“I need a cigarette.”
“Shhh! You’re going to disrupt the energy.”
“There isn’t any energy.”
“There is. You just have to relax.” Bonnie closed her eyes for a moment and took some deep breaths. “It’s here. I can feel it. You just have to settle into it, let it flow.” She opened her eyes again and looked around the room. “This could be big medicine. The Spokanes could have worshiped on this very spot.”
The other pilgrims were giving them sideways glances.
“This isn’t Indian,” said Penny, “it’s Catholic!”
“It’s all the same, sweetheart.”
Penny rolled her eyes. “It sure is.”
“Shh,” came a quiet suggestion from across the room.
“We’re doing this for you, Penny.”
“It’s not going to work!”
Bonnie raised her voice. “If it worked before, it’ll work again.”
Then she drew a deep breath, settled back in the pew, and tried to settle her nerves, relaxing, relaxing. With her eyes on the crucifix, she drew a deep breath and began to hum, “Ommmmmmmmmm . . .”
Today Pete Morgan was the lay assistant keeping watch at the ladder. After another minute of Bonnie’s humming he finally set down his psalm book and hurried off the platform to have a word with her. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to— ”
Bonnie leaped to her feet and pushed him so hard he stumbled across the aisle and almost landed in a lady’s lap. All around the room, there were gasps and ooohhhs.
“Way cool!” Penny exclaimed.
“Come on!” Bonnie hissed, yanking Penny by the arm.
Pete recovered just in time to see Bonnie racing for the platform, her full-cut clothing rustling behind her like natural, organic flags in a gale, pulling a running, off-balance Penny after her.
The couple from Moses Lake jumped up from their pew as the young lady gasped and pointed. “It’s crying!”
Everyone stood, pointed, shouted. “Look at that!”
“It’s crying, it’s crying!”
“Saints be praised!”
Pete stared, aghast. Tears from both eyes now traced thin, meandering streaks down the wooden face of the image.
He took the arm of the young lady with leukemia. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
“But —” She pointed at Bonnie Adams, already grabbing a rung of the ladder and pulling at her unwilling daughter.
“Come on!” Pete insisted, and they hurried onto the platform, followed by an asthmatic man from Ritzville, a lady from Spokane with cancer and the friend who came with her, three elderly folks with arthritis, a Yakima man with a bad liver, and at least ten other people who were either sick or just plain curious.
“Get up there!” Bonnie yelled, pulling on Penny’s arm. Penny tried to jerk away. “I’m scared!”
“Make way!” Pete shouted, bringing up the young lady. “Let us come through!”
“Only in your dreams, bub!” Bonnie started clambering up the ladder, stepping and tripping on her long, full pants legs.
The crowd stumbled and jostled around the altar and closed in around the ladder, pleading, praying, grabbing at the rungs in order to climb. Bonnie yelled back at them, stomping on any fingers that dared to climb after her. The two women from Spokane began to wail and weep. The man with the bad liver swore and said excuse me, swore and said excuse me. A forest of pleading hands reached toward the crucifix.
“Calm down now!” Pete hollered above the clamor. His back was against the ladder and some folks were trying to climb him.
“I’m sure there will be tears enough for everyone! No shoving!”
Al Vendetti heard the noise from his office and came running into the sanctuary. My God, they’re going to break something!
The young woman from Moses Lake began climbing the ladder. Bonnie Adams stepped on her hand, she fell back, and her husband caught her.
“Please!” Pete begged. “Let her come up the ladder! She has leukemia!”
Bonnie didn’t hear him. Her full attention was on that wooden face. She brushed her fingers across the wet streaks, gathering the tears. A powerful tingle coursed through her hand and arm and she cried out, her hand trembling. Then she screamed, forgot her grip on the ladder, and fell, bowling over the two ladies from Spokane and the Ritzville man with asthma. “Penny!”
With help from Pete and her husband, the young woman from Moses Lake went up the ladder.
“Penny!”
Penny reached around the man with the bad liver and the three arthritics. “Mom, get up!”
