Jimmy

by Robert Whitlow

  “Of course,” Mama answered as she walked down the steps.

  — Six —

  The First Baptist Church boasted a large red brick sanctuary and high portico held aloft by four massive white columns. The church didn’t have to advertise its presence in Piney Grove. Anyone passing through town would see it. Next to the sanctuary was a long, two-story educational building.

  The church buildings occupied a whole block on the south side of Hathaway Street. Parking lots stretched all the way to a narrow alley. Basketball goals stood at the end of each parking lot. Because the church buildings were used only a few hours a week, the parking lots served as community basketball courts. Bright lights came on every evening at dusk and burned until midnight so that the youth of Piney Grove could play basketball. Vandalism in the parking lots wasn’t a problem—the sheriff’s office and jail were on the next block and provided twenty-four-hour security at taxpayer expense.

  Daddy parked in the lot behind the educational building. His usual place was taken, and he had to move farther away.

  “Why is it so crowded?” he asked.

  “A missionary from Papua New Guinea is the guest speaker in the couples’ class,” Mama replied. “She’s a Bible translator.”

  “I bet she’ll have a few worm-and-grub stories.” Daddy grunted as he pulled into a parking space.

  “What kind of stories?” Jimmy asked.

  “She’s been living in a very poor country,” Mama answered.

  “Even worse than Alabama,” Daddy added.

  Mama ignored him. “Missionaries are men and women who go to other countries to tell the people about Jesus.”

  “What does that have to do with worms?” Jimmy asked.

  “Some of the people in other countries eat worms and grubs,” Daddy said. “They don’t see anything wrong with it because they’ve grown up eating them.”

  “Walt tried to make me eat an earthworm,” Jimmy replied. “But I told him it was for fishing, not eating.”

  Daddy opened the car door. “Good boy. If Walt ever offers you an earthworm or anything else strange to eat, tell me about it.”

  Still thinking about worms, Jimmy followed his parents into the educational building.

  The inside of the building was as familiar to Jimmy as the hallways of the elementary school. He’d begun in the nursery, progressed to the crawler area, navigated through the toddler zone, and graduated into the prekindergarten and kindergarten classes. As the biggest church in town, First Baptist had a class for each grade level. The same children who went to school with Jimmy Monday through Friday joined him for Bible class on Sunday.

  The sixth-grade class was located on the second floor. When Jimmy graduated to the seventh grade, he would stay on the main floor in a room by the nursery. Daddy and Mama’s class met in the fellowship hall. Jimmy climbed the steps to the second floor. Inside his classroom, he saw his friend Max staring out the window at the parking lot. No one else had arrived.

  Tall and sturdy with blond hair and clear blue eyes, Max Cochran was smart and good at sports. The two boys first played together because the babysitter who took care of Jimmy after his other mama left town was a friend of Max’s mom. Max had been Jimmy’s best friend for as long as Jimmy could remember.

  Max always saved a seat for Jimmy at lunchtime and picked Jimmy to be on his team at recess. He played at Jimmy’s house a lot and sometimes invited Jimmy to spend the night at his home. Like Grandpa, Max always treated Jimmy as a normal member of the human race. Recently, Mama had prayed with Jimmy that the boys’ friendship would never stop.

  Max turned around and looked at Jimmy through a perfectly formed black eye. Jimmy’s mouth dropped open.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I was playing first base yesterday, and Mitch threw the ball to me between innings when I wasn’t looking. It knocked me to the ground.”

  Jimmy peered closer. “Does it still hurt?”

  “Yeah, but not as bad as it did.”

  Other students began to arrive, and Jimmy listened as Max told the story several more times. More information came out, including the fact that his father made him hold a piece of raw steak against the eye for over an hour.

  “And then he cooked the steak on the grill, and I ate it,” Max added. “Eating the steak made the swelling go down.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” responded Denise McMillan, the daughter of a local doctor.

  “You didn’t see it before and after,” Max said.

  Mr. Morton, the Sunday school teacher, entered the room with a red, sweaty face. A chubby, balding man who worked for a local auto dealer as a credit manager, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Mr. Morton knew a fair amount about the Bible and a lot about old cars.

