by Lisa Samson
Father John, dressed casually today in khakis and a blue flannel shirt, welcomed her into his church study. He’d finally got his hair cut, and Lynn had taken to calling him Father Hedgehog. “What’s up, May?”
“Hi, John. Well, it’s time.”
“What for?”
“Do you have some time to talk?”
“For you? Sure. Let’s go sit in the pews.”
“Okay.”
He chose the third pew. “What can I do for you, May?”
“I want to make a confession.” She held up a hand. “I know you’re Episcopalian, but please, I need this. It’s time.”
“Oh. Well, of course, May. We have a rite of confession too. Just a moment.”
He rose and hurried back to his office. He returned wearing a thin white stole, the sign of his priesthood. He sat back down next to her. “Are you ready?”
May nodded. “The question is, are you?”
“‘I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.’”
May remembered her confessions of years ago.
—Oh, this will be so good. Such a relief!
She was already anticipating the freedom of knowing somebody knew, somebody besides God. And once it all was voiced, out there in the real airwaves, she couldn’t take it back. She couldn’t fool herself that she’d never felt and thought the things she did, or behaved in the manner she did. It would solidify everything, make it real enough to be dealt with once and for all.
“Bless me, Father, for I’ve sinned. It’s been ten years since my last confession.”
“The Lord be in your heart and upon your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
She crossed herself and uttered, “Amen.”
She paused and examined her conscience, praying for the Holy Spirit to enlighten her mind to recall where and when her heart had wandered far from God. Where she’d wandered.
“I hated God. For a very long time. I let it blacken my heart and pull me from the world he loves. I let my anger help me lie to myself. I’ve been lying to myself for so long. And you know what? I figured being angry at the horrors that go on was enough. And I figured maybe if I threw it all onto God, I could walk away free.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s easy to do.”
“Don’t give me an out. I questioned God’s love and thought if he was choosy, then I could be too. I chose to love selectively, people who would ask nothing of me, people who would love me lavishly even though I refused to do the same. I used them. Over and over. And that was wrong too.”
He gave a nod.
“I turned my back on my mother in her hour of need and refused to support my father, who had to care for her.”
He nodded again.
“I’m tired, Father.”
“I know, May.”
And she continued, revealing the depths of her heart to this man of God. Belligerence, lack of charity and understanding. Each word lifted a string of the iron netting that had bound her heart, ever constricting with each passing year.
Finally.
“But I feel like I’m coming out of it. Like I see God again. I mean, I know he’s always been there. But I recognize it now. And I’m thankful. Finally. I’m giving thanks again.”
“Gratitude is always a good place to start.”
“I fell back into the spoiled teenager category. Like, if I couldn’t have everything exactly my way, I wouldn’t play.”
He nodded again. “May, it was more than that. You were the victim of horrible people.”
“I didn’t have to stay that way.”
“Maybe not. But now it’s time. And that’s it.”
“No going back.”
“I doubt you ever will.”
They sat in silence for a while. Finally he whispered, “Are you finished, May?”
“Yes.” She knelt down, pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” she prayed.
He settled his hands on her head. “Our Lord Jesus Christ, who has left power to his Church to absolve all sinners who truly repent and believe in him, of his great mercy forgive you all your offenses; and by his authority committed to me, I absolve you from all your sins: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Father John took both of her hands in his. “The Lord has put away all your sins, May.”
“Thanks be to God.”
“Abide in peace, and pray for me, a sinner.”
May couldn’t move. Still on her knees, peace washed over her because once again, she’d drawn near to the God who was never far away to begin with.
“I love Jesus, Father.”
“I know you do, May.”
She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the martyr’s stole. “I want you to have this. It was Father Isaac’s.”
“Oh, May. Are you sure? This must mean so much to you.”
She pressed it into his hands. “Please. You came when no one else would. I can talk to you like I could him. I would rather you have it than anyone else.”
He put his arms around her shoulders and hugged her, just for a minute. “Thank you, May.”
• 17 •
The words of the church service flowed over her in warm waters of consolation and love. And when Communion began, May listened to the words, really listened to them, aching for them, for the first time in her life.
She wanted to close her eyes and breathe it in, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from Father John. He seemed so different in this light, the priestly calling settling on him, around him, through him, swallowing him whole, and she loved him more. He connected her once again with Father Isaac, who she knew was looking down, don’t ask her how, only that she knew how happy he was that she was there that morning.
—Jesus would surely let him take a peek at this, wouldn’t he?
Maybe Jesus was right there beside him. May wanted to believe that.
She used to love Jesus so much.
Her own voice, making the responses, soothed her. The voices of others, responding with hers, wrapped around her like a prayer shawl. May’s grandmother used to wear a head covering at Mass, the gray, soft lace brushing the broken-in skin of her cheeks. She passed away when May was five. A small corner of May’s heart curled in on itself at the memory of a woman who lived a quiet faith.