Bonnie grabbed her daughter’s withered hand, her wet fingers touching her daughter’s skin firmly, purposefully. Penny began to tremble and scream, trying to pull her hand away, but Bonnie held on with all her strength, her eyes wild with excitement. “You feel it, Penny? Feel the energy? I knew it! I knew it!”
The young woman from Moses Lake reached for the face of the image, touched it, and found it dry. “Oh God, no . . .” She ran her fingers over the face imploringly, but there were no tears. “No . . . no, please, have mercy . . .”
The only tears now were her own.
Father Al worked his way into the crowd. “Please, let’s calm down, everyone! Let’s not endanger each other!”
Penny was the one doing most of the screaming, her body trembling, her eyes fixed on her right hand, now uncurling as it slipped steadily from her mother’s grip. “I can feel it!” she gasped.
The fingers wiggled. “I can wiggle my fingers! Mom, I can feel your hand!”
“It works!” Bonnie exclaimed, her wide eyes filled with awe.
“This is a sacred place!”
Al reached Penny and took her shoulders to steady her. Bonnie let her hand go and Penny held it up in front of the priest’s face, wiggling, twisting, and flexing it. “You see? You see?”
He took her hand and felt it alive and strong in his own. “Oh child . . .” Then he looked up at the crucifix and blessed himself.
WITHIN HALF AN HOUR, I heard about it from Sid Maher who heard about it from Paul Daley who heard about it from one of his parishioners who heard about it from Pete Morgan. Sid called Father Al to confirm it, and then he called me. Sid was a believer now, totally flabbergasted, unable to understand what it meant, how it worked, how he could explain it doctrinally. I had no answers for him; all I could do was thank him for calling, hang up, and get out of the house before Kyle took it upon himself to call me. The way I was feeling, I couldn’t talk to him or anyone else.
By the time I even cared where I was going, I found myself near the cottonwoods on the little hill beside my house. I stopped, rested a hand against a gnarled trunk, and began to pray desperately, trying to think, trying to understand just what in the world I was supposed to do with all this. The thing that kept wrenching my insides was that I wanted to believe it was true, that God was indeed moving through our little town and, well, doing something, doing anything. But I’d already put in too many years of believing too many things too quickly. I felt cautionary red flags popping up everywhere. I had scoffed at the reports of people seeing angels, but I was now standing where something had appeared to me. The God I had known all my life didn’t heal through tearful wooden images, and yet two witnesses—the biblical requirement—had confirmed the healings at Our Lady’s. What must I accept next, that Jesus was really appearing in the clouds?
“Lord, please speak to me,” I said aloud as I looked across the expansive farmland to the west. “Help me sort this out.”
I quieted myself and remained still, scanning the smooth, gently rolling horizon as I waited for a clear answer to come to mind. I listened for sounds, and even stole a few glimpses of the clouds, just in case. I recalled and sang an old song we used to do at prayer meetings: “Speak my Lord, speak my Lord. Speak and I’ll be quick to answer Thee. . . .”
I waited. I told myself I wouldn’t wait long, but I waited.
Minutes passed. T
here was no remarkable vision, no voice. The only sound I noticed was the distant purring of a lawn mower in the neighborhood behind me.
Well, I thought, I can spend the whole day up here doing and accomplishing nothing, or I can get on with my life.
I turned and headed down the hill toward Myrtle Street, my prayers unanswered—again. I accepted that fact grudgingly even as I tried to remind myself, “Hey, time is one of God’s primary tools for teaching wisdom.” Time. And more time. And still more time. More praying, more asking, more weeks, months, or even years of anguish trying to pull it all together. This frustrating little session on the hill reminded me of something I’d learned over the years: God won’t be hurried. Or in this case, I thought, whatever he’s doing, he isn’t about to clue me in!
I stepped out of the grass and around the wooden traffic barrier that marked the west end of Myrtle Street. The sound of the lawn mower was coming from John Billings’s yard across the street from my place. Some guy was busily circling around the big yard on a little Snapper mower.
