Christian Clarity Review

A short parable on God confounding us, still being just and unbeliever’s inevitable reaction to God’s confounding us; remembering that God taught and disciplined the prophets before us and we are called not to seek to dodge the rebuke of God as making us wise. But sometimes we simply do not understand ..for years, decades.

Ecc 7:5 It is better for a man to hear the rebuke of the wise, than to hear the song of fools.

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Tom wanders into the Toucan cafe, a place of writers, thinkers, debaters, academics and aspiring movie producers. He is soon embroiled in a brainstorming session of new movie ideas.

Tom: How about a period piece: ancient Israel –before they went in the land. Guy has ten sheep set aside for the sacrifice. You had to have perfect sheep for that. No scars, no scratches, no scabs. No strange features. This guy, as he goes about his life, hears the law. He believes. He tries to do everything right because he is genuinely afraid of God. God gave him that fear as gift. It is real. He’s not a faker –not a religionist. He’s always checking himself out according to the law. Am I wrong? Did I break a rule? Maybe I did and I don’t know it? He’s counting on those sheep to set things right. This happens. That happens.

Blonde guy: Shit happens.

Tom: exactly. The thing about the story is that each time he wants to take one of those perfect sheep out and give it to the priest for his sin –something happens to it. One of his kids disobeys him and rides it and runs it into a tree; it gets cut –now it’s a no-go. This kind of thing happens one by one. Guy’s goin’ berserk. What am I gonna do? Where am I going to get a perfect sheep? Sheep take time to produce other sheep. Sheep of a certain age or the wrong sex were not acceptable for certain sins. He needs those sheep for whatever he does wrong and can’t know it in advance. I mean that sheep has to have no blemishes. So he’s not able to replace his perfect ones he set aside as fast as they are getting..

Blonde guy: knocked off.

Tom: Right. And its costing him to set them aside. His rams are basically in a safe house, –tent– to keep them perfect. They get fed the best food. Get the best care. So this guy is slowly replacing a few, but not as fast they get knocked off. He’s even made a few runs to the temple with a sheep only to have something happen to the sheep on the way. And the thing is this: the guy never finds out why. He has to live that way among his neighbors who are really unbelievers anyway and are just ritually following the system –with none of his problems. The film ends like that way –that guy just looking confused and asking the priest: why does God command me to do something, I take extreme precautions to make sure I do it –and He destroys my efforts! What did I do? Is it too late for me? Why does God hate me?

Blonde guy: Wow. Brain storm. I know I’m like a dufus sometimes but listen to this: that guy –doesn’t know it, has no clue — but that guy has been singled out by God to be a perfect sheep. ( Tom’s face falls..) I mean, the guy isn’t proud or vain or anything, but in God’s eyes, his neighbors have scabs and scratches and stuff according to God’s big, frickin, incomprehensible.. you know, standards. But this guy is being singled out to do some sacrificial thing see? See what I’m saying?

Man at a table nearby: What standards?

Blonde guy: the unspoken ones.

A woman at another table: What unspoken ones? Are you saying we can’t know God’s standards?

Tom is stunned, saying nothing.

Nearby girl: yeah but what thing –what sacrifice does God have him do? I want to see that –as a movie goer. I want to know Why.

Tom has a thousand mile stare at the wall.

Nearby girl: See what I’m saying? yeah but what? I want to see that –as a movie goer.

Blonde guy: That’s the end of my big thought. I don’t know. Maybe make him a warrior or something. And hey –he’s practicing the ancient Israeli high speed martial arts and stuff. That’s a good angle these days. He could shoot an arrow in slow motion over a ..what, a hundred yards? And hit a ..

Tom: why not just kill him and get it over with?

Blonde guy and girl and everyone nearby suddenly realize Tom sees himself as that man.

Blonde guy: hey man, I didn’t .. I didn’t mean to.. ( he looks at the girl ..) I didn’t ..who can know that kind of stuff in advance? How was I supposed ..

Tom : Don’t sweat it. It’s a good brainstorm. What are you having? ( nodding to Blonde guy’s drink. )

Blonde guy: Uh, it’s a mocha mint.

Tom: Do you mind? Want another one?

Blonde guy: sure.

Tom motions toward the barrista and points toward Blonde guy: mocha mint grande.

Tom looks at Blonde guy: thank you.

Nearby Girl: You ain’t like Jonah or something are you? You ain’t runnin’ or nothin’?

Tom sips water and shakes his head: ‘o. I was in full pursuit, –compliance, if you will, of what Jesus Christ told me to do. He was doing it through me. He had me running a mission –a shelter, for homeless people suffering from substance abuse. For two years. Good facility. Had some great results. Things were looking good. Then it burned to the ground, killed six people, and scarred two more for life.

Another guy sitting nearby: That was your sheep.

