I think he got his verses on sighing from the Book of Lamentations, which is full of doom and gloom. When you can’t pray and you sigh a lot, Reverend Osborne said Jesus is listening and hears them sighs as if they were words. I remember reading in one of the Gospels that Jesus sighed himself, so I guess he knows good and well what a sigh means.
I needed to go to the bathroom, but I tell you, I did not want that sermon to end. As far as I was concerned, he could’ve gone on all day. But he wound it up in the sweetest kind of way. He quoted a verse from Revelation, telling us our prayers go up before the throne of the Lord as incense, a sweet-smelling fragrance that fills heaven.
Can you beat that? Made me want to come right home and get on my knees. As we filed out of church, I shook Reverend Osborne’s hand, but I could hardly speak I was so full. He took me aside and leaned down close to my ear to speak privately. “You know, Esmeralda, when I was a young man entering the ministry, my pastor told me, ‘Robert, always speak to the broken hearts. There’s one in every pew.’ When I started out preaching, I didn’t pay much attention to that. I guess a man has to have a broken heart himself before he can . . .” His voice cracked, and he let go my hand.
Now I know people might say a man of the cloth ought to be able to live above his disappointments and so forth. Maybe he should, but he’s human too, the same as me. One thing is sure: Pastor Osborne didn’t put on a happy face and pretend he had not got a care in the world, like the hypocrites do.
I had invited Boris to come for Sunday dinner so I could talk to him about that Nashville music, but after hearing Pastor Osborne’s sermon, I was glad he didn’t come. I wanted to be by myself.
Well, somebody had invited Boris to be their guest at the restaurant. After morning service, the church crowd always goes to the all-you-can-eat restaurant here in town. Once, one of the waitresses told me she hates to see them come in.
“They forget their manners, if they have any,” she said. “It’s ‘Miss’ this and ‘Miss’ that. You can’t fill up their tea glasses fast enough. And there’s one lady always says she ordered something else, not what I brought her. And there are others who’ll say the food is cold or too salty. There’s one man always asks if the mashed potatoes are made with instant potatoes, when he ought to know by now that’s the only kind we serve. You would think after what they put me through, they would all leave a big tip. I do well to get fifty cents from some of them, but I get tracts every Sunday. I tell you, Esmeralda, if that crowd would eat at home on Sundays, maybe I could get off now and then to go to church myself.”
I’m glad I don’t go out to eat with that crowd; they would embarrass me to death. Papa brought us up to remember the Sabbath day and to keep it holy. I don’t condemn anybody for eating out and shopping on Sunday, mind you, but I can’t do it. For me, it’s a sin. Besides, like I say, I love my Sundays.
For dinner I had a pot roast with onions and gravy, real mashed potatoes, slaw, and green beans cooked the way Mama always cooked them, with seasoning. And I made good biscuits and ice tea that has got the flavor it is meant to have.
After I ate and cleaned up the kitchen, I flopped in my recliner. Started to read my Bible but couldn’t keep my eyes open. So I took a little nap. That refreshed me, and when I woke up, I felt like singing.
Over a lifetime I have sung the same hymns so many times I can sing all the verses without looking at the book. Right now, if I was to call up Beatrice and ask her what hymn is on page fifty, without looking, she could tell me “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” Or if I asked, “Page ninety-four?” she could tell me in a skinny minute it is “At Calvary.” In fact, we sung them two so much the pages have fell out the book.
I can’t always sing around the house when I’m working, but sometimes I do. If anybody was to hear me, they’d probably think I was hog calling. But on Sunday I rear back in this chair and sing to my heart’s content. I never get tired of singing, but my main business on Sunday afternoon is to get in a lot more praying than I get done weekdays. True, sometimes my mind wanders and I start thinking about other things. I hate that.
