Harvest of Thorns

by Paul E. Wootten

  “I saw the original offer sheet.”

  “Earl wasn’t interested. I think he had put two and two together about me and The Covenant.”

  “He had. He made some notes about it on the agreement.”

  Smoot pursed his lips. “Helping the migrants made your daddy stronger. He was thinking straighter than I’d seen in years. Professor Stanley was a big help to him. Anyway, when Earl said no, I was told to back away from it. I was worried The Covenant might take things into their own hands, but your Daddy died so sudden—”

  Chan’s gut clenched. “You don’t think they had anything to do with his death, do you?”

  Smoot shook his head. “Toby at the funeral home said he had a bad heart, probably had it for years. That’s why he took care of the arrangements in advance.” Looking up at Chan, he said, “I don’t believe he thought you’d ever set foot on the island again.

  “Anyway, when you showed up, I was told to make my pitch, but I knew you wouldn’t bite. What I didn’t know was that they had something on Duke.”

  Smoot had to stop, struggling to control his anguish. Despite his pleas to stay longer, Chan decided to leave. The old man was worn out and more than anything, Chan wanted to see Lani and Ryan. He was on his way out the door, preparing to walk the ten miles to town, when he remembered something.

  “Mr. Smoot, you said The Covenant hadn’t been active in a long time.”

  He nodded.

  “You started to say something else, you said it had been dead for thirty years or so, since... and you stopped.”

  Another deep breath. Smoot hung his head, the tears flowing again.

  “They rolled that tractor over on your Mama.”

  Chan felt like a tractor had just rolled over on him. He struggled to catch his breath.

  “Two of the names on that list were the ones who done it. That puppy they gave you, it came from a litter on my farm.”

  NINETY

  The pews at Lighthouse Church had room for three hundred and fifty worshipers. During Pastor Duke’s tenure almost four hundred were attending Sunday worship, cramming themselves into pews, then overflowing into folding chairs in the aisles and the back of the church.

  Four weeks after his death, there was barely a third of that number.

  Rather than traditional services, the church leadership opted to devote each of the four Sundays to meditation and prayer. Some worshippers chose to stay to themselves, seated quietly in their usual spots, heads bowed. A few would gather at the altar, where they knelt together, praying in low tones.

  The mood remained somber, as people dealt first with the shock of Duke’s passing and the circumstances that had led to it, then with the arrests and indictments. Four men, long-time members of Lighthouse, including a deacon, were among those involved. The incidents had garnered national attention, and for the past month, most people stayed home to avoid the television cameras gathered around the courthouse.

  The church leadership finally decided it was time to move forward. Members were notified that regular church services would resume, and that the process of calling a new pastor was underway.

  Most in attendance were regular Lighthouse attendees. A few others came to see what would happen next. Clustered toward the rear on one side of the church were three dozen African Americans, residents of Grebey Island. A few had attended since their arrival, but many were first-timers.

  Gloom hung in the air like fog as the musicians took their places. Curtis Laffoon, a farmer and longtime deacon, faced the congregation, his navy blue suit tight in the middle and short at the sleeves. A man of few words, more comfortable on a tractor than addressing a congregation, Deacon Curtis’s ruddy face was etched with worry. It was obvious by his red-rimmed eyes that he had shed many tears. His closest friends knew he had also spent much time in prayer.

  He opened his Bible and read:

  “The waves of death surrounded me. The floods of destruction swept over me. The grave wrapped its ropes around me. Death itself stared me in the face.”

  The silence was palpable.

  “I’ve spent lots of time looking at everything that happened this last month and wondering where God was. Saxon County is my home. Stuff like what’s happened around here just... doesn’t happen around here.”

  The irony of Deacon Curtis’ words, his turn of phrase, struck a chord with the congregation; many nodded in agreement.

  “Anyways, like I said, I was wondering where God was. About two weeks ago I was reading the verse I just shared with you, from Second Samuel twenty-two, and thinking, that’s how I feel. Death, destruction, all that. It was taking over.

  “For three straight days I read that passage again and again. But you know what I didn’t do?”

  The only sounds were the shuffling of feet and the occasional soft squeak of a pew.

  “What I didn’t do was keep reading. Open your Bibles and read the part I missed.”

  Curtis waited while pages shuffled, then began to read.

  “But in my distress, I cried out to the Lord. Yes, I called to my God for help. He heard me from his sanctuary. My cry reached his ears.”

  Curtis closed his Bible. When he looked up he seemed different. His countenance had changed; there was a glow.

  “God doesn’t want us to dwell on human weakness.”

  Several softly spoken ‘Amens’ filled the quiet.

  “He don’t want us focusing on troubles.”

  More Amens.

  “He wants us to look to Him.”

  A change was underway. Heads nodded in agreement, a few more amens were uttered, louder now.

  “Whether we want it or not, Lighthouse Church has been put in the center of some of the worst things to ever happen in Saxon County. People are looking at us and asking, ‘how can they survive the scandal?’”

  “Well, my fellow deacons and I, people you have placed your trust in, feel our response should be based on God’s grace. Instead of saying, ‘why us,’ we choose to respond with, ‘watch us.’

