by Don McNair
***
Wayne was trapped in his new realization of his disbelief in God. Pastor Paul Mason was winding up his sermon, talking about tree roots, but Wayne wasn't really listening. He was trying to think of reasons to believe. Did God actually communicate with people? As far as he knew, there were no written documents since the time of Jesus. As he thought about it, it was a surprising contention that here is a god who created the entire universe, watches even the little sparrow that falls, has ears enough to hear every prayer directed to him from earth, and yet could not keep a simple record of his only begotten son whom he had sent to redeem the world. There was not a scrap, not a fragment, not a sentence, not a phrase anywhere concerned with Jesus Christ until a hundred years after his alleged appearance. People were asked to believe on faith, as if disregarding fact was a virtue.
Somehow Wayne Jackson made it through the ending prayer. He and Judy stood and joined the slow procession up the aisle and toward the exit. When they reached the one man receiving line at the door, he gave his usual "Good sermon, Reverend," and started to pass.
Reverend Paul flashed bright, white teeth. "Good morning! Glad you could make it. Wait around a few minutes, and you can follow us to the restaurant."
Paul Mason nodded and smiled at his flock and continued to shake their collective hands. He wore a pin striped suit and sparkling black shoes that matched his bushy black hair, an ensemble that reminded Wayne of a TV preacher.
Wayne and Judy waited for several minutes, smiles pasted on their faces, standing with Paul Mason's wife Susan, who wore the tight curls of a new permanent and the subdued colors of a pastor's wife.
Finally, Wayne could hold himself back no longer. He bounded down the steps, jogged across the lawn, and ran across the parking lot.
"Wayne!" Judy hissed after him. "Wayne, you come back here!"
She smiled grimly and walked in her most dignified manner, the heels of her squashed shoes clicking on the sidewalk and then the asphalt, all the while calling at Wayne under her breath. She caught up to him where he stood, catlike, ready to step between their car and the one next to it.
She slammed her bulky purse onto the hood. "Now what on earth was thatfor?" She grabbed his arm, made muscular by years of hard, physical labor. "Would it have really hurt you to stand there and act pleasant?"
"Let's go home," he said, trying to pull away. He hadn't meant to act like that, but there it was. Why couldn't he have said nothing and let the day just go by on its own? Why couldn't he have stood there smiling, like she said? No, it wouldn't have hurt him.
"Wayne, just what's the matter with you? Are you sick?"
"No. I just…" He let it trail off.
"You tell me what's wrong!" She grabbed both his arms and shook him.
He looked at her. "I just—I just don't believe any more." He looked down, away from her hard face. There. He’d said it.
"You don't believe what anymore?"
He stood there, like a school child in the principal's office. "In God," he said finally, louder than he meant to. He looked around to see if anyone overheard him. "I think that's all made up. It's a myth."
"Wayne, what are you saying?" Her face whitened, and her right hand came up to cover a gaping mouth. Neither spoke for several seconds. Then she grabbed his arm again. "You don't mean that, Wayne," she said. He didn't answer.
"Of course there's a God. Don't you believe in the Bible?"
"A lot of men wrote it," he mumbled, then wished he hadn't.
"But it was inspired by God!" She sandwiched him between her and the car, blocking any chance of escape. Her mouth screwed up, a sure sign she was struggling with a decision. Then she dragged him back toward the church.
"God made it happen in this parking lot for a reason," she said firmly. "He did it in the presence of his servant, Paul Mason."
"What are you—Oh, God, Judy, don't!" He jerked hard and pulled out of her grasp.
"Come back here! You come back here this instant!"
"Look, Judy, I…"
"Now!" She pointed to the ground next to her, as if telling a dog to heel, and he came over. They walked up the wide steps and Judy motioned for Susan Mason to follow them. They marched down the aisle to the altar.
"Kneel, Wayne," Judy ordered. "Kneel down and pray."
She turned toward Susan, who stood with eyes wide and hands clasped. "Get Paul. He has some ministering to do."
