Good Heavens

by Margaret A. Graham

  “Say she is?” And she went right on digging.

  I just stood there, not knowing what to do or say.

  When she finally got the rock loose, we picked it up and carried it to the pile beside the road. Dora leaned on the pick handle and pointed. “It’s over there we’ll plant taters . . . in that sheltered place.” She pointed the other way. “The corn alongside the road. You don’t plant corn till the oak leaf be the size of a squirrel’s foot.”

  I nodded like I’d known that all my life and just waited, wondering how in the world I would persuade her to go inside.

  Finally she shouldered the pick. “Say that self-rising Christian wants I should come to Group?”

  I wanted to smile but didn’t.

  Dora led the way back to the house and set the pick down beside the door, and we walked inside.

  Ursula waited until we sat down. “Dora, we were just getting in touch with our feelings. One way we do this is by bringing up memories from our childhood. Tell me, what memories would you like to share with us?”

  I was surprised that Dora didn’t hesitate to answer. “My memory is a muddy pond where fish can’t live, only tadpoles and frogs that grunt in the night.”

  You might think the women would have laughed, but they didn’t. They were probably as mystified by this strange girl as I was. I heard Linda muttering under her breath to Portia, “Is she off the wall or what?”

  Ursula kept her cool. “Very well, Dora, don’t think of memories; just tell us about an experience that made you happy.”

  Dora sat with both hands stuffed deep in the pockets of that old coat, and the words rolled out of her as easily as if she had practiced them. “Come a cold night, Papa and all the men from round about climb upland where there’s a place above the holler with a stone-face shelter from the wind. They let loose their hounds, build a good fire, and uncork their jugs afore they set to lis’enin’ to the chase. It’s a man’s pride to hear the sound of his own hound a-singin’, for his hound’s singin’ is like nary another, and nothin’ll pleasure him more than spendin’ the whole night a-lis’enin’ to that hound he’s raised from a pup an’ learned him good.

  “Oncet the run is over and the bayin’ begins, them men grab their guns and go after that coon or cat a-whoopin’ an’ a-hollerin’ like a pack o’ Injins on warpath. It pleasures me, too, a-hearin’ them dogs and them men a hollering after them.

  “Dogs is a wonderful thang to have. There’s bird dogs that scares up a covey of quail an’ the like; rabbit dogs, which ain’t much; b’ar dogs, the bravest by far; deer hounds, the best of the lot for table meat—ever’ one trained to foller just one scent an’ no other. But mostly them hounds lie on the hearth an’ dream dreams of goin’ upland to yelp and yowl for them old coots—yelp and yowl to their heart’s content.”

  We all just sat there, looking at Dora. You might think we should have clapped or said something, but if you’d been there, you would have known better. It felt like being in another time and place, or hearing sweet music for the first time. That was the spell she cast.

  Ursula scribbled something on that clipboard and must have had enough of Dora because she turned to ask Angela, “Since your parents are missionaries and you’ve been brought up in a Christian home, tell us what led you to rebel against your parents and essentially against Christianity.”

  Angela was sitting with her hands cupped under her chin, framing her pretty face, saying nothing, keeping up her guard.

  “Angela?”

  “I’d rather not talk about that,” she replied.

  Ursula persisted. “Come now, you’re among friends.” She didn’t get anywhere. Angela sat looking back at her stony faced.

  Ursula was the kind of person who didn’t know when to quit. “It’s all right to have resentment against our parents,” she was telling Angela, “but until we lay open our resentments, we can’t resolve the problems.”

  That hit a nerve! Angela’s eyes were full of fire. “It wasn’t like that at all! My parents were wonderful, they still are—they were good to me. I’ll not sit here—”

  “Now, now. There’s no need to be defensive. Of course, your parents were good to you, but what was there in your home environment that led you to abuse pharmaceuticals?”

  “Miss Ursula, let’s you get one thing straight. It wasn’t my parents’ fault. Do you understand that?”