If I was talking to somebody visiting me, I sure wouldn’t be looking out the window or over their shoulder at somebody or something else. That would be impolite. But with the Lord, well, if you’ve ever done much praying, you’ve had the same experience, I’m sure. I’ll tell you one way that helps ease my conscience. I tell myself that whatever my mind wanders off to, that’s something I ought to be praying about. And I sometimes pray out loud. That’s beginning to come natural with me, because to tell the truth, I feel like the Lord is right here with me some Sunday afternoons. Even when I don’t feel it, I believe he’s here.
By the time I finished my Bible reading, I didn’t have time to read Splurgeon. I had to get up and get ready for evening service.
By the middle of the week, I had a letter from Beatrice, and wouldn’t you know it, she mentioned about how her mind wanders when she’s praying.
In the letter, she didn’t mention her foot problem, so she must’ve gotten over that.
Dear Esmeralda,
I hope this finds you in good health. I am fine. I am not sleeping much before one or two o’clock in the morning because of them two upstairs. That gives me a lot of time to think. I pray for them but my mind wanders. There’s just so long you can pray for somebody.
I went to preaching this morning and there were some young people playing musical instruments and singing songs they must of made up. They would sing a line or two and then repeat it over and over again. They sang good and they looked so clean and happy. I guess their music is like what they listen to on the radio and that’s all they know. For me I wish they sang “In the Garden.” Mama used to sing that even when she was so sick she couldn’t get up anymore.
A lot of people object to all of this new music. They say it’s too much like rock and roll. It’s like when we were young and sang some jazzy choruses the old people didn’t like.
I don’t know if I am right about this or not but I got to thinking that music is like a language. Everybody don’t speak the same language. If a missionary was to go to China he couldn’t just speak English, he’d have to learn to speak Chinese, wouldn’t he? If somebody is trying to reach young people today, wouldn’t he have to use their kind of music?
Well, I don’t know how to explain it good, but do you understand what I’m trying to say? I know you are smarter than me, but this just come to me sitting there in church thinking about Mama singing “In the Garden.”
Yours very truly,
Beatrice
P.S. I’m glad Boris Krantz won over Clara. Maybe the W.W.s won’t run him off after all.
Well, I never thought I’d live to see the day when Beatrice Thompson would set me back on my heels like she did with that letter. I was so glad Boris did not come for Sunday dinner, because I would’ve shot off my mouth about the new music. I saw then that I would’ve been dead wrong. What Beatrice said about music made good sense, and good sense is not something comes natural with her.
All day long, I turned it over and over in my mind, arguing this way and that, but every argument I had was trumped by what she wrote. Seeing I couldn’t win, I guessed that the Lord was in this thing. That letter coming in the nick of time to keep me from making a fool of myself was nothing less than God’s providence, and I knew I better not be stubborn about giving in.
I have to laugh now when I think about it. Imagine Beatrice Thompson setting me straight!
I still don’t like that kind of music, but I keep my mouth shut about it. Pastor Osborne does see to it that we sing hymns. His favorite is “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” I like that one, but my favorite is “How Firm a Foundation.”
Well, I got to go hoe the garden. Like every summer, it seems, it’s been so dry even the weeds have not got the heart to grow. The best they can do is wiggle out the ground, then keel over. Ha! Ha!
7
The fat was in the fire! Elijah’s mul
e fell sick, and he come to Reverend Osborne to ask him to pray for Maude. Well, Reverend Osborne did, and when the W.W.s heard tell of it, they went ballistic! They said they never heard of nobody praying for a mule.
Well, I stood up for Pastor Osborne and Elijah and especially Maude. I opened up telling how I prayed for Flossie Ann and how I found her in the dresser drawer. I told them I for one knew it was A-OK to pray for any mule, cow, hog, dog—any of God’s creatures.
Seeing I was winning, I let them in on the fact that Splurgeon thought animals went to heaven, not because they were saved but because they were God’s creations and they belonged to him. Boy, did that raise a hullabaloo!
They said flat out they didn’t believe me, and I told them they were in no position to argue with Mr. Splurgeon, who was a great man of God.
