by Lisa Samson
What?
Fiddle!
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle!
You mean five thousand men had been afraid to pull out food and start chomping away? Talk about a miracle! I hardly believe men have changed that much over the past two thousand years.
So I pulled out that pew Bible, opened it up to the book of Matthew, and read for myself. I’ve never done that before because never has such a blatant denial of the facts filtered down from our pulpit! The nerve of that blowbag!
Yes, blowbag.
He’s from some Northern seminary and stands there like a raven ruffling his self-important, pompous, asinine feathers.
I’m angry. And I wonder what else he’s said over the past few years since we called him to our pulpit! I chaired the pulpit committee too! Did I not see what a conceited donkey he was? I wonder about myself at times like these.
Again, the dodo comes to mind. Have I outlived my usefulness?
After my salad at lunch I found Prisma in the kitchen. “What does your pastor say about the feeding of the multitude?”
Prisma finished drying the last fork. Why she keeps refusing a dishwasher, I’ll never know. “He says that Jesus took one lunch and miraculously divided it enough to feed thousands and thousands of people.”
“Do you believe that? That it happened just like that?”
“I sure do.”
“What if the Bible is wrong?”
“Then it could be wrong about everything else. Either you can rely on it, or you can’t, Mrs. Summerville. There’s no middle ground, though some folk say there is. This pickin’ and choosin’ stuff is for the birds, if you ask me.”
True. It was like learning only what you liked of French and then saying you spoke French.
But Prisma was just warming up. “I mean, if you don’t want to believe it, that’s your choice. Then just don’t. That’s between you and God. But to go driving around through the verses, just sightseeing what you want to see, I find that downright illogical, don’t you?”
“I’d have to agree.”
“Best of both worlds. That’s what people want. They just want a big old magic book with spells and potions that tells them exactly what they want to hear, not what’s really going to help what ails them.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“They don’t want to know God. They want some sugar daddy who’s nice all the time. Not some fierce, mysterious, whirling dervish of a Creator whom we can’t understand. No sirree, they want to make God just like themselves. That’s it in a nutshell. ’Cause if God is just like them, then He’s safe and wouldn’t think about makin’ them do anything their little hearts didn’t want to do, He wouldn’t think of takin’ them out of their comfort zones and pushin’ them out of the nests they made so they can soar! Soar among the eagles. And I’ll tell you another thing.”
As if I doubted she would.
“Nobody wants to talk about sin anymore! And I think it’s the best news you can give somebody. They’re feelin’ it! They’re feelin’ the wrong they’re doin.’ ”
She sure was slipping into her dialect now, getting fired up. Fascinated, I leaned against the counter.
“They’re caught in a mire and somebody’s tellin’ them there’s no such thing as sin, and they’re feelin’ stupid for feelin’ guilty, for feelin’ the effects of their God-given conscience, one of the very things that makes them human. And then you know what I say, Mrs. Summerville?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I say, ‘It’s just that you’re an old-fashioned sinner. Isn’t that good news?’ ”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, now, they don’t usually either. So I say, ‘And if sin’s the only problem you’ve got, the answer is easy. Jesus is the answer. He’ll see you through. There is hope.’ ”
“My, my.”
She pointed at me. “You got that right.” She blew out a shaky breath. “Well, that got me all fired up. M’m, m’m.”
“Do you have an extra Bible, Prisma?”
“Sure do. What’s this all about anyway, Mrs. Summerville?” She pulled a hanky out of her skirt pocket and wiped her bosom and neck.
So I told her what happened at church.
“Stuff like that’s been going on for years,” she said. “I’ll admit the Bible can be uncomfortable at times, the parts about hell and the land of Canaan and all, but why take one of the more easy-to-digest passages and fool with it?”
“That’s what I say. You know what I think, Prisma?” I leaned forward, placing my elbow on the counter for support and a little relief for my out-of-breath inhalations. “I think this man must be leading all sorts of people astray.”