  “All right. Fine, so you don’t think it was your parents’ fault. We’ll leave it at that, but what was it, then?”

  “Well, if you must know, it was like this. When I was ten or eleven years old, my parents were bringing all kinds of people into our house to disciple them. You know—taught them the Bible. There were these two rough-looking characters who told wild tales about getting drunk and running from the law. It sounded exciting—their lifestyle fascinated me.”

  Ursula wasn’t satisfied with that. “So they fascinated you. What else?”

  Angela looked disgusted. “Nothing happened then, but I never forgot that man and woman.”

  Obviously, this was not the end of the story, but I for one thought Ursula should leave well enough alone. Instead, she was closing in for the kill. “But later, something did happen?”

  “Well, yes, it did,” Angela answered, her voice tight. “I need a cigarette. May I?”

  “That can wait. Go on with your story.”

  Angela rubbed the palms of her hands on her thighs until she could begin again. “The mission board sent us overseas to Africa. We went to Kenya. I loved growing up there. When I was sixteen I was going to high school and had a lot of friends, but that’s when we came back to the States.

  “America was like a foreign country to me. Kids at school and in church all had their little cliques, and I didn’t fit in. My parents were real busy with deputation and sometimes had to leave me at home by myself. That’s when I started hanging out with street kids. They took me in without asking any questions or making any demands on me, gave me drinks, gave me drugs, and . . . I thought I had found what I was looking for. We hung out in the corner bar and, like it says in that song, everybody there knew my name.”

  That story made me feel real bad. Even at my home church, Apostolic Bible, we had our own little groups, and about the only people who reached out to newcomers were the Willing Workers. After anybody visited our church Clara would always take them a pie or a cake. But that homeless man Boris Krantz brought to church caused a big stink in our Willing Workers class. We didn’t think it was a good idea to have such a man among our young people. I wonder if he’s still coming to church?

  I tell you the truth, I was learning a lot from these Priscilla women, things I wished the W.W.s could learn.

  Ursula must have thought she had sorted out all the pieces because she was saying, “Angela, what you are saying tells me it will be harder to win you to Christ than it will be for someone who has not had your Christian experience.”

  “No, Miss Ursula,” she said, her voice soft but steady, “I want my Christian life back.”

  My heart ached for that girl. And it ached for her parents. They were bound to be tore up over this.

  Ursula was jotting down something on that clipboard and was ready to end the meeting. “Miss Esmeralda, do you have anything to add?” she asked.

  “Nothing except to say we’ll start right after breakfast to get the rocks out of that patch.”

  Linda stood up. “Miss Ursula, she’s a slave driver!”

  “Aren’t I!” I said, pleased that my English was good.

  Ursula corrected me. “Not aren’t I, Esmeralda.”

  I laughed. “Ain’t I, then.”

  “No, ain’t is not a legitimate word. It is a contraction of ‘am not.’ What you should have said is, ‘Am I not.’”

  She was so serious as to be ridiculous, so I came right back at her. “The onliest contractions I know come with childbirth.”

  That broke up the meeting, and we all left laughing. All except Ursula, that is. I did
n’t think she knew how to laugh.

  6

  After breakfast the girls were ready to start work. There were a few snowflakes falling, but I thought maybe they wouldn’t last long, not in April. Knowing Lenora and Evelyn were not physically able to work in the garden, I let them work in the house, polishing the furniture, dusting, doing some laundry, and so forth.

  Since Ursula had already left to go to the bank, I had to stay in the office by the phone until she got back. As much as I liked to work in a garden, I needed some quiet time, so sitting in the office was good. I’d been praying on the run lately, and that didn’t make for a good connection, if you know what I mean. I’d say, “Lord, make Ursula lighten up,” or “Lord, send in the money,” but that’s not giving the Lord his due. It is not polite to keep making requests and only throw in a few thank-yous and praises here and there.