  Scattered applause.

  “Starting today, let our tears be replaced by hope. Hope based on God’s grace.”

  More applause.

  “Let us live up to our name. Let us be a lighthouse.”

  Curtis looked to the Grebey Islanders.

  “Let us not just be a lighthouse to people who look like us, but a lighthouse to any people who call themselves children of God. Most of us here are related to someone else here. How many of you can look around and not spot a brother, cousin, or aunt?”

  Laughter echoed as people pointed at one another.

  “In the coming weeks, as we search for a new preacher, we’ll be wise to remember Jesus’ words to his disciples.” Curtis again opened his Bible.

  “‘Jesus replied, my mother and brother are those who hear God’s words and put them into practice.”

  Wiping his brow, visibly uncomfortable with the limelight, Curtis returned to his seat. The applause only subsided when three quick drum licks led into a favorite worship song. The next fifteen minutes were filled with songs of meditation, praise, and thanksgiving, sounds not heard at Lighthouse in more than a month.

  As the final song concluded, Deacon Curtis returned to the front, more relaxed than before.

  “Friends, the process of calling a pastor can take anywhere from a few weeks to a few months. The church leadership is pleased that God has answered our prayers and brought us an interim pastor to lead us during that time.”

  Heads turned as people tried to locate their new pastor.

  “It is my pleasure, and the pleasure of your church leaders, to call forward a compassionate and loving man of God. A man who has seen the best and worst life can offer. He is a farmer, a father, a scholar, but most of all, he’s a man of God.”

  The sanctuary was silent as Harvester Stanley stood amid the Grebey Islanders and moved to the pulpit.

  A silence finally broken by one person, seated in the second row, clapping his hands.
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  Stan Slaven continued to clap as he stood and watched Harvester ascend to the pulpit. He was joined by Miss Bertie, the church deacons, and the rest of the congregation. Slaven’s wife, Richelle, and his daughter, Officer Melissa Powter, stood next to him.

  Harvester stood with a countenance most hadn’t seen from the old man. He raised his hands to let the congregation know he was about to begin.

  “It is with much thanks to God that I stand before you today,”

  “May I speak please?” Heads turned to the back of the church. Richard Smoot, fedora in hand, stood in the doorway.

  Harvester motioned him forward.

  Stopping short of the pulpit, Smoot turned and faced the congregation. The last few weeks had aged him twenty years. He was badly stooped, and worry lines crisscrossed his face.

  “Since news got out of my role in what happened last month, a few people have approached me and called me a hero.”

  “You are a hero, Richard,” a middle-aged man said, a sentiment echoed by others.

  “Not really,” Smoot said, taking a moment to sort his thoughts.

  “You see, my role in all this came about when a good friend of mine contacted me to tell me that my name was on an old list of people associated with The Covenant.”

  The announcement caused a stir.

  “Not you Richard,” a plump woman protested.

  “Yes me, Miriam. Anyway, it took my secret being brought into the open to get me to this point, and I thank God every day that He exposed me.

  “I’m sorry and ashamed for harboring racist views for so many years. To you folks living on Grebey Island, I apologize to you and hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. In the future I think you’ll find a much different Richard Smoot than the one who would have given you the cold shoulder before.”

  Richard moved slowly down the center aisle, heading for the door. When he was halfway down the aisle, he stopped and turned to his right. Tears filled his eyes as he struggled to say what he needed to say.

  “Chan Manning, more than anyone else, it’s you I owe the biggest apology to. You just started a new job, and I appreciate you coming back from Louisville to be here for Professor Stanley today.”

  Smoot fought to maintain his composure.

  “I knew what you were dealing with growing up. I saw some of it, and heard about a lot more.”

  Another deep breath.

  “And I never did a thing to stop it. And now, with my own boy in jail, I realize how big a hole it leaves in your heart when you lose a son. Earl Manning should never have lost a son. I saw it all happen, yet did nothing. I probably don’t have much time left on earth. God knows what I’ve gone through the past month alone. Honestly, there are days when I wish I didn’t have to get out of bed.

  “But I want you to know this, Chan,” Smoot said, raising his gaze to take in the entire congregation. “And I want everyone else to know it, too. Saxon County can no longer abide or tolerate the narrow-mindedness that led to Pastor Duke’s death. We need to work together, as one people. There’s no room for hatred or racism.

  “Professor Stanley... Pastor Stanley... you can help begin the healing. I want you to know that you have my full support.”

  Smoot made his way toward the rear of the church where most assumed he would continue out the door. At the back, he turned into a row and politely made his way to a seat amongst the Grebey Island Migrants.

  NINETY-ONE

  The passing of many rainy seasons caused the door to stick. Chan put his shoulder against it and pushed it open. Dozens of empty feed sacks were piled in a corner, put there by his father for some future use that never came. A mouse scurried across the floor and disappeared into a closet. Dust particles glinted in the sunshine streaming from the east-facing windows, taking Chan back twenty-five years.

  “Move your desk out of the sun. It’ll be easier to get your work done.”