  “Air conditioner went out on the car,” he said.

  Before Mr. Morton became their teacher, none of the students had ever heard of the Studebaker Motor Company. Mr. Morton quickly corrected their ignorance and one sunny autumn day took them on a brief field trip down to the church parking lot in order to provide an up close look at a 1964 Lark convertible the teacher had beautifully restored. He then spent the rest of the class period showing pictures taken during the restoration process and explained that his work transforming the broken-down car was like the work God wanted to do in their lives too.

  “Do the air conditioners in Studebakers break a lot?” one of the students asked.

  “It’s not my Studebaker,” he replied. “It’s my wife’s new Ford.”

  Mr. Morton saw Max’s eye, and the baseball story, without reference to eating the steak, was repeated one last time. Mr. Morton placed his large black Bible on the flimsy wooden stand.

  “Besides Max’s eye, do we have any prayer requests?”

  There were always lots. Jimmy tried to listen closely to what the students mentioned so he could tell Mama about the requests. He raised his hand.

  “What is it, Jimmy?” Mr. Morton asked.

  “Do we have any prayer answers?” he asked.

  Several children laughed, but Mr. Morton didn’t.

  “That’s a good question. Who can remember a prayer request from last week and tell us about an answer?”

  There was silence for several seconds. Jimmy waited and then raised his hand again.

  “I do,” he said.

  “What is it?” Mr. Morton asked.

  “My grandpa didn’t have another heart attack.”

  Praying for Grandpa’s heart was one of Jimmy’s regular requests. Mama told him each day of Grandpa’s life was a gift from God.

  “That’s an answer,” Mr. Morton replied.

  The teacher waited a few more seconds and then opened the lesson book.

  “I have one,” Denise said hesitantly.

  Tears rushed into the young girl’s eyes. She reached into her purse for a tissue. Everyone in the class grew still.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “But you know that my older brother left home a year ago, and we haven’t heard from him in ten months. Last night he called and talked to my parents. He’s coming home this week.”

  Jimmy had heard Mama talk about Denise’s brother, Sam, who developed a serious drug problem during his senior year in high school and ran away from home. The public humiliation in the family of a physician sent shock waves through the small town.

  Denise sniffled. “He’s been in a drug-treatment center for four weeks after he got saved at a church in New Orleans. My dad is leaving tomorrow to pick him up.”

  One of Denise’s friends came over and put her arm around Denise’s shoulders. Jimmy wasn’t sure why Denise was crying. Mama had told him there were good tears and sad tears, but he had trouble knowing the difference. Denise looked up at Mr. Morton and continued.

  “Last night my dad read the story about the prodigal son, and our whole family prayed for Sam.”

  Mr. Morton opened his Bible. “Let’s read that passage right now.”

  It was a different Sunday
school class. After the children listened to the story, they mentioned the names of family members who needed to come home to Jesus. Mr. Morton wrote the names on a board at the front of the room.

  When the flow of names stopped, Mr. Morton spoke.

  “I’d like to tell you how I came to believe in Jesus.”

  The children grew quiet. Jimmy had heard many adults give testimonies, especially at Sunday night meetings before someone was baptized. Sometimes he didn’t understand the sins described by them, but Mama wouldn’t explain.

  “I grew up in Florida,” Mr. Morton began. “My father died when I was twelve years old. My mother and I didn’t go to church, but a man who worked with her invited me to go deep-sea fishing in the Gulf of Mexico with him, his two sons, and three of their friends. We caught a bunch of fish. None of them were very big, but we didn’t care as long as we had something on the line to reel in.”

  “How far out did you go?” Max asked.

  “About ten miles. We weren’t trying to land any game fish, just something for boys to catch.”

  The thought of being in a boat ten miles from shore made Jimmy’s stomach uneasy. He wanted to hear the story but wished it had happened on land.

