“Before you meet God, you must be anointed with the holiest of oils.” She opened a drawer and pulled out glass jars and bottles. The first one was a translucent white paste. Se rubbed it between her palms until it melted, then smeared it on my upper arms. I had no idea what it was until the smell hit my nose—coconut oil. I realized that these were all the oils that I used at home. She smiled.

“You seem familiar with the anointing process. Most here have partaken since they were children.”

She continued to massage me with different oils, olive oil on my legs and jojoba oil for my breasts and belly. Then she told me to sit. She took out the castor oil, parted my hair, and began to grease my scalp, like my mother used to do for me until I was 12 years old. At that point, I couldn’t help but release a few tears. There I sat, between her legs as she repeated a ritual from my girlhood. I thought of my mother; of her voice and how I didn’t cherish it; how when it came time to choose between her and a man who didn’t love me, I chose the man. Then I remembered the sound of the phone ringing, and me not answering. I kept thinking of the other women I had wronged, the best friends turned enemies over jealousy and a world that told me that I had to compete with them; the lovers forgotten because I was told that it was unnatural; the mentors lost because love was never something that I could trust. Seeing this place made me regret any time that I had ever looked at another woman with contempt. I wanted to be here. I wanted to deserve Heaven. The young girl looked down at me, hands still in my tresses, and saw the distress in my face. She held my chin tenderly and looked into my tear-filled eyes.

“Cry,” she said. “It’s ok”.

So, I bawled for what felt like hours. There I sat, a grown woman, sitting between the legs of a child as she did my hair.

“That is how we cleanse ourselves of our sins,” she said. “Some think that tears don’t belong here, but that is untrue. They are the most beautiful release that we have.”

After I had cried until it felt like there were no more tears left in my body, I stood up. My arms were glistening from the oils. Never before had my skin looked like this, like honey.

The young girl looked into my eyes. “Are you ready?”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t think I am.”

She smiled. “None of us are worthy of entering God’s roof, but if She says the word, our souls shall be healed.”

The young girl took my hand once again and led me through a long corridor and into a large room. There I found other black women, skin glistening under the bright yellow light. They, too, smelled of coconut and castor oil. All of them had the same look of terrified hope, some more than others; I imagine I was among them. We all stood together, shoulder to shoulder, awaiting our judgement.

Out of nowhere, I heard a jazz band play. It started with the strings of a deep bass being plucked slowly and tenderly, then kicked in the smooth cry of the saxophone, and finally a chorus—well, really just three women harmonizing. As the music played I saw a woman’s body descend slowly from the open roof. I couldn’t see her face, but by the looks of her strong, wide hips and big, powerful hands, I knew it couldn’t be anyone but God. The band continued to play until she finally landed at eye level. All music came to a halt.

And then we met Her. By this point, I had stopped trusting my expectations, but that did not stop me from being surprised. It was me. Not someone who looked like me, or someone as dark as me—I was looking into my own eyes. I turned to the other women to see if they were staring at me, wondering if I had a twin or a clone, or if there was some other magical explanation. But none of them even looked my way. They all stared at this other me that was standing in God’s place, their mouths agape in shock and awe. I saw a woman touch her own face, then reach out and try to touch Her.

I realized that they weren’t seeing the same thing that I was. It was as if we were all looking into a mirror, seeing the most beautiful versions of ourselves. Just as I started to understand, she spoke.

“What you see is an image of yourself,
but make no mistake, right now you are looking at God.
I am in you and you in me.
When you look at me, you look at yourself in the purest and holiest of forms.
This is not your Judgment Day.
There’s no need to send any of you to Hell; you have already endured that on Earth.
There, you were an unsolved murder case.
There, you were empty streets; no riots to avenge your death.
There, you were cuts and bruises concealed by suffocating sweaters.
There, you were a sob caught in your mother’s throat.
There, you were a door slammed in your own face.
What this is, is a Welcome.
Welcome to life in a world that loves you back,
to a place where your name is the most powerful prayer,
where your body is your own,
where you will always be enough.
Welcome to this Heaven for black girls.”♦