May remained in her seat as the congregation filed up to receive the Eucharist. They knelt at the rail around the altar, heads bowed until the server reached them. Reaching out for the bread, they dipped it into the wine and ate.
Jesus filled her heart. And the words Come home, May filled her soul. Come and dine.
She sprang from her seat and ran down the aisle, receiving the Body and Blood, strength and life and blessing and movement.
—Yes, Lord.
Back in her seat, she thought of flowers. Flowers, flowers, and more flowers. She’d plant more than she ever had.
God would have to work out the details of the harvest.
March 12, 2004
Dear May,
My mother visited me today with Callie. It was so good to see my daughter. But I know how hard it is for her to see me like this. Oh, May, it’s all so useless. I look back over and over and I try to think about “that moment.” What was the exact moment, the decision, that set my feet on this path? Was it going into the military? Was it my first joint at sixteen? Was it walking through Travis’s door after I got out of the military, knowing what he was into? I don’t know. Maybe it’s the collection of decisions. We like things to be neat and tidy, and one fateful moment is a whole lot more dramatic. But there is that point of no return, isn’t there?
Mama’s still trying to convince me to appeal, but honestly, I just don’t see what good it will do. If I don’t die, it’s not like it’s really going to change the system in the State of Kentucky, will it?
I
’m not sure about that. Just thinking things through. Is it wrong for me not to take advantage of the full extent of the system in order to give others hope that they might do the same? I don’t know that either. It’s tricky. I never thought one could have so much effect from a jail cell.
I’ve been reading the Bible more, at the encouragement of Father John. Are you reading yours? You should. Man, I’m being bossy. But I don’t want to start this letter over, so you can make of it what you will. I take it all back if you want me to. If not, there it is. Anyway, Father John says that Israel had pretty stringent requirements as to when they would administer the death penalty. Three eyewitnesses were necessary. Only one person saw what I did, so I guess biblically my execution would be unjust. So I’m thinking about that too. If they came to get me right now, I’d still go forward with the needle. That much is sure today, and each day I wake up I realize today is all I can count on.
If you could have seen my daughter … That’s where it all gets the most difficult.
Take care,
Eli
May felt her heart tear in two.
—Seriously. What if things had worked out differently between us?
What if he hadn’t gotten Janey pregnant, and she’d come home from Rwanda and they’d embarked on something more than a few dates? She thought how different his life would be, mostly. But then, what about hers? A nice daughter like Callie to raise and love. A little house or apartment with dishes she’d picked out when she registered for their wedding.
Oh, they’d still have had an extraordinary life. Eli wouldn’t have encouraged her to do anything less than something brave and amazing. She would have traveled the world with her camera, captured blazing, shattering images, somehow escaping the bullets, and she would have returned home to strong arms, some lovemaking, and smiley face pancakes the next morning before walking the kids to school.
Time to do some chores.
A strange car pulled up just as May was gathering eggs. The chickens had rotated their time to about three in the afternoon for the final egg count to be in. She’d forgotten her basket, so seven eggs nestled in her T-shirt, scooped up to hold them.
It wasn’t really a nice car. May didn’t know much about cars, but she knew the old Lincoln had been a great car probably at least thirty years before. Rust spots bloomed on the fenders, and black flecks pitted the chrome. The engine sounded fine, though. At least to her. She’d only recently started riding around in cars again.
Sassy emerged. At least that’s who May guessed it was, judging from the fact that she bore Eli’s face. She favored happy colors, including the yellow blonde of her hair, gathered into a high ponytail and held in place with a hot pink ribbon coordinating with her stretch pants. She waved, the sleeves of her lime green sweatshirt almost leaving a visible flare across May’s visual field.
May waved back with her left hand, her right hand still cradling the eggs.
“Sassy?”
“Yep! It’s me!”
A girl slid out of the car, tall for her age, big boned but without any extra flesh, with a wide jawline and sandy hair, just like her father.
“Come around the back to the kitchen while I put away these eggs!”
May quickly rinsed them off and set them in the bin in the fridge.
Sassy and Callie walked in, the wind catching the screen door and banging it against the side of the house.
“Whoa!” Callie jumped and quickly caught it.
“Thanks.”
Sassy set her purse on the kitchen table, then picked it up again. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Make yourself comfortable. I was just about to have some tea. Would you all like a cup?”
They agreed and sat down.
“I just wanted to bring Callie over,” Sassy began. “She heard you were writing Eli and wanted to thank you. I do too.”
“Did Eli tell you?”
Callie nodded as she slipped out of her turquoise hoodie, revealing a yellow Hello Kitty T-shirt. “We write letters all the time.” Her voice came out in a soft whisper, directly opposed to her form. “It’s meant a lot to him.”
May filled the kettle and set it on the flame. She sat down. “It must be hard for you.”
“It is.”
“How do you feel about him not appealing?”
“I’m completely against it!” Sassy said.