“Well, there’s only one way you can find out. Read the Bible for yourself.”
“And if I have any questions?”
“I’m always here, and my pastor will help if there’s something I can’t answer. He’s a good man. Now let me go get you one of my Bibles. I think you’ll like the New King James. Familiar enough but not obscure.”
Mama always used the old King James, but now that I’m older I realize there were a lot of things Mama didn’t know. “Whatever you think is best.”
Her eyebrows lifted, and I admit my own words surprised me. “Well, why not, Prisma? I know I’m not as smart as you are.”
“Are you all right, Mrs. Summerville?”
“No. I’m not.”
Prisma hesitated.
“Just go get that Bible before I fall down. I’m very tired.”
“Go on in the den, Mrs. Summerville. I’ll bring it with a nice cup of tea.”
“Are you going back to church tonight?”
“Sure am.”
“Maybe one of these nights I’ll go too.” And I turned around and made for the den as Prisma laughed and laughed.
Yes, I know it is funny, the thought of me there with that hootenanny, multicultural crowd. But I’m tired, I’m old, and despite my wealth, my privilege, and my good taste and deeds, I’m agitated inside. That pastor was wrong! And I needed to find out why for myself. Big goings-on? Probably not. But to me a giant itch surfaced that just wouldn’t go away.
Charles tried to talk to me about spiritual things before he died. Prisma “led him to the Lord.” Whatever that means.
“You’ve got to become a Christian, Les,” Charles said.
“I am a Christian, Charles! Our family has always been Methodist!”
“But do you really know who Jesus is, sweetheart?”
“Of course I do! Who doesn’t?”
He just shook his head then. He prayed a lot as he lay dying. And when he slipped away, he smiled.
But where did he go? Prisma knows. Lark and Sweet Pea know. But I don’t. That pastor said, “Heaven is in our hearts.”
If that’s the case, I’m in a peck of trouble, because a heaven like that may only feel like a roller coaster you can never get off.
Prisma found me in the den. “Here you go, Mrs. Summerville. The Bible and a cup of herb tea.”
“Where should I start?”
“Why don’t you read that account of the feeding of the multitude again? See if there’s really room for maneuvering around the passage like that pastor did.”
“All right. I will.”
Prisma looked it up for me and went back into her room. But she left her door open, and I heard her clacking away at her new computer, and I longed to be Prisma just then. Beautiful Prisma. Kind Prisma. Smart Prisma.
“Say a prayer first, Mrs. Summerville!” she hollered.
“What for?”
“Ask God to speak to you!”
“He’ll do that?”
“Yes, He will.”
Well, all right then.
PRISMA
LORD, SHINE THE LIGHT ON MRS. SUMMERVILLE! I’ve been praying for her for years, Jesus! Shine the light!
Even as I prayed I remembered the day Jesus became my Savior and Lord. Daddy worked grinding lenses in t
he back room of an optometrist’s office down on Light Street. He was a deacon at a Baptist church near our home by Patterson Park. The only white guy in the place. But you had to love my father. He was that kind of man.
Daddy arrived home from work one day while Mama was setting supper on the table. I can picture the meal to this day. Fried soft crabs my uncle had caught on the Magothy, homemade slaw, and corn bread. Mama cooked for a family on Charles Street. Even their parties. No caterers necessary for shindigs at the Brookses’ house when Mama set her hand to the stove with such expertise.
Well, Daddy look tired. He ran a hand through his blond hair, and Mama kissed his forehead. “Revina, I’d swear all of Baltimore needs new glasses.”
Mama laughed. It was Saturday. She had most weekends off during the summer because the Brookses stayed at their vacation home on Gibson Island from Friday afternoon until Sunday night. “Well, take a load off, Harold. Here’s a good, tall glass of tea, and supper’s almost ready.”
“You didn’t need to cook on your day off, Revina.”
“I love to cook.”