Clara got so loud, you could hear her in the next county. “You mean to tell me you think there’s dogs and cats running around in heaven?”
And prissy Mabel Elmwood piped up, “If there’s a dog in heaven, I’m not going up there. I’m scared to death of dogs.”
There was no use arguing with them. That Yankee, Thelma, grinning like a Cheshire cat, asked, “Do all animals go to heaven, or do some of them go to hell?”
Well, I told her I did not know, because I’d never been there. I felt like saying, “Maybe you can check that out when you go.” But I didn’t. Instead, I picked up my pocketbook, Bible, and quarterly and left before the bell rang.
I knew those women would spend the rest of the class period talking about it not being right to pray for animals. I tell you, I wanted no part of it. I knew where I stood. I also knew that as soon as the W.W.s got home, my phone would ring off the hook.
Sure enough, as soon as they all got home from the restaurant, they started calling. Every one of them started out mealymouthed, saying they were sorry if they had hurt my feelings. But I knew them women. I knew that was not the reason they were calling me. Because they were all agreed I was wrong and they were right; they were feeling their oats and wanted to keep on enjoying their win.
I could tell they had all got in on it together, because they repeated their comments in the same words. They said the preacher had not only prayed for Maude, he had called the vet and paid out of his own pocket to have the vet take a look at her. That, they said, was putting feet to his prayer, which was not faith at all. Besides, where’d he get money to spend like that?
Those women made me tired. They wouldn’t go to the preacher and have anything out with him. They were afraid they might learn something, I guess. If truth be known, they stood in awe of him. They knew what Reverend Osborne was, and down in their hearts, they must’ve known what they were. They had all got tongues that flapped at both ends and talked behind his back, stirring up trouble.
Well, I would have no part of it, and I told them I was praying for Maude too, and what did they think of that?
Thelma, for one, hung up on me.
Before I could get down to Elijah’s and see about Maude, she died. I decided not to put Elijah on the prayer chain, but somebody did, and they all came to me, asking what the W.W.s should do. I told them I was making some stew beef and rice and that they were welcome to come along with me to take it to poor Elijah.
Oh, but I knew what they were thinking. I knew good and well what they were thinking—that Maude dying proved it was wrong to pray for animals. That would come out sooner or later; when it did, I’d be ready for them.
Clara insisted on driving, and we all piled in her car with my stew beef and biscuits and cobbler somebody else had made. Elijah lives down on the branch that runs under the old Southern tracks. Clara took a wrong turn on a dirt road, and we wound up above his place alongside the tracks. An old yeller boxcar was on a siding, and there was three little children sitting on a pile of railroad ties. We told them to go on home, but they just looked at us like they weren’t going anyplace. Thelma said they didn’t speak English. Well, I couldn’t agree. Since they spoke not a word, how did she know? But what I did know was that they were too little to be by themselves. Some grown-up was nearby, probably relieving themself, I said.
We had a mischief of a time scrambling down the embankment to get to Elijah’s place. We dared not hold on to each other for fear we’d all wind up in a heap at the bottom. Elijah was sitting under the chinaberry tree with his head in his hands. We took the food inside, and when I came out to see about him, he looked up. He was so pitiful, crying just the way he did when Bud died. When I saw them trails of tears on his old dusky cheeks, I put my arms around him and hugged him good. Then I asked him to come inside, since the ladies wanted to visit with him.
As you might suspect, when I was warming up the stew beef and rice, Clara sided up to me and took me to task about how it was not proper for a white woman to hug a colored man. I apologized and said sweetly that I never noticed he was colored. That jerked a knot in her! Someday I’m going to tell her how many a time Elijah has sat at my dinner table. That will give her a dying duck fit.
Yes, Elijah has sat at my table, and I would not have it any other way. After the way he looked after Bud, what kind of a Christian would I be if I did not count him as a family friend? Why, he never left the room before he got down on his knees and prayed for Bud and me. And since Bud died, Elijah has helped me all he can. He taught me how to plant by the signs and how to tell the weather, all of which my own dear papa never took the time to teach me.
