There are times, even if your bones are nearly a century old, that you can't help but dance, says the Rev. Nettie Finney.

When the mood grips her on the pulpit, the 98-pound woman throws up her hands and shakes with the power of prayer as she preaches to a loyal following at Christ Spiritual Baptist Church in South Baltimore. It's a spiritual dance she's been doing at her small house of worship for 68 years.

One of Baltimore's most colorful storefront church pastors, Finney will reach a milestone this week, and her parishioners are planning a celebration befitting a woman they believe to be a mystical mother whose prayers once stopped a highway from bulldozing through the neighborhood. She's turning 100, and she's still plowing ahead.

"She's something, ain't she?" said church deacon Jannie White, 65, who is helping to organize the party planned for Saturday. "To me, she's like, mom, friend, sister, brother."

Even if she wanted to - which she doesn't - Finney wouldn't give up stepping into her baggy vestments and wrapping her head with a purple cloth on Sundays to preach to the small church she founded in 1934.

The party, at the nearby SS. Stephen and James Evangelical Lutheran Church at Hamburg and Hanover streets, is expected to be a huge bash filled with hundreds of her "children," former congregants and even elected officials, including state Sen. George W. Della Jr.

No one knows exactly how Finney has survived so long. Just two years ago, she almost died from a stroke.

"I went up in heaven, and the Lord said, 'I ain't ready for you. It ain't your time yet,' " she said. "So I had to come back."

Before the stroke, she hadn't visited a doctor in 10 years.

"She's strong, I'm going to tell you, strong," White said. "Everybody don't get to a hundred years old, darlin'. That's a long, long time in this old world."

Since the stroke, Finney has skipped a Sunday or two a month, but she figures she has another eight years of preaching left in her at the church in the 800 block of S. Sharp St. in Otterbein.

"Soon as I get 108," she predicted with an enormous smile.

Over the decades, Finney has developed a certain magical charm and reputation among her churchgoers, at times predicting illnesses and fortunes good and bad. She has also helped addicts kick drug habits and overweight people lose weight.

"There have been so many people she has helped who were in trouble," White said. "She doesn't care who you are, how you look or where you came from. If you're in trouble, she'll help you."

The church, tucked away in a former feed store, opened in 1959, before Otterbein became gentrified and most of the African-Americans moved away. And although the church is a remnant of a bygone era, it doesn't deter worshippers from making their way to Finney's informal services. It's a common sight for people seated on the red-cushioned pews to get saved, some of them praising God for helping them stay away from drug needles and hard lives on the streets.

Many stand before the congregation and speak of miracles as they are answered with loud "amens." Gospel music at the end of the service makes them sing and dance, even if they're holding babies in their arms.

White and others believe Finney can see physical ailments in people before they know they have them.

The pastor diagnosed a knee problem in White before she found out she had to have the joint replaced. And she told congregant Willie Oates he'd have trouble with his foot days before it started hurting him, he said.

Finney has outlived two husbands and many congregants. She never bore any children, but says that's fine with her because she has enough in the church.

"She can tell you what to watch out for," said Oates, who lives in Columbia and drives into South Baltimore every Sunday for church.

He happened upon the church by accident one day about 12 years ago and decided it was worth the drive.

"I just wandered in here one day, and I fell in love with her," said Oates. "She reminds me of my own mother."

She started preaching in 1932, the year before Prohibition was repealed and President Franklin D. Roosevelt launched his New Deal. It was not a time that welcomed female preachers.

"You know they fussed," Finney said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "But I didn't pay them no mind."

Finney was born Nettie Carter on June 8, 1902, in South Baltimore, the youngest of William and Maggie Carter's three children.

Her father died when she was 20 months old, and her mother supported the family by washing and ironing clothes. After the eighth grade, Finney dropped out of school and went to work.

At age 30, Finney came down with a mysterious stomach ailment. She was about to die, she said, when God appeared and told her to spread his message. So she did. She never had formal training.

"People say, 'Who teach you?'" Finney said. "I say, 'God.'"

Using savings from her pocket and the church, Finney bought a tiny storefront in the 100 block of W. Henrietta St. and opened a church in 1934.

By the late 1950s, the membership swelled to more than 100 and outgrew the small room, which is when they bought the former feed store on Sharp Street.

"The Lord raised her up, and she's been going ever since," White said. "It's a miracle to me."