  Ursula must have been in the office the night before worrying because there was a pile of ruined paper clips in the wastebasket. I tell you, when it comes to paper clips, that woman is a mass murderer.

  Yes, I needed to be alone with the Lord, but in a way, I dreaded it because he would most likely rake me over the coals.

  You’ve heard of the Ugly American? Well, this business of losing my temper and having bad feelings toward Ursula was turning me into the Ugly Christian. You see, I had sense enough to know the Lord was not going to change Ursula unless I got straightened out myself, and even then she may not change. In that case, I would need more grace than ever I’d had before, which was precious little.

  Beatrice’s letter was sticking out of my Bible, and I decided to read it again. I needn’t have bothered. There was really nothing much in that letter. But the references at the bottom of the page made me curious, so I looked them up. They were from Matthew, and I knew the verses by heart: “Ye have heard that it hath been said, thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy; But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them who despitefully use you, and persecute you.”

  I tell you, memorizing those verses was one thing, but obeying them was where the rubber met the road. Ursula wasn’t exactly persecuting me, but she was just so hard to take. It was her attitude that rubbed me the wrong way. All the same, she was a “neighbor” that I didn’t love. To tell the truth, I would just as soon the Lord didn’t get so personal with me. I knew he really and truly expected me to love her, and everybody who rubbed me the wrong way, but I was not one of those super spiritual saints who went around sweet and smiling with a halo on her head. God knew I couldn’t fake it. If I’d had a halo, it would’ve turned green the first day.

  And of course, Ursula was not the only one I’d get out of sorts with. When I thought about the way I’d get irritated with the W.W.s and make fun of some of them, I felt ashamed of myself.

  I decided I’d rather not think about Ursula or those women. What I wanted to do was worship the Lord. Now, I don’t have a solo voice, in fact, a bullfrog sounds better, but I don’t sing for anybody else, just myself, so no harm’s done.

  I remembered Pastor Osborne saying the whole gospel is in that old hymn “Trust and Obey,” and that you can’t have the trust without the obey. Well, I guessed that was where I was wrong; I was stronger on the trusting than on the obeying, but I sang it anyway. I knew all the verses by heart as well as the chorus:

  Trust and obey,

  for there’s no other way,

  to be happy in Jesus,

  but to trust and obey.

  The phone rang. It was a woman answering the ad about the piano, and I got excited. She asked, “What kind is it?” I didn’t remember, so I asked her to hold the line while I went to look. When I came back, I told her, “It’s a Steinway, a baby grand.”

  “I’m looking for a Yamaha,” she said. So that ended that. Needless to say, I was disappointed.

  I went back to reading, thumbing through Matthew, reading more of the same—“turn the other cheek . . . go the second mile . . . blessed are the peacemakers.”

  Good heavens, there was so much in there that was hard to take. I had to get out of the Sermon on the Mount. Checking out the cross references, I turned to Ephesians. Well, lo and behold, the same kind of stuff was in Ephesians. At least the words weren’t printed in red. I know it’s all the word of God, but somehow, when it comes from the mouth of Jesus, it gets to me. Those Ephesian verses were on the right hand page, the bottom of the left column, and that’s how I would remember where to find them the next time I wanted to hear about being meek and long-suffering, which anybody who knows me will tell you is not and never has been my long suit. “Forbearing one another in love . . . not letting the sun go down on your wrath lest you give place to the devil.” There’s hardly a night lately when the sun don’t go down on my wrath—with me mad as a wet hen.

  I’d had enough. I closed the Bible, leaned back in the chair, and started talking it out.

  No doubt this is why you have not sent in the money, Lord. I for one have give place to the devil. You tell me here we’re supposed to be kind, one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another. . . . No wonder we have not been getting along like Christians ought to. But Lord, don’t she know these Scriptures, too?

  To be honest with you, Lord, there’s no way I can live up to what you’re telling me to do here. In fact, I’m ashamed to say it, but I don’t really want to give in to that woman.