Well, Elijah was so tore up and shaking so bad, I knew there was more than Maude’s dying troubling him. I had to do something, so I asked him why he was shaking. He said the city was coming to take Maude and that he was afraid they would sell her to the meat-packing plant to cut her up in little pieces for dog food. I told him not to worry, that I would take care of everything.
And I did.
I passed the word to all the W.W.s that we were to stay put until that truck came. We were all standing outside Elijah’s place when the truck rolled up with a white driver and four black men workers with shovels. I marched right up to the cab of that truck and introduced myself and the W.W.s He said he was Horace. Well, I didn’t need no introduction. I knew who he was; he was the sheriff’s son.
I began my speech by telling him I was a personal friend of the city manager, Roger Elmwood, who also was an elder in our church. “Furthermore,” I said, “his wife would be standing here with us, but she declined our invitation due to health reasons. These W.W. ladies and me are here to see to it that Maude—she’s the mule—is not sold to the dog-food plant.”
He grinned. “Well, ma’am, I’ll have to see about that.” He rolled up the window and got on the radio to call headquarters. All the time he was on the radio, he was laughing like this was some big joke. He stayed on the line for more time than I liked. When he finally hung up, he grinned and said, “Don’t worry about it, ma’am. We’ll see this mule gets a decent burial.”
Well, I was not fool enough to take him at his word. I told him that me and the W.W.s were going to follow his truck and see to it he done what he said.
I could see he didn’t like that one bit. Too bad for him.
It was Clara’s car, so I couldn’t take Elijah along. But that was just as well, I guess. Horace drove that truck through town like a house afire, no doubt thinking he could shake us. But Clara had put Thelma behind the wheel, and Thelma stayed right on his bumper every turn he made. After swinging back and forth all over town, we finally wound up at the garbage dump.
We piled out, the city workers piled out, and then we just stood there like it was a face-off at a basketball game, them leaning on their shovels and us all in a row.
Horace jumped down from the cab, red in the face. “This is no place for you ladies! You are every one trespassing on city property! Whyn’t you all go on home before you get arrested?”
Well, it dawned on me then that not only was Horace the sheriff’s son, but in addition to driving the city truck, he was made the deputy by his daddy, which m
eant he took two bites out of our tax money. I realized this man could make trouble for us, but I didn’t share this with the other ladies. We had no choice but to stick by our guns, even if he radioed for help and dragged us off to the city jail. As for Roger Elmwood backing us up, we couldn’t count on that unless it was good for him politically.
As Horace fumed, the laborers turned their faces away, thoroughly enjoying the standoff. Finally, Horace said, “Get going with those shovels, men.”
After they had dug a hole about three feet deep, he said they could stop.
“Oh, no,” Thelma said. “That won’t do. Dogs will dig poor Maude up. You’ve got to dig down—how far, Esmeralda?”
“Ten feet or more.”
The workmen looked at Horace, hoping he’d say no. I tell you, he looked like he might. But he just started cursing, calling us names and kicking at the dirt.
I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but I bit my tongue. Finally, he swore again, looked disgusted, and climbed back in the cab.
That just goes to show you that what Splurgeon said is true: “If a donkey brays at you, you don’t have to bray back.”
The men would dig a little, then stop to wipe sweat. From time to time, they all slacked up, resting on their shovels. But we didn’t say anything, and seeing as Horace was not getting out of the cab, they’d go back to digging.
The sun was getting low by the time it looked like they had dug deep enough. All of us women peered over the hole, and when each one had nodded their approval, Clara told the workers they could stop digging and go get Maude.
By the time they unloaded Maude and dumped her in the hole, it was getting late, but we dared not leave. We waited until every spade of dirt had filled up the grave. Then I went to the cab and told Horace we would be back every day to make sure Maude was not dug up again. He spit out the window, revved up the motor, and after the workers had climbed aboard, he roared back to town.
Mercy Me Page 4