  Mr. Morton continued. “When we took a break from fishing, he asked us all to sit down in the back of the boat while he told how Jesus had changed his life. His story was so much like mine—no father in the house, feeling different from other boys, not enough money to buy the things a child wanted—that I felt like I was looking in the mirror. But then he said everything changed when he asked Jesus to forgive his sins and take control of his life. The anger left, the bitterness went away, and he felt love on the inside. I’d never realized all that was wrong with me until he mentioned his own feelings. When he asked if anyone wanted to pray and ask Jesus to come into his heart, I raised my hand.”

  Mr. Morton opened his Bible and read a story about fishing. Jimmy knew Jesus’ disciples liked to go fishing. He’d seen the pictures in Bible storybooks. The disciples used nets instead of hooks, which seemed like an impossible way to catch fish. It was hard enough to convince a big carp to latch on to a hook carefully prepared with Grandpa’s secret mix, much less sneak up on a bunch of fish with a big black net. Fishermen in Piney Grove lied about the fish they caught all the time, but Jimmy knew the fishing stories in the Holy Bible had to be true; otherwise they wouldn’t be included in the book. Mr. Morton finished and closed his Bible.

  “That day the man who took me fishing caught more than fish; he caught me.”

  Denise raised her hand. “Is that why you’re teaching our class?”

  Mr. Morton smiled. “I can’t think of a better reason.”

  The bell signaling the end of the Sunday school hour chimed.

  “One other thing before we have our closing prayer,” Mr. Morton said. “Does anybody want to guess the kind of car the man who prayed with me drove?”

  “A Studebaker!” several students cried out.

  After Sunday school, Jimmy walked downstairs and peeked into the fellowship hall. He couldn’t see Mama or Daddy. The missionary, a small, thin woman with short gray hair, stood at the front of the room praying. Jimmy stepped back against the wall, and in a few seconds the people from the class poured into the hallway. Everyone who attended the First Baptist Church knew Jimmy. Several smiled and spoke to him as they passed by. Others patted him on the head. Mama and Daddy came out toward the back of the crowd. Jimmy held out his hand to Mama, who took it in hers. He still liked to hold Mama’s hand, especially when a lot of people were around. Mama’s hand always felt cool and inviting.

  “How was your class?” she asked.

  “Good. Did you know Denise’s brother is coming home?” he asked.

  “Yes, her mother told me,” Mama said.

  “She started crying when she talked about it. Were those good tears?”

  “Yes. Her brother’s life has totally turned around.”

  They continued down the hallway. Jimmy glanced up at Daddy.

  “Did the woman talk about eating worms?”

  “It was worse than I’d expected,” Daddy answered in a serious voice. “She described these squirmy green critters that came wrapped up in a banana leaf. They had a little bit of fuzz on them, and I bet they tickled her throat when—”

  “Enough, Lee,” Mama interrupted.

  They went outside. The prickly heat of the day was just beginning to simmer around the edges. The sidewalk was filled with families in their Sunday best. Low-cut bushes kept everyone in line as they flowed toward the broad steps leading to the sanctuary. Children weren’t allowed to run around between Sunday school and church, so each family formed its own cluster. Jimmy looked for Grandma’s gray head but didn’t see her. Grandpa only came to church at Christmas and Easter.

  The sanctuary of the First Baptist Church was one of the cleanest places in Jimmy’s world. The white walls didn’t have a smudge or a crack, and the deep burgundy carpet softly gave way beneath his feet. The air itself smelled extra clean. The church didn’t have stained-glass windows. Tall, narrow windows made of creamy-colored glass rose toward the high ceiling. Four massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Rows of white pews with the top and side railings stained a light brown marched toward the raised platform, where the pulpit waited for the preacher. Behind the pulpit was a broad choir loft. Mama used to sing in the choir, but after the new choir director arrived, she’d started sitting with Jimmy and Daddy. Jimmy liked having her close to him.

  The baptismal pool above the choir loft hid behind a sliding wall. Hope Springs, the other big Baptist church in town, had trees, bushes, and a river painted on the wall behind its baptismal pool. Jimmy’s family had visited the church for weddings and funerals, and Jimmy liked the picture, but Daddy rejected his suggestion that their church should paint a similar scene.