Judy kneeled next to her husband. "Honey, we have to save your soul. Some people think the unforgivable sin is to believe unto him and then renounce him. Oh, dear God, that means you may go to Hell!"
She started reciting the Lord's Prayer. In a few moments Paul Mason was there with three, four, now five parishioners. She whispered the problem to them. Wayne glanced at the group, who turned toward him with faces filled with love and concern. He closed his eyes again. Paul knelt on the other side and began praying aloud. The others gathered around and laid their hands on him.
"Save this sinner," Paul said, looking heavenward. "Come visit him and save his soul!"
Paul Mason, Judy, and the parishioners prayed over him as he continued to kneel, head down, eyes closed. Their prayers varied from faint mumblings to loud shouts, and their hand pressures on his shoulders from tentative touches to abrupt slaps and punches. Their intensity increased as time passed—an eternity that Paul knew was actually less than ten minutes.
Then it happened. Suddenly, he started shaking. His whole body vibrated, and the group stopped praying and looked at him.
"Hallelujah!" Wayne yelled. He stood abruptly and spread his arms open toward heaven.
"Wayne, are you okay?" His wife sat back on her haunches and inspected him. The others didn't move.
"Praise the Lord!" Wayne yelled heavenward. "Hallelujah, and praise the Lord!"
Reverend Paul Mason stood and leaned over him. "Wayne, I—"
"I'm saved! I'm saved!" Wayne whirled around, knocking Paul Mason aside. The preacher's glasses fell and he grabbed for them, smashing them against the altar railing. One lens popped out, and broken into pieces when it hit the floor.
"Oh, Judy, it was such a wonderful experience," Wayne said. "I felt the warmth of God's love, his acceptance of me. He has welcomed me unto his wonderful presence!"
"Well, that's—that's great, honey. But wasn't that awfully fast?"
"Yes! The Lord works in mysterious ways. Reverend Paul, would you please pray with me?"
Paul Mason inspected his glasses. "I would be happy to, brother. Let's gather around and pray. Isn't it wonderful when a lost lamb rejoins the flock?”
***
Wayne Jackson checked his watch by the speedometer’s light. Ten o'clock. He glanced at Judy, snoring in the passenger seat. He had been driving for two hours, and the excitement of the day had done her in. She'd watched him receive the Lord, then took part in a full afternoon of religious discussion at Paul Mason's house. Twice Wayne saw the perplexed, is this for real look on her face, but soon she entered again into the spirited, spiritual conversation. Wayne knew he must have resembled a sponge, asking all those religious questions and making notes. An armful of reading materials lay on the back seat.
The tall mast of an Exxon truck stop sign loomed ahead. He slowly decelerated, pulled off the interstate, and drove into the service station's lot. He parked behind the building where it was dark and left the engine running. Judy shifted slightly but continued to snore. He opened the door and closed it softly, letting it click only once.
The restaurant was at the other end of the building. He walked in and went to truck drivers' section. A short young man sat by himself at the end booth, writing in a notebook.
"You going far?" Wayne asked, smiling.
"Los Angeles."
"Me, too. I'll give you a hundred dollars to let me tag along."
The young man looked him over. "It's against the rules," he said. "But what the hell? Make it two hundred, and you’ve got a deal."
The truck driver paid
his check and they walked out to his eighteen wheeler. Wayne climbed up into the passenger seat. The air brakes released and the driver shifted the big machine through its gears. They passed behind Wayne Jackson's car, and he glanced at it.
Zing, he thought. You've humiliated me the last time, Judy. You've given me your last order. Zing!
He felt his jacket pocket for the checkbook he had slipped out of Judy's purse. He could write a five hundred dollar check without it bouncing, enough to support him until he found a job.
He stared ahead. The truck paused, then turned west, toward his new life. Hallelujah, he said to himself, settling back into his seat's thick padding. Hallelujah. And praise the Lord.
* * *