“But you do it all week.”
“And I do what I love.”
See where I get it from?
So we ate our meal after Daddy asked for God’s blessing on the food. My younger brothers, Freddy and Harold Jr., asked if they could eat everything but the crabs.
“Don’t eat it if you don’t like it!” Daddy said quickly before Mama answered with her usual, “You need to try a bite of everything.”
Daddy loved soft crabs more than anything.
Mama winked at him.
See, Harold and Revina Neubauer loved each other from the day they met down on the docks. He was unloading produce, his arms muscular and white, and she was trying to find a decent tomato, her brown fingers sensitive and smooth.
Daddy ate his fill and pushed away his plate. He watched while I nibbled on my corn bread. Mama’d sliced up a tomato at the last minute, and I constructed a crumbly sandwich. “Tomorrow’s church, Prisma.”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you like church?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you know why we go to church?”
“Yes sir. To learn about the Lord.”
“Who is God’s Son, Prisma?”
“The Lord Jesus.”
“Have you ever made Him your Savior?”
“No sir. At least I don’t think I have.”
“Do you think it’s time?”
Mama put her towel on the counter and sat down next to me. “Let me, Harold. You can be a bull in a china shop about stuff like this.”
“I’ll put on some coffee.”
“That’d be good.” She gathered up my hand, and in her sweet, soft voice, her relaxed, ink-black hair falling over one shoulder, Mama took all of my Sunday-school lessons and bundled them in one package she called The Gospel.
I asked Jesus to be my Savior that very day!
The next day we learned a new song in Sunday school.
Oh, how I love Jesus. Because He first loved me. I was five years old.
Mrs. Summerville needs Jesus. We all need Jesus.
When Mr. Summerville lay dying, a nurse came in. One of Mama’s people. She wore a pin that said “Jesus.”
“I like that pin.”
The light from her beautiful smile engulfed me, Mr. Summerville, the sickbed, the entire private room. “You gotta have Jesus,” she said. “Everybody’s gotta have Jesus.”
I nodded.
“Does that man there have Jesus?” she asked me, as I sat there holding his hand, the morphine having taken him from his pain.
“He sure does.”
“Amen, sister.”
“Amen is right.”
God’s people are everywhere. In hospitals, the grocery stores, the houses we live in. They’re everywhere.
Days of Summer sent a check to a man in California who takes kids off the streets and shows them how to dance. We’re a nonprofit organization, so we don’t just give to Christian organizations. But I can sniff out a brother or sister in Christ from clear across the country. When I called him last Friday and told him a check to put in a new heating system was on the way, he said, “Praise God!”
That’s exactly right.
Praise God.
Lark
DR. J’S BEEPER TWITTERED in the middle of the homily. He waved to catch my eye, held up the wicked electronic device, shrugged in apology, and hurried down the aisle and out the door.
The pink getup was for nothing.
I should have known better than to step out like I did. Who did I think I was? Wearing a gauzy pink dress, pretty sandals, and blow-dried hair.
If God wanted me to date, He would have sent someone my way long ago.
Nevertheless, I let Marsha talk me into walking a few steps down to the 3 B’s for lunch. Deke and Babe take Sundays off, and some odd guy who looked like a pumpkin with appendages worked the grill while this ancient woman with a topknot puttered back and forth from counter to booth like Tim Conway when he played that annoying old guy.
I hated that part of The Carol Burnett Show. Loved everything else though.
“So tell me all about Flannery’s new boyfriend!” Marsha sipped her cup of boiling hot, winter-day coffee. Never mind it was 97 degrees outside and I had sweated clear through the linen of Flannery’s nice dress.
Thank goodness the restaurant was air-conditioned. I can hardly imagine the days before air conditioning! I don’t know how my mother always maintained her cool air of sophistication.
“I haven’t met him yet. She doesn’t say much, but she does call him her boyfriend already. Seems to be going pretty fast.”