  The Mitchell family always sat slightly more than halfway toward the front on the left side of the sanctuary. The pews weren’t numbered, but Jimmy didn’t have to count the rows to know their spot. When it felt right, he turned into the pew. He always sat between Mama and Daddy. Grandma sat next to Daddy. The Roberts family sat in the other half of their pew. Their two children, twin girls, went to college in Atlanta, but no one filled in the gaps in case the daughters came home for a visit.

  The pews were padded. Jimmy liked to run his finger around the edge of the fabric buttons that dotted the burgundy pads. Once, he found a loose button that popped off when he barely touched it. Jimmy tried to replace it by pressing down hard, but Mama saw what happened and told one of the deacons about it. The next week the button was sewn back on the cushion. Jimmy felt better when everything in God’s house was perfect.

  Brother Fitzgerald always stepped into the pulpit to begin preaching at exactly 11:30 a.m.

  Daddy leaned over and whispered to Mama, “How does he always hit it right on the dot? He’s more reliable than an atomic clock.”

  Jimmy enjoyed the preaching. It wasn’t the message as much as the messenger that kept him focused. Brother Fitzgerald’s face and voice revealed what he wanted to say even more clearly than his words. He could twist his face in pain or smile so big that Jimmy could see his teeth. The preacher might speak in a whisper one second and then shout so loud that Jimmy jumped in his seat. Jimmy didn’t always understand the words, but the preacher’s feelings came through loud and clear. Today he was preaching about a man named John, who, like the missionary lady, ate bugs.

  “Is that John the first Baptist?” Jimmy asked Daddy.

  “Yes, the original article.”

  Jimmy sat up to pay closer attention. Brother Fitzgerald reached the climax of his message with loud cries for repentance.

  “And if you don’t repent, you will all perish!” he thundered, and then he stopped to let the words find their mark.

  “He’s not really mad,” Jimmy whispered to Daddy. “He’s having fun.”

  “I know. Be quiet.”

  The sermon
lasted until 12:10 p.m. and was followed by the altar call. Several people went forward to the front of the church. Some cried; others seemed happy. The choir continued to sing as Brother Fitzgerald called for more people to come forward. Daddy flipped through his Bible and checked his watch.

  Jimmy’s mind left the sanctuary and wandered past Mr. Morton’s fishing story to images of fuzzy green worms eaten by white-haired missionaries and crunchy locusts dipped in wild honey.

  — Seven —

  After the final amen, the sanctuary immediately echoed with a hundred conversations. Even folks in a hurry allowed a few minutes to tell their neighbors hello. Anything less would have been rude.

  Daddy left the pew and went outside, where he usually spent time with his friends under one of the large trees. Jimmy felt more comfortable beside Mama. Standing in a group of men and not knowing what to say made him nervous. He waited patiently while Mama worked out a schedule to provide meals to a family with a sick mother in the hospital. He followed her down the aisle into the bright sunshine.

  “Go get your daddy,” she said. “We need to get the food out of the oven and take it to Uncle Bart’s house as soon as possible. The Methodists have been out at least twenty minutes. Your aunt Jill will be miles ahead of me in getting dinner ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jimmy found Daddy talking to Mr. Robinson and two other lawyers who attended the church. Jimmy’s hope that he could pull on Daddy’s sleeve unnoticed proved hollow.

  “Here comes the witness now!” Mr. Robinson exclaimed.

  Without his black robe, the judge looked like an ordinary person. “What did you think about my courtroom?” he asked.

  Jimmy thought for a moment and tried to give an answer that would make Daddy proud of him. “Uh, it had pews and made me think about the church.”

  One of the lawyers slapped the judge on the back and raised his eyes toward the sky. “If only more people viewed the halls of justice with the same reverence they do the sanctuary of the Almighty.”

  “The boy is right,” Mr. Robinson shot back. “And I’ll expect you to start showing proper reverence or find yourself in contempt. I may not be able to send you to a place of eternal punishment, but I can make you regret your stay on earth. What else did you notice about court?” the judge asked Jimmy.