  If you think for one minute I felt good about this, I didn’t. It’s just that I knew myself. I’d tried before to love people that rubbed me the wrong way and it didn’t work, so there was no use beating around the bush and making out like I could be the sweet, good Christian I ought to be. It just wasn’t in me!

  Someone knocked on the door. Evelyn said she and Lenora were having trouble with the washing machine, so I had to go down and straighten that out. Something was wrong with the timer, but I showed them how they could work it. Like a lot of things around there, that machine needed fixing.

  When I came back upstairs, I was thinking about them—Lenora and Evelyn, so thin they both looked sickly, but so willing to help, so meek and mild. I don’t know if they’re Christians or not, but they’ve got me beat a mile when it comes to acting like a Christian.

  I got to thinking about the things Clara and Mabel had said about the women I’d find up here, foul-mouthed and the like, and I looked forward to the day when I could set them straight. Priscilla Home residents, for the most part, were as polite as any one of the Willing Workers. I had not heard one four-letter word, not one swear word since I’d arrived. In fact, I was seeing most of these women as just souls the devil had led down that primrose path Papa used to talk about; caught them up and dragged them down step by step. The devil wouldn’t be finished with them till he destroyed them one way or another.

  You could look at the young girls and think, That’s some mother’s daughter. There was Angela all tangled up in sins of her own making, and her praying parents heartbroke. And then there were ones like Dora with that awful load of guilt sucking the life out of her. And Linda . . . Linda who thought she had the world by the tail. The Lord would sure have to help me love that one! Imagine her saying prison was wonderful . . . I guess it would seem wonderful if all those things happened to her that she said happened. But I was of the opinion she liked to hear herself talk, liked to top everybody else’s story.

  I got up and went in the parlor, where I could look down on the girls working. Getting out those rocks was not easy work, but they looked like they were getting along all right with it. I started to pray for each one, first Brenda, a fortyish woman who ran a beauty shop, if I remembered right. Although I called her by name and said the right words, I knew in my heart I was not on praying ground.

  Going back in the office, I sat down again. There’s too much at stake here, Lord, too many souls hanging in the balance for me not to be on praying ground.

  I was so ashamed of myself. What a judgmental, self-righte
ous hypocrite I am. Lord, you know I have got a short fuse; you know I’m proud and hard to get along with . . . Lord, whatever it takes to change me, do it. I’ll do my part, but I can’t stay here if—

  Right then it struck me. I didn’t ever want to leave Priscilla Home!

  I put my head down on the desk and prayed for the Lord to help me. That’s the best prayer a body can pray. I’d prayed it many a time, and he had never failed to come through with an answer.

  I must have used half a box of tissues before I got hold of myself. I sat back in the chair, still dabbing my eyes and blowing my nose when again somebody knocked on the door. It was Evelyn again. “Do you want us to fix lunch?”

  “Well, I don’t know what’s in there to fix. I’ll come look. I thought Miss Ursula would be back by now.”

  We had run out of meat the night before, and there wasn’t much left of the vegetables. We still had some donuts. In the pantry I found some bread, and some cheese in the refrigerator. No mayonnaise or mustard. “Let’s make grilled cheese sandwiches,” I said.

  I got to thinking about what we could have for supper. The girls would be hungry after working in the garden. I decided to put on a pot of dry beans to cook slow. “Do either of you know how to make cornbread?” I asked.

  “I could try,” Evelyn said.

  Well, I couldn’t risk not having cornbread to go with the beans, so I decided I’d make it. “Evelyn, you just keep an eye on the beans so they don’t burn.”

  “Has the mail come?” she asked.

  I had forgotten about the mail. The girls were always anxious to know if they had a letter, so I said I’d go see.

  I walked out to the road past the pile of rocks the girls had heaped up from the garden. “Good job,” I hollered, and seeing I was on the way to the mailbox, they all dropped what they were doing to follow me.

  The mailbox was filled with circulars, two more applications from women wanting to come to Priscilla Home, and only one letter. It was for Portia.