Authors: Olive Ann Burns
"Aw, Mary Willis honey, come on in here and set down." Motioning toward the rocking chair, he grinned up at her. "Did you bring me a snort, by any chance? Miss Love ain't no diff rent from yore ma when it comes to whiskey in the closet."
Mama actually burst out laughing. I did, too, and so did Miss Love. Grandpa almost laughed but had to keep it to a smirk. Laughing hurt his ribs.
I knew Mama had come mostly to be with her daddy. Miss Love was not one she had in mind when she said what fam'lies are for is to hep in time of trouble. But Miss Love seemed real glad to have her there.
I didn't get back again till after dinner Sunday. By then the whole house smelled like turpentine.
Thinking Grandpa might be asleep, I tiptoed down the hall instead of calling out. Just as I was about to peep into his room, I heard him and Miss Love talking soft and easy in there, the way people do when they're resting and in no hurry.
I knew I ought to announce my presence. But instead, drawing back behind the open door, I looked at them through the slit between it and the door frame. I could see them easy. Miss Love, in a pretty yellow dress, was lying a-top the sheet on Granny's side of the bed, her head cradled in the crook of Grandpa's left elbow.
He lay on his left side, a thin nightshirt over the tight binding around his chest, the sheet pulled up to his waist. And gosh, he had his right arm laid across Miss Love's stomach! His eyes were closed.
To save me, I couldn't move or speak.
"Are you about to go to sleep, Rucker?" she asked softly.
He said, "Naw, I'm jest lookin' at the inside a-my eyelids."
"What?"
"I got my eyes shet and I'm a-lookin'. Which ain't the same as jest havin' yore eyes closed. Did you know you can shet yore eyes and see in the dark? At night it's like lookin' at a moldy old prune—jest all kinds a-gray dots and lines and curlicues amidst the blackness." Turning his face towards the window, which was a block of bright sunshine, he exclaimed, "But gosh a'mighty, Love honey, it's so much more to look at now! Hit's like watchin' a dang sunset. Mostly red and orange, but they's streaks a-brown, too, and a big purple blob thet moves, and here come some little green dots!"
"What on earth are you talking about?" Miss Love thought Grandpa was joking. I did, too. I near bout laughed out loud.
His eyes still closed, he grinned. "Shet yore eyes and look. You'll see."
Miss Love did what she was told, turning her head towards the window as her black lashes brushed her freckled cheeks.
I shut my eyes, too. In order to see the sunshine, I held my face up close to the crack in the door.
"I see what you mean!" she exclaimed. "Why, it's beautiful, Rucker! I never noticed before! Goodness, it would make a lovely design for dress goods. But ... what's the point?"
"Ain't no point. Jest something to do when you cain't sleep. Leastways thet's how I got onto it last night. When I went to lookin', and marvelin' how much I could see in the dark, I quit thinkin' words and then I started to git sleepy. The surprise was when God come into the pitcher. I don't mean I saw God. I ... well, I felt him, like He was inside a-me, or at least closer than my nose, stead a-bein' way off up in the clouds somewhere thet I cain't reach to." His voice softened. "Hit feels like thet now, Love. Hit must be what the Bible means by 'Peace, be still,' or 'Be still and know thet I am God.'"
For a while neither one said anything. Then Miss Love asked, "Are you praying now, Rucker?"
"No'm. Like I say, I'm jest a-starin' at my eyelids. Ifn I went to prayin', I'd be sayin' words, thinkin' bout myself and what I want and what I'm scairt of. This way I ain't thinkin' nothin'. I'm jest feelin' God's presence. Hit makes me feel safe—like I can do anythang I got to, includin' stand all this dang pain. I reckon it sounds like foolish-ment. You prob'ly think I'm off in the head, Love, like them folks that has visions."
"No," she said softly, "because I feel it, too."
"Don't it seem like yore brain ain't cluttered up? Like if'n the Lord wanted to tell you something, you'd know what it was?"
"Yes, it feels like that," she murmured.
A covey of goosebumps thrilled up the backs of my arms, because it felt like that to me, too.
"Well, let's say a-men now. I'm th'ew lookin' at my eyelids. I rather look at you a while."
Opening my own eyes, I saw Miss Love smile, and him smile back, so tender. They lay there a few minutes, neither one speaking. Then, rubbing his whiskers, he said, "Is this Sunday?"
She nodded.
"Then I ain't shaved in ne'ly three days. Hit's got so I cain't stand whiskers, Love." He grinned at her. "See what you done? I used to didn't care." Another silence, and he said, "You miss goin' to the Methodist church, don't you?"
