I must apologize for the late posting of this latest sermon, but it’s a doozy. Just you wait. First of all, September 4, this Wednesday, was the 32nd birthday of our beloved, celebrated, and adored…our Lord Beysus Christ. In honor of her passing into yet another year amongst us mortals, please open up your hymnals to “Get Me Bodied” and sing along.
Now that the Sprit is blissfully amongst us, let’s sing another, shall we? Turn to “Schoolin’ Life.”
Now on to the sermon. First off, you should know, and I’ll remind you if you don’t, Beyoncé and I are very close. Best friends, really. I’ve sacrificed so much to help her raise Baby Blue while she’s out on tour to enrapture the public and bring them closer to the divine, if only for an hour or two. She’s doing God’s work, really.
Here we are some time ago at the Good Morning America concert she put on. Way too early for your reverend.
Last night I was winding down from the grueling day and was laying myself down to sleep when my phone went off — “Halo,” my ringtone for her.
“Hey, Bey,” I muttered sleepily, “happy early birthday.”
“BEE!” That’s what she calls me. It’s embarrassing. When we go out to the clubs or restaurants or recording studios, we both respond to the same name. It’s easier to tell us apart in print. BEY vs BEE. Exhausting for those not in our inner circle, I know. Back to the narrative.
“BEE!” Bey shouted loudly into my ear. “I need you here!”
“Where are you?”
“On the jet, we’re landing in Des Moines, get your bootylicious backside down here.”
“I have work, you know that. Can’t you invite Michelle or Solange?”
We both had a good laugh at that, but the amusement didn’t last. She sighed angrily, “Sorry. I thought my BEST FRIEND IN THE ENTIRE WORLD might want to help me out when I’m MISERABLE!”
Bey loves to talk like this, she thinks it’s reverse psychology, and I just let her believe that. It’s easier this way. “Why are you miserable? You’re one of the wealthiest and most beloved women on the planet.”
“What’s the point when Jay is out on tour on my birthday? MY BIRTHDAY, BEE!”
“You’ll be fine, you’re a grown woman.” I articulate the last two words strongly, normally she’s amused when you bring up her illustrious body of work, but not now.
“I’m in no mood for your casual references to my illustrious body of work tonight, Bee. Just get here.”
“I have work!”
“Call in sick.”
“What about the minds that need educated? The needy that need me?”
“Fine!” I exclaim, exhausted, logging into the computer so that I can take the day off.
“Pack your speedo,” she giggles, she loves to win, “we’re going to Nice!”
The ride over on the private jet was exhausting. Not that there is anything unpleasant about flying in luxury, the opposite in fact: the champagne never stopped flowing, the beds are comfortable, the amenities grand — but when you spend half your flight across the Atlantic trying to pick out which wig looks best with the H&M bikini Bey brought along, you just want to take a nap. Finally we did, though I swear I could see the Welsh coastline out my window in the dim light.
I felt like hell, but was slowly warming to the idea of spending all day on the yacht Bey rented. How bad could it be really?
“BONJOUR!” she shouted to the reporters, then turned to me to communicate with them. She relies on my fluent French, you know.
“NOUS AVONS BESOIN DE NOTRE VIE PRIVÉE, S’IL VOUS PLAÎT! OUI, C’EST L’ANNIVERSAIRE DE BEYONCÉ. ELLE A TROIS-DEUX ANS! MERCI. AU REVOIR!”
“MERCI!” Bey shouts to them, then whips her hair the way she does so well. Even after being around her for so long, I don’t know how she does it.
The limousine was waiting for us, and as soon as Bey, me, and Baby Blue were inside, it took off, whisking us through the crowded streets of Nice.
“I wanna see my fans, Bee, they mean everything to me.”
I sigh, remembering the frenzy she caused the last time she made this request, but finding it unavoidable, I lifted up the telephone receiver and had the driver open the roof.
As the car sped through those narrow, crowded French streets, Bey stuck her torso out through the top, waving her arms to any who could see her. “It’s me! BEYONCÉ! Today’s my birthday! 9. 4. 8. 1 B’DAY!”
Baby Blue looked up at me from her car seat, her little face clearly asking, “Why, Bee?”
“Bey, you’d better get back in the car.”
“You just want me miserable on my birthday.”
“You know that isn’t true.”
She pouts. “Get up here with me. It’s fun!”
I can’t deny that it is fun, and I enjoy watching the flabbergasted faces of the peasants as we scream through their town, only a few realizing what they just witnessed.
Bey eventually tires of this and tucks her head back in, before ripping her clothing off. “COSTUME CHANGE! Help me!”
And so, I help her into the sequined jumpsuit that she loves so much. It does look good on her, but it doesn’t seem right for the surroundings.
We finally made it to the port and security quickly escorted us onboard.
It was luxurious, but nothing exceptional. When you’re close personal friends of the Carters, things like this don’t impress you anymore. Richly paneled rooms, marble spas, five-star cuisine on demand. It gets old, you know?
We handed Baby Blue off to one of the crew, changed into our bathing suits, and headed up onto the deck as the yacht began setting out into the azure Mediterranean.
When I got to my chaise next to her, there was a gin and tonic waiting for me with an extra lime. It’s always nice when Bey remembers the little things I like. It reminds me of the old days when life wasn’t so hectic, when she wasn’t constantly touring, when we actually had time to get together and talk about everything and nothing.
“Happy birthday,” I told her, raising my drink to her. Bey clinked glasses with me and we sighed contentedly.
“I’m glad you came.”
“I’m glad I’m here.”
“I truly don’t know what I’d do without you, Bee.”
“I need your help–”
“Bey! Not again.”
She glared daggers at me. It’s frightening when she does this. “But I need you. Your voice. Your angelic voice.”
“I ain’t begging. I mean it. Just one more song.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s do this.”
We sang all afternoon, late into the night. I had forgotten what fun it was to sing with somebody who’s at the same level as you. Bey and I are such musical equals that it’s a delight to try and better each other. I can’t wait for you to hear the results.
Even if the entire trip was a ploy to get me to record backing vocals with her, I can’t deny that I’d do anything for my best friend.
Early the next morning, as the plane’s wheels smoothly made contact with the slick tarmac, she looked up groggily at me from her bed across the tiny aisle, “Thanks. I love you, Bee.”
“I love you, Bey.” I kiss her on the cheek and sleepily make my way into the car waiting to drive me home. It was a good day, a long day, an exhausting day, but a productive day for our Beyonce.
And with that, your reverend wishes you a fond goodnight. #sanasa.
Sweet baby Jesus. You need help.
I’M PERFECTLY SANE.