  It was unsettling to see the tiny desk he had used. He made his way through a quarter century of rubble and examined it closely; a throwaway, salvaged from a trash pile and brought to the schoolhouse by an Adair School custodian. Chan remembered him grumbling about having to drag it all the way down to the island ‘for a nigra.’ He’d also brought a badly-cracked slate blackboard, two boxes of books, and a warped wooden teacher desk and chair. Opening the door to the closet where the mouse had disappeared, Chan found one of the boxes. A label he had been unable to read as a six-year old stared up at him: Grebey Island Nigger School.

  Pushed to one corner of the tiny classroom was that old teacher’s desk, littered with trash and mouse droppings. Chan lifted the lid and peered inside. Empty. Almost undetectable but still there, Chan breathed in a scent that brought forth pleasant memories, a fusion of leather and mothballs.

  Mr. Meekins.

  Guilt laid itself upon him as he stood over the old desk. Why hadn’t he kept in touch with Mr. Meekins? His home in Cape Girardeau was only forty-five minutes away. The last time they had seen each other was the day Mr. Meekins gifted him the Bible and encouraged him to begin reading. For a summer, he had.

  After searching around for a few minutes, he located the old chair Mr. Meekins used. He pulled it up to the desk and sat down. More memories. The tan suit coat Mr. Meekins wore every day. The hours they spent side-by-side, putting letters together, learning addition and subtraction, and perfecting the neat penmanship that Chan still prided himself on.

  Just when he thought he’d exhausted all there was to remember, more surfaced. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there when he heard her.

  “Channing has demonstrated academic skills that could allow him to easily bypass third grade.” For a moment, Chan thought he imagined it. Then, looking over his shoulder he saw her standing in the doorway, reading from a yellowed file folder.

  Theresa.

  “He is in no way mentally retarded or deficient. If shown the appropriate level of consideration and respect, he will outperform any white child in the Adair School System.”

  “Where did you... ?” Rather than answer, she returned her attention to the file.

  “The previous decision of Adair School principal Lowell Surratt to refuse Channing’s entry into the public elementary school represents an egregious breach of both the law and common sense.” She flipped the paper over and continued to read.

  “It is my intent to pursue legal recourse on Channing’s behalf to ensure that he is given the same level of education available to white students in Saxon County. I have engaged legal representation through the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and together we will help this young scholar realize his dreams.”

  Theresa folded the sheet of paper and returned it to the folder.

  “He did all that?”

  Theresa smiled sadly. “Vance Meekins was a special person. Did you know that he wasn’t offered the opportunity to teach in the integrated schools in Cape County? When they closed the colored school, he was fired.”

  “I remember him saying he cleaned a church.”

  “Mount Zion African Methodist Episcopal Church. Cleaned it every week for twenty years.”

  Chan stood and crossed the dusty room, gently taking the file from Theresa.

  “How did you...?”

  “Not me, my father.”

  “Harvester? Was he friends with Mr. Meekins?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well how then?”

  “Papa inherited all of his papers when he passed away.”

  Chan considered this for a moment.

  “So they were friends.”

  Theresa’s smile was sad.

  “Like I said, not exactly. Remember I told you I was adopted?”

  “Of course,” Chan said. “I remember Harvester telling us about it at lunch the other day. Your grandfather was older and didn’t think he could take care of you.”

  “Vance Meekins was my biological grandfather and a friend of Harvester’s daddy from their days
in Alabama. They stayed in touch through the years.

  “It was he who asked Daddy to adopt me.”

  NINETY-TWO

  “And finally this morning, a special story from a rural community in the Midwest. Channel Thirty-Five’s Chan Manning reports live from Saxon County, Missouri.”

  “Thanks Jennifer. I’m standing inside a small schoolhouse, where for the first time in more than a quarter century, students are arriving for class. Two-dozen students in kindergarten through eighth grade are enrolled in the new Charlene Stanley-Vance Meekins School. This building, as beautiful as it looks today, was home to little more than feed sacks and mice just a month ago. Much of the credit for the new school goes to Harvester Stanley, retired professor of Agriculture at Penn State University, who joins me now. Professor Stanley, how did you make this happen so quickly?”

  “Chan, many people are responsible for us being here today. There were generous donations from churches, civic organizations, and individuals from around the country who identified with our story. Then, of course there were the parents of these wonderful children. They spent many hours bringing this beautiful old school back to life. And I would never want to forget Bertha Mae Ellis, who has worked tirelessly to make sure every detail was taken care of.”

  “Thank you, Professor. And speaking of Mrs. Ellis, she joins me now. Is there anything you can add to Professor Stanley’s comments?”

  “There certainly is, Channing. Harvester is too modest to mention that he’s contributed a significant amount of money himself. Also, the Stanley-Meekins School wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for Adair School Superintendent Lowell Surratt, Jr. Mr. Surratt’s short-sightedness and stubborn nature led to this school’s creation. Lowell thinks that migrant children aren’t as smart as other kids. He wanted to stick them in a room where they’d be by themselves all day. It’s a dumb idea, and I’m sure most of your viewers feel the same. In fact, five of the twenty-four students here today come from long-time Saxon County families who saw how silly Lowell Surratt’s thinking was. They pulled their kids out of the public school and sent them here.”