She hesitated. "Sometimes. Well, every Sunday. It's the way I was brought up."
"You miss thet collection plate goin' around, and Miss Effie Belle plowin' up and down the pi-ana? And all them dull an-nounce-ments, not to mention them dull sermons?"
"I wouldn't swap one of your sermons to have all that." She laughed, then got serious. "But I like being part of a congregation. I miss the people, Rucker."
"All them dang hypocrites?"
"My mother always said never expect church members to be perfect. Christians are still people."
"Well, she spoke the truth there."
"Most of us Christians need to go to church, Rucker. By ourselves, we feel uneasy about God, and we're too bashful to pray except when we're sick or scared. We read our Bibles, but we never think things out the way you do. But you—it's a wonder God didn't call you to preach, Rucker."
"Ain't I been preachin' to you?"
"I mean in a church. I mean really preach." She smiled at him so sweet.
I was getting restless. I wanted to leave. But a board creaked the first step I took, so I decided to wait a little. It being Sunday, they'd probably go on to sleep. Long as I could remember, Mama and Papa had gone to their room every Sunday after dinner and shut the door, and we knew better than to wake them up.
"I got called to preach one time," said Grandpa. "Up in the mountains when I was a-peddlin'." He laughed. "But it warn't the Lord thet called me. I done the callin'. Called myself Brother Blakeslee, itinerant Baptist preacher and peddler of fine merchandise."
"Oh, you didn't!" Grinning, she raised up on her elbow to look at him. "Why in the—"
"I'd jest come out of the War. I'd had my fill a-sleepin' in the woods and cookin' over a dang campfire. I reasoned thet them mountain folks would feed a preacher and put him up, and then buy his blankets and needles to hep with the Lord's work. Well'm, it shore did backfire! I got me a invite to preach, but I warn't into my sermon hardly when a mean-eyed man on the front row stood up and cussed me out. Said I must be the Devil Incarnate, or at least his agent, cause I shore warn't no True Believer. A-mens rose up all over thet little room."
"Goodness! What did you do?"
"Thought fast, I tell you. 'Wait a minute, folks!' I shouted. 'All what I jest said, thet was s'posed to be the Devil a-talkin'. Now if y'all will shet up, I'll tell you what God said back to thet old fork-tail varmint.' I warn't go'n let a bunch a-dang hill people run me off. I went at it, makin' up stories bout sinners thet God had punished, and spoutin' hellfire and damnation and all the other preacher stuff I could think of." He grinned. "Didn't make a dang bit a-sense, but they liked it. Wanted me back next Sunday. But I'd learnt my lesson, Love. I vowed it was the last time I'd try to tell bout my Jesus and my God to folks with rock minds."
He blew at a curl near her ear. She shivered, giggled. "Quit. That tickles."
"You rather me preach? I wisht I felt up to havin' our Sunday time in the parlor. I got a good sermon worked out for you."
"Well, I could go play some hymns."
Oh my gosh, where could I hide right quick?
"Not now, Love," said Grandpa. "I rather have you layin' here by me. You hep me forgit the pain, and I don't feel so sick."
Another silence. "What's it about?" She sounded lazy, sleepy. "The sermon, I mean."
"Something Will Tweedy's been questionin'. He don't unner-stand why Jesus said, 'Ast, and it shall be given.' He says why would Jesus say sech a thang when it ain't always so?"
"That's easy to explain, Rucker. Tell Will that sometimes God has to say no for our own good, or to teach us something, or show His power. Sometimes it's just not His will to give us a certain thing. Or He wants to test our faith and see if we trust Him no matter what."
Grandpa laughed. "Love, you sound like ever preacher I ever heard. But Jesus didn't say God might say no when we say gimme. He said God's go'n say yes. Anythang we ast for, we go'n git it. Well, hungry folks pray for food, but they shore don't all git fed. And sick folks beg Him for healin', but lots of'm die, or maybe live on in bed. Jesus had to mean something diff rent from what folks think He meant, else to my mind He was a dang fool to go round promisin' what God wouldn't do. But Jesus warn't no fool, Love. So what did He mean?"
Distressed, she sat up and said to Grandpa, "Please, Rucker. Don't talk sacrilege."
"Hit ain't sacrilege. Miss Erne Belle says when she cain't think what to have for dinner, she asts God and right off He gives her a idea. To my thinkin', thet's sacrilege."
Miss Love really laughed. "There's not a woman in the world who hasn't prayed what to cook for dinner, Rucker!"