I checked my mailbox. Hm. More catalogs. Just what I need: a solid gold trailer hitch, a short-wave radio that fits on your wrist. . . .
The guy on the mower came whirring around the front of the yard. He was young, with long black hair bound in a ponytail, a beard, faded work jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, leather gloves. I couldn’t recall John Billings ever hiring anyone else to do his lawn. Maybe he was a relative.
The young man looked at me, smiled, and turned the mower for another lap around the back.
I recognized him.
And I was stunned. Speechless. I stood there frozen, staring, my mouth dropping open so far I could feel the sun drying my tongue.
A landscape man?
My mysterious vision of Jesus on the hill was just a landscape man, a young guy with long hair and a beard? He must have been out for a walk, or maybe scoping out another mowing and trimming job. Maybe he was inspecting those trees for possible trimming or removal.
I felt silly and embarrassed. April Fool’s. Just kidding. Gotcha! But after that, I felt wonderfully relieved! It was John Billings’s landscape man. His landscape man! I burst out laughing.
I watched for him to come around the back of the house and toward the front of the yard again, trying not to have a silly grin on my face in case he should look my way. He appeared soon enough, circling around the back deck and weaving his way toward me through the fruit trees. It was him, all right. He spotted me right away, smiled that same pleasant smile, and this time he waved. I waved back. He seemed like a nice guy.
I looked down at the catalog in my hand so as not to stare at him. I was just debating whether to return indoors or walk over and say hello when I heard the mower stop in the front of John’s yard.
“Hey Travis!” the man yelled. I looked up. “Got a minute?”
“Uh, sure.” I set the mail in the mailbox and left the door open to remind me. Crossing the street, I kept looking at his face and probing my memory. He knew me by name, but had we met before?
Had he ever been to the church while I was pastoring? Maybe he came into Judy’s a few times, or attended one of the acoustic jams.
I crossed the street, approaching the little lawn mower where he sat waiting. I did not remember this guy. He gave me a sympathetic smile. “You’re really going through it, aren’t you?”
I smiled to be pleasant. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll be okay. It’s just a little eye opener, that’s all.”
“Have we met before?”
“Never face to face.” He offered his gloved hand. “Or hand to hand.”
I took his hand to shake it and felt a weird tingling, like electricity. It didn’t stop and I pulled my hand away. “Whoa!”
“What?”
“Got a little shock.”
He chuckled. “Sorry. Must be the lawn mower.” He rested his elbows on the mower’s steering wheel and looked at me casually.
“We’ve known each other for years, Travis, ever since you were eight years old.” I was about to question him on that, but he didn’t pause. “It’s a lonely time for you, I know, especially when so many folks don’t understand what you’re going through. They’ve never been there. But you and I have.” He chuckled, shook his head, then said in a mimicky voice, “Travis, you need to come back to the Lord.” He told me sincerely, “They don’t know your heart.”
Just a landscape man? “Who are you?”
He gazed at me for just a moment, his head slightly cocked.
“I’ve been with you all this time and you don’t know me?”
Well . . . he could have been Jewish, from the Middle East. His skin was dark, his eyes a deep brown, his hair jet-black with a gentle curl at the ends. Then again, he could have been part Native American or perhaps Hispanic. He seemed to know a lot about me, even what I might be thinking, but I wasn’t about to take the bait.
“No. I guess I don’t know you. But go ahead, I’m listening.”
He drew a breath, sighed it out, and then said, “Travis, you’ve lived here for years. You know the people, you know the ministry.
So tell me. I’ve sent some messengers on ahead to prepare people.
How are people responding? What are they thinking?”
I was trying to remember what I had prayed for a few minutes ago. Whatever it was, I wasn’t expecting this for an answer. “Oh, people are really buzzing about it. Yesterday the ministerial had its best attendance in years.”
“They even let you in.”
“I behaved myself. I didn’t say much.”
“What else?”
I thought a moment, then told him about Nancy’s big write-up on the healing of Arnold Kowalski and the angelic visitations. “She sold a lot of papers this morning.”