“Not me,” Callie whispered.
“Really?” May asked.
She shook her head, her dirty-blonde hair skimming the tops of her shoulders. “I love my dad. He shouldn’t have to live with the kind of guilt he suffers just for me.” She patted Sassy’s hand. “Not that you shouldn’t feel the way you do, Granny. He’s your kid. Nobody wants to lose their kid.”
The shock of such maturity in a—what, ten-year-old?—hit May like a baseball.
Was it any wonder, though, being raised by her granny because her mother was a druggie and her dad was away all the time? And then … the murders. It was too much, surely.
“You two have each other, it’s obvious,” May said.
“Oh, yes.” Sassy nodded. “I don’t know what I’d do without my granddaughter.”
Something gripped inside May’s heart, that usual fear that she’d love too much, too many people. Her confession came back to her, her words about her own choosiness, loving only those who were safe to love, who expected nothing in return. That would change right here, right now.
“I’m glad you came,” she said.
March 14, 2004
Dear Eli,
Well, I’m working my way back to life. I think. Now I’m wondering how to keep my farm. Claudius’s farm. Okay, the church’s farm. There must be some way I can stay and everyone be happy.
I’m going to have to get a vehicle. There’s no two ways about it. I came home to another letter from Sister Ruth, who’s prolonged her trip yet again. She’s living it up with her cousin, going to supper clubs and dinner dances with other senior citizens. And since she’s such a smart dresser, I’ll bet she’s the belle of the ball. Anyway, the Galaxy’s dead, as you supposed.
Walking the streets of Beattyville didn’t kill me, so I figure I can darn well do my own grocery shopping.
Regarding whether or not your execution is just, well, I think there are two theories here at war. We’re a people. A people who belong to our country. And at times society decides these things. What’s right and what’s wrong for it. A lot of people say that’s a valid way to figure out morality. I don’t know. I mean, if you take that to its logical conclusion, slavery was okay then because society said so, the laws said so, and therefore, according to some folk, God said so. It’s like the Iraq war. Although I’m sure you being a Marine think that was all right. Which might go to make my point fall down in your favor. That your sentence is indeed just because society says it’s so.
Then again. Are some things just right and wrong regardless of society’s take on it? And does your sentence fall into that category? Is it okay to use the Bible, either one way or the other, regarding this? You can say that Israel used the death penalty (can you tell I’ve been talking to Father John about this too?) to justify your execution. But then, like you said, you can go further and see how Israel decided to employ it, which isn’t what we do here in the United States.
Oh, man, Eli! All this clinical talk of death I just spouted off! I hate it! I hate death. I hate the way mankind takes the very life of other people and justifies it! I saw that firsthand, to its ugliest extreme. Where does it all begin? Where does it end? Why must it be so? Maybe I’m the wrong person to talk about this with, because if you want to know how I feel, how I really feel, it’s that I DON’T WANT YOU TO DIE!! Okay?! I can’t imagine even for one moment what good it will do anyone.
Callie understands, though. I finally met her. Sassy brought her by. She’s wonderful, Eli. She deserves to have a dad. You’ve learned so much there. It’s not like she’d be better off without you. Don’t fool yourself for a moment
that that’s the case.
Okay, I’m done.
So tell me what your days are like there. Would you mind? It will help me picture your life better.
Well, I guess I’d better go out and make some bouquets from the bulb flowers. I can’t take them into Lexington to the farmers’ market without a car, so I might have to force myself to walk downtown and see where I can set up a lawn chair and a bucket of posies. I’ll show that Marlow!
Oh, and Louise died! She choked to death on the wire fence. More death. It still makes me mad. She was such a nice cow.
May
• 18 •
March 18, 2004
Dear May,
I have to admit, I didn’t realize how much of a thinker you’ve become. Wish we’d have had conversations like this years ago. Do you ever wonder why some younger people, like we were, dumb themselves down? You were the cute little blonde and I was the hulking football player, and all along we had some good thoughts to share. Why didn’t we?
I’ve been trying to think of what you said regarding society deciding morality, and I think there’s something to it. John gave me a book about the teachings of the early church, and divorce comes readily to mind. Early Christians wouldn’t have thought to do such a thing except under certain circumstances, and now the practice is pretty widely accepted. War is another area. You’re right. Many of the early Christians were killed rather than go to war and kill another human. And now killing is thought of as righteous. In a way that parallels my situation. But didn’t your church draw up a whole just war doctrine? Obviously they decided some circumstances were okay. So, does God give us all latitude to work out what is right and wrong? I mean, yes, some things will always be wrong. But what about the gray areas?
Why is it the most vocal of Christians are gleeful at the thought of my death? Don’t they realize that I could be going to hell that very night? Aren’t they even a little bit sad at that thought? It doesn’t seem so. And yet, who am I to judge them? Do I have any right to even think such thoughts? I guess I’m just letting my mind meander.