"Well, God give y'all cookbooks for thet. Anyhow, when I got to ponderin' on it last night, the word
ast
commenced to jump at me like sheep comin' over a fence.
Ast. Ast. Ast.
But ast for what? For meat and bread? For healin' miracles? Are we s'posed to ast 'Lord, give me the answers on the arithmetic test,' 'Lord git me hired over the next feller,' 'Lord, give me a son'? Gosh a'mighty, how I used to ast thet'n, Love!" He looked long and tender at her, and kissed her cheek.
"And didn't God send you Will Tweedy?"
Gosh, I hadn't thought of that!
"Maybe He did," said Grandpa. "Then agin maybe He sent me you so I could have another crack at it." I could see Miss Love blush, and, out in the hall, I blushed. Grandpa didn't. "But I don't think He planned Will Tweedy for me. I don't even think He sent me you. You and Will jest happened in the way of thangs. God ain't said you won't git nothin' good less'n you pray for it. But I'm shore thankful for you, Love." He touched a finger to her chin and her mouth, then rested his hand on her cheek.
His voice softened as he went on. "Another thang to think on: some folks ain't said pea-turkey to God in years. They don't ast Him for nothin', don't specially try to be good, and don't love nobody the way Jesus said to—cept their own self. But they go'n git jest bout as much or as little in the way a-earthly goods as the rest of us. They go'n have sorrows and joys, failures and good times. And when they come down sick they go'n git well or die, one, jest same as the prayin' folks. So don't thet tell you something bout prayin'? Ain't the best prayin' jest bein' with God and talkin' a while, like He's a good friend, stead a-like he runs a store and you've come in a-hopin' to git a bargain?"
Miss Love frowned. "Rucker, you can't write Holy Scripture. It's already been written."
"Well, I shore can question what it means." With a heavy groan, trying to shift a little to get comfortable, he put his arm across her stomach again. "And hit fine'ly come to me in the night, what Jesus must a-meant by
ast.
You want to be like them folks with rock brains, or you want to hear it?"
She smiled. "I want to hear it."
I put in my journal all the above. Also the answer that had come to Grandpa.
"When Jesus said ast and ye shall receive, I don't think He meant us to pray 'Lord, spare my child,' or 'Make it rain for the crops,' or 'Don't let my bizness fail.' I don't even think Jesus meant us to ast for—"
"—for a house or a piano?" She put her hand on his open palm. He laughed, and lifted her hand and kissed it.
"Naw, and not even for a husband or any other sech favor. The Lord's Prayer does say, 'Give us this day our daily bread,' but thet's the only dang thang Jesus ast for in the whole prayer thet you can
letch.
They ain't nothin' in the Lord's Prayer says 'Make me well.' I'm tempted to pray thet right now, hurtin' like I am. But I don't think Jesus meant us to think we can git healed jest by beggin' for it." Grandpa laughed kind of rueful. "God made us so we want to stay alive. He put healin' power in our bodies. We don't have to beg Him to save us. All we got to do is accept bein' sick, do what Doc says, and trust thet God wants us to git well if'n we can."
Miss Love broke in. "In the Bible, Jesus only healed the people who asked Him to—and believed He could. If Jesus could heal, can't God? If we pray and have faith?"
"Well'm, faith ain't no magic wand or money-back gar'ntee, either one. Hit's jest a way a-livin'. Hit means you don't worry th'ew the days. Hit means you go'n be holdin' on to God in good or bad times, and you accept whatever happens. Hit means you respect life like it is—like God made it—even when it ain't what you'd order from the wholesale house. Faith don't mean the Lord is go'n make lions lay down with lambs jest cause you ast him to, or make fire not burn. Some folks, when they pray to git well and don't even git better, they say God let'm down. But I say thet warn't even what Jesus was a-talkin' bout. When Jesus said ast and you'll git it, He was givin' a gar'ntee a-spiritual healin', not body healin'. He was sayin' thet if'n you git beat down—scairt to death you cain't do what you got to, or scairt you go'n die, or scairt folks won't like you—why, all you got to do is put yore hand in God's and He'll lift you up. I know it for a fact, Love. I can pray, 'Lord, hep me not be scairt,' and I don't know how, but it's like a eraser wipes the fears away. And I found out long time ago, when I look on what I got to stand as a dang hardship or a burden, it seems too heavy to carry. But when I look on the same dang thang as a challenge, why, standin' it or acceptin' it is like you done entered a contest. Hit even gits excitin', waitin' to see how everthang's go'n turn out."