He smiled and nodded, obviously quite pleased.
“So, I’m to understand you’re the cause of all this?”
“Well, I haven’t appeared in the clouds. I haven’t appeared to anyone except you. You know how it is. Some people receive the message and ponder it for what it is, and some take it like a handoff and just run with it—usually out of bounds. It happens.”
Wow. He knows football. But then I pulled out the old 1 John 4 test. “So let me ask you: Did Jesus come in the flesh?”
He held out his arm and pinched the flesh under his shirt.
“What do you think this is?”
“But why all this show biz, all this angelic stuff and weeping images?”
He shrugged. “John the Baptist doesn’t get out much these days.”
In spite of myself, I laughed. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”
“Give it time, Travis. I don’t expect you to believe everything in one moment, not even one week. But I was kidding about John the Baptist. This all goes deeper than clouds and angels and images. You know that.”
“This is a gag! Somebody sent you, right?”
“Actually, I came on my own.”
I laughed at that as if it were another joke. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m a little surprised you haven’t asked me about Marian.”
That was no gag. It was a sudden, very serious twist, and I could feel it. I studied him. He just raised an eyebrow and looked back at me, waiting.
So now we were going to talk about Marian? This man was a total stranger to me. My answer came with difficulty, but I hoped it would close the topic. “It would be a very big question.”
He nodded as if he understood. “The answer’s pretty big too.”
Then he added, “But she sends her regards.”
If this was a joke, it was a sick one. I could feel my anger starting to rise— A car pulled up beside us. “Hello?” a lady called from the passenger side.
I turned. “Yeah? Can I help you?”
Behind me, the mower started up. “We’ll talk again, Travis!”
I jerked my head back to see him putting the mower in gear.
The lady in the car
was saying something I couldn’t hear over the mower. I turned to her again. “Excuse me?”
She repeated, “We’re lost. Can you tell us how to get to the Catholic church?”
I approached the car so I could communicate better. I could hear the mower whirring toward the back of the yard. “You’re looking for Our Lady of the Fields?”
“Yes, that’s it!”
I noticed the car was full; four women and two men. It had an Oregon license plate. “Uh, well, you head down this street till you get to 7th—it’s right where that red pickup is parked.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Turn left, go down the hill to Highway 2, that’s the main drag through town.”
The lady driving the car elbowed the older woman sitting next to her. “I told you we weren’t supposed to turn!”
“Turn right, and it’s down two blocks, on the left. Big stone church. You can’t miss it.”
“Do you think it’s open today?”
I ventured a question. “Are you here to see the weeping crucifix?”
Every passenger in that car brightened up and leaned toward me. The passenger lady said, “We sure are! Have you seen it?”
“I haven’t seen it cry, but I’ve seen it.”
She nodded toward one of the gentlemen in back. “Barry has lung cancer. We’ve come clear from Oregon.”
I noticed the gentleman had oxygen tubes attached to his nostrils. I didn’t know what to say other than, “I think Father Vendetti is keeping the doors open all day.”
She clapped, they giggled, the driver put the car in gear.
“Thanks a lot! God bless!”
“God bless,” I said, and they drove away.
I watched them until they turned left at the red pickup and drove out of sight, struck by what I had seen in that car, and so many times before: serious illness companioned with high hopes.
I knew what that was like. I wondered how it would turn out.
But where did the Mower Man go? I no longer heard the mower running and I couldn’t see it.
Hoping John wouldn’t mind—and not really caring at the moment— I went into his yard, following the last mown path. As I rounded the back of the house, I found the mower parked by the patio, but no sign of its mysterious operator. I peered about the yard, over the fence, and through the back gate like a hound on a hunt, but there was no one around. I almost knocked on the door of the house, but finally put the brakes on and admitted that my emotions were getting the better of me. Whoever this man was or claimed to be, we had ended our conversation on a tedious subject that was best left closed for the time being. I took a moment to draw a long breath, then turned for home.
The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster Page 59