Marsha knew all about fast. She’d married Glen after three weeks of dating. “It could still work.”
“He’s Catholic.”
“So? You’re around Catholics all the time. I’m Catholic.”
“But I’m really Methodist deep down.”
“Oh, phooey, Lark. It’s the same Jesus.”
“I don’t want to talk about theology. Anyway, she’s gone to mass with him this morning. He went to church with her last night.”
“Sounds good, doesn’t it? Most kids their age couldn’t care less about faith.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
The waitress delivered our food. Overnight delivery, apparently. It was all I could do not to hop up and yank the plates out of her hands before she dropped them. I checked to make sure my burger was totally plain. Marsha picked up a chicken wing, not giving a rip about her beautiful, frosted manicure.
Hey, since when did the 3 B’s start doing food like chicken wings? That sure wasn’t nice for them to go contemporary on me like that.
We ate in silence for a while. She took a sip of her tea, then cleared her throat. “What happened to you, Lark, happens to very few people. Flannery deserves to fall in love.”
“I know. I haven’t said anything to her. I promise.”
“It’s more than about not saying anything, hon. Maybe you should encourage her to bring him down to St. Dominic’s so you can meet him?”
“You think that would be a good idea?”
“I thought of it, didn’t I?”
How do I describe Marsha? She sat there in her tight peach suit with coordinating blouse and scarf. Peach shoes too. Her calves, encased in fat-enhancing white hosiery, ballooned from off her shin bones. She ran at eighty miles per hour on love. Crowned with the worst of losses, Marsha knew suffering, pain. And she always had time for me.
“Tell you what. Why don’t you all come over to my house for a crab feast next weekend? Glen’ll put some hot dogs on the grill. We’ll roast some corn, too. It’ll be fun.”
“I’ll suggest it.”
“And why don’t you ask your mother to come, Lark?”
“Leslie? Oh, she’ll never agree to that!”
“Just promise me you’ll try.”
“Okay. But only because it’s you, Marsha.”
Her smug grin easied her plump face even more.
I could hear her thinking, “Yes! Another step in the right direction!”
I wish I could be like her. I really do.
Flannery
I ALWAYS THOUGHT CATHOLIC PEOPLE HAD NO CLUE about what they believed. Like, religion was something you inherited, you know? I tell James exactly that. We are sitting around Loch Raven, a reservoir in the county, and there are some leftover hippie types (So give it up already. Jerry Garcia’s dead. Dead. Dead, I tell you!) hanging around wearing tank tops, very droopy skin draped over emaciated health-food muscles. And lady, if you can’t afford a bra, I’ll be glad to buy you one before you start tucking them under your waistband.
James has his arm around me. “A lot of Catholics are like that. Religion has always been fascinating to me.”
“Just religion?” Look at the green on that mallard duck’s head. If that doesn’t tell you there’s a God, I don’t know what does.
“Well, no. Christianity. You know. Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think you would convert ever?”
I shrug. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“The Church is important to me, Flannery.”
“Plain old Jesus is important to me.”
“Me, too.”
“How?”
And then he talks about Christ in very personal terms. Of course, I don’t hear the usual Protestant buzz words like “asking Jesus in my heart” or “made Him my personal Savior.” I just hear words like the crucifixion, the resurrection, a loving God who sent His Son to provide redemption to all mankind and how He believes all that. “Sure I fail at putting it into practice, Flannery. But if we didn’t fail at it, we wouldn’t need Jesus in the first place.”
“Do you pray a lot? Or just do the candle-lighting thing every once in a while?”
“If you pulled up beside me in my car and looked over, you’d doubt my sanity.”
“Then why the anger?”
“Who said I was angry?”
“Well, when we first met at Starbucks you seemed mad.”
“I thought you were so pretty, I just acted like a jerk.”
So. Okay.
I want to ask him the sexual habits question but can’t just then. The major hurdle is crossed. He loves Jesus too.