with those three, the sins of their tongues following them home, spilling the tea.