Tom: But I can’t earn anything –at all. I knew that going in. I know that now. The sacrificial system is no longer valid because of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. He was that sacrifice for me –for all who are His. I can’t add to that. No one can.

Blonde guy: Maybe you forgot.

Tom: No. I didn’t. It was the basis of all the success God gave us –when they found out they didn’t have free will and all they were being told by the world was a false measurement system that was causing a cycle of vain to be hopeless. They were born again in reality –not as a farce. They were set free –from the whole thing, not just from the temporary cycle of addiction. Their whole lives were changed. I was going to open up another shelter if I could get some grants.

Blonde guy: He supposed to stop after you “know”?

Girl: You were doing what Jesus Christ told you to do–what you say He was doing through you –and He did that to you?

Tom: He did it to everybody there.

Man sitting nearby: Why would anybody choose Jesus?

Tom : Nobody can. He’s still the King of Kings of Lord of Lords. He does what He wants. I just..

Blonde guy suddenly burst out laughing.

Everyone looks at him.

Blonde guy: I’m just imagining the Jewish guy making a run for it toward the temple, cradling this hapless sheep in his arms, looking out everywhere for what’s going to happen next. He’s supposed to be this mighty warrior and everything. He’s got it in homemade body armor for sheep. No..no.. ( he’s wheezing in high pitched long breaths with laughter now..) nobody understands what it is like to be him. I mean nobody. Hell, even his neighbors probably think God hates him so they avoid him. You can almost hear ‘em “Yeah. That’s him. ( he he he he..! ) God scars all his sacrifices. Get away from him or it will rub off on you! He treats his sheep better than he treats his family!” Ha ha ha..

Tom smiles weakly in spite of himself: They weren’t my family?

Man sitting nearby: That guy is me.

Blonde guy: ( slapping the table, calming down) Now I’m buyin’ you one! You want something?

Tom points at the mocha mint grande: I’ll have one of yours.

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Psalm 88:1-18 A Song, a Psalm for the sons of Korah. To the chief Musician. Upon Mahalath Leannoth. An instruction. Of Heman the Ezrahite. Jehovah, God of my salvation, I have cried by day and in the night before thee. Let my prayer come before thee; incline thine ear unto my cry. For my soul is full of troubles, and my life draweth nigh to Sheol. I am reckoned with them that go down into the pit; I am as a man that hath no strength: Prostrate among the dead, like the slain that lie in the grave; whom thou rememberest no more, and who are cut off from thy hand. Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in dark places, in the deeps. Thy fury lieth hard upon me, and thou hast afflicted me with all thy waves. Selah. Thou hast put my familiar friends far from me; thou hast made me an abomination unto them: I am shut up, and I cannot come forth. Mine eye consumeth by reason of affliction. Upon thee, Jehovah, have I called every day; I have stretched out my hands unto thee. Wilt thou do wonders to the dead? shall the shades arise and praise thee? Selah. Shall thy loving-kindness be declared in the grave? thy faithfulness in Destruction? Shall thy wonders be known in the dark? and thy righteousness in the land of forgetfulness? But as for me, Jehovah, I cry unto thee, and in the morning my prayer cometh before thee. Why, O Jehovah, castest thou off my soul? why hidest thou thy face from me? I am afflicted and expiring from my youth up; I suffer thy terrors, and I am distracted. Thy fierce anger hath gone over me; thy terrors have brought me to nought: They have surrounded me all the day like water; they have compassed me about together. Lover and associate hast thou put far from me: my familiar friends are darkness.

Proverbs 3:11,12 My son, despise not the instruction of Jehovah, neither be weary of his chastisement; for whom Jehovah loveth he chasteneth, even as a father the son in whom he delighteth.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen

jail scene. The jailer is trying to get those he is imprisoning to talk about the specifics of ..something:

Jailer: See, God controls everything. ( as he waves his hands in a circle, one hand holding the GUN)

Prisoner: Everything? ( looking at the gun ) ( his head following the gun around..)

Jailer: Everything, my friend. For instance ( as he herds the prisoner towards a cell already crowded with others ) take the coast. God controls when it expands so that men may build houses on more land and eat the fruit of trees that grow there. There is freedom in having more land. Everyone knows this. But then God sometimes ( he grips the air tightly) constricts the coastline. He squeezes all the men together in a smaller area with an iron band. See?

Prisoner: ( as they get to the door of the cell). I can see that.

Jailer: and the thing is, men like their privacy. They don’t like to be close to other men or women other than their families except for the necessities, no?

Prisoner ( as the jailer opens the door and he goes inside..) I suppose so.

Jailer: You suppose? No, I think you are certain. I think you understand that quietness is indeed golden. Especially for a person in your situation. Because you know that speech itself, no matter what is said, can sometimes be –no, a lot of the time is, the enemy. So I want you to stay in there and not say anything. You have all the time in the world, many millennia according to some for God to work these things out. God has merely constricted your coast to crowd you in with other men –other speakers. But I think –let us hope, it is only temporary and that God will act in a moment, in a miracle, for He has many, to give you more land.

Prisoner: looks at his hand and slowly constricts the air.

Jailer: See? You understand already. I want you to be quiet a very long time and then say something important. You will thank me later for this, I promise. Ch..eh, boleth. Are you familiar with this term?

Prisoner: Shibboleth?

Jailer: Exactly. I knew you were an educated man the moment I saw you. I want you to say a chi-bboleth.

Prisoner looks confused.

Jailer: Don’t worry. You will know it when it happens. ( closes the door and turns the key. Bolt loudly engages. He puts the gun in its holster.) It is different for everybody. And yet the same. You came all this way to be profound, to do what is profound. I could see it the moment I saw you, even beyond your obvious education. Do you have visions?

Prisoner: No. But I see new understandings all the time about things I wasn’t really thinking about. And I’ve heard the thought lately that although we speak a lot of words as sounds we understand and that have real meaning to us and even satisfies us, that beyond that we are saying something else with the same sounds in a language which is unknown to us; that all the little stops and starts as implied punctuation in our speech? –isn’t really, and that it is all something else. I don’t know if it is good or evil. But I think we say much more than we know in the middle of saying what we think we know.

Jailer ( after a small silence) : That is profound. You are a profound person. You will remember I said so. Unfortunately, that particular, ..how do you say ..profundity, is not what we are looking for is it?

Prisoner: Is a shibboleth a confession?

Jailer: It could be. I don’t know. I am not an educated man. It could be as simple as asking some Chinese people to say “fried rice”. You know how some of them are with r’s and l’s. It could be a bigger difference between you and me beyond you being in there and me being out here with the gun and the law. But really, I just hear things from time to time. I think you haven’t been quiet enough to find out and then tell me so we both will know. Even if we are saying mini things beyond what we know to understand, silence is the same in all languages, no? Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe ..next year. We are but men and do not know these things –until God makes our coast small and gives us time to think. ( he puts his finger up to his lips) Shhh…

add foreign country, a bottle of locally specific liquor on the jailers desk, a dirty glass half full of the liquor, a few flies, an overhead fan creaking out the moving air as it cast shadows over the floor and faces of the players, subdued street noises, guns peeking out of waistbands and under arms from obviously custom rigs, a few days of beard growth on all the men except for one who is perfectly groomed and who is the only one not sweating and obviously ready to ( resigned to) sweating all the time, at least one or two idols that the jailer’s best honesty is to think is truly representative of Christianity and to whom incense is burning in a small dish throughout the whole scene, some graffti to that idol in the jail cell, tattoos on everybody except the guy not sweating. add the truth that both jailer and prisoner are deceived in the lie of free will and though they may make allusions to lack of free will and ‘things outside their mind’, their best honesty is to be deceived anyone can say and do anything they want given the “proper motivation” specifcally aimed at their will and that they all live in the only speech in total reality and that there simply is no hope of anything else and they the are most religious people they know ….there you go.

.. compare that to those who say they search for a “lost word” within their secret rituals and cannot and never could say shibboleth at all to God in the Word that is Jesus Christ, but merely keep speaking as if they had done so repeatedly and God was the one with the hearing problem:

Luke 16:19-31 Now there was a rich man and he was clothed in purple and fine linen, making good cheer in splendour every day. And there was a poor man, by name Lazarus, who was laid at his gateway full of sores, and desiring to be filled with the crumbs which fell from the table of the rich man; but the dogs also coming licked his sores. And it came to pass that the poor man died, and that he was carried away by the angels into the bosom of Abraham. And the rich man also died and was buried. And in hades lifting up his eyes, being in torments, he sees Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. And he crying out said, Father Abraham, have compassion on me, and send Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am suffering in this flame. But Abraham said, Child, recollect that *thou* hast fully received thy good things in thy lifetime, and likewise Lazarus evil things. But now he is comforted here, and *thou* art in suffering. And besides all this, between us and you a great chasm is fixed, so that those who desire to pass hence to you cannot, nor do they who desire to cross from there pass over unto us. And he said, I beseech thee then, father, that thou wouldest send him to the house of my father, for I have five brothers, so that he may earnestly testify to them, that they also may not come to this place of torment. But Abraham says to him, They have Moses and the prophets: let them hear them. But he said, Nay, father Abraham, but if one from the dead should go to them, they will repent. And he said to him, If they hear not Moses and the prophets, not even if one rise from among the dead will they be persuaded.

…then add again the truth that the jailer is a freemason witch with a gold tooth and that he thinks he knows a lost word and what it really means but is specifically forbidden to speak it in public. The lost words , the shibboleths he wants other people to say are beneath him to understand, no matter what they say. He thinks he is merely clever to catch other people in their primitive beliefs and make those beleifs work for him. What he says to the prisoner is just something he says to make them all think jail is temporary. He is a collector of human capital for a low-tech firm. They like to say (and advertise as much on tv in six languages) that they leverage human capital into fresh produce…

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Judges 12:5,6 And Gilead took the fords of the Jordan before Ephraim; and it came to pass that when the fugitives of Ephraim said, Let me go over, the men of Gilead said to him, Art thou an Ephraimite? and he said, No. Then they said to him, Say now Shibboleth! and he said, Sibboleth, and did not manage to pronounce it rightly. Then they took him, and slaughtered him at the fords of the Jordan. And there fell at that time of Ephraim forty-two thousand.

shibboleth: stream of water

Proverbs 18:4 The words of a man’s mouth are deep waters, and the fountain of wisdom is a gushing brook.

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Proverbs 17:27,28 He that hath knowledge spareth his words; and a man of understanding is of a cool spirit. Even a fool when he holdeth his peace is reckoned wise, and he that shutteth his lips, intelligent.

Ecc 5:1-3 Keep thy foot when thou goest to the house of God, and draw near to hear, rather than to give the sacrifice of fools: for they know not that they do evil. Be not rash with thy mouth, and let not thy heart be hasty to utter anything before God: for God is in the heavens, and thou upon earth; therefore let thy words be few. For a dream cometh through the multitude of business, and a fool’s voice through a multitude of words.

Matthew 12:36,37 But I say unto you, that every idle word which men shall say, they shall render an account of it in judgment-day: for by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen

He doesn’t get it; doesn’t want to. While he was speaking for Jesus from the pulpit, they were taking oaths to Allah in secret with witchcraft rituals and giving themselves titles like “Grand Master” and “Imperial High Priest and Prophet”. They say it’s all in fun and that they are kidding –doing it for charity. After all, the congregation voted them into the office of elders and deacons: sound men of good repute.

So it’s like a jigsaw puzzle of humor: the Master Mason is one piece, the Imperial High Priest and prophet and is another; so forth; and the sum is a laugh?

Yeah. They say and smile. Exactly Like That.

The burn victim’s family is gushing with gratitude on the infomercials.

And while Dad was preaching, they had already got orders from somewhere else to lead the people astray a little bit at the same time. They always say Jesus Christ isn’t the only Way. They are not sure on que expressly so their doubts give room for another Way than that which they say they believe.

They were to have helped us all. They stayed to keep us back from error when the Church went down. They masquerade as the people God Says you have to say ‘Yes sir’ to because they are older and in office. Sunday school teachers. Principles. Lawyers. Politicians. Preachers. Business leaders. PatriSacrificers.

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He never could understand it through the years: the implications he was always doing something wrong and so wasn’t included; the small disagreements with core doctrine: their understanding is always almost perfect; just enough off to be warrant their own conversations per issue; just enough to monopolize the time meeting after meeting. I know we’re busy here. But now explain that part to me again Brother Bill…the difference between predestination and election. I don’t get that part. And I’m told I’m a smart man.

So he would diligently explain it a different way; use a different metaphor; accept their invitations to play golf; to go fishing; to eat dinner. ( He could talk to them then and say things in private they might be too embarrassed to say publicly. They were the weaker brother who needed help.) He accepted the twenties pressed into his palm to take his own family out to eat, even though for him it was really an interruption; he was always distracted in the expensive and unusual restaurant.

Always he looked for the final way to make them understand –to stop the little bit of confusion from which they suffered. It is what he talked about, argued over with the announcers on TV, prayed to God to receive to give to them. He had us looking too, though he never wanted to just accumulate wisdom. He wanted to get it to give it away. Thats who he was and what he did. He searched in books not the Bible for the perfect explanation that would win them freedom from doubt: to free them from “Yes, but..” into “yes.” and the Church into Peace. He searched the Bible for an answer to match their books. Too.

But he wouldn’t join the lodge. Grandpa had always told him: stay away from the Masons. They’ve got a loyalty only to the lodge. They do some good works. But something isn’t right. Don’t forget, Lucifer disguises himself as an angle of light –as a certain kind of mercy that ain’t mercy.

They had always understood. They provided the books. In their own nepotism of secret handshakes and code phrases, on the level and on the square, their circle of alternate brotherhood: they knew. In the city council and on the Board of the Church: they knew. In the charity drives and the little cars: they knew. With the Islamic fez and the crescent moon and star: they knew. It was never a joke: the ‘good’ Islam and ‘bad’ Islam in the war on us all from within.

He was working for them; for their benefit day and night; in prayer and out of it. He prayed before God for their benefit according to their books and their own desires. They trained him to search for the perfect metaphor that would win them over. He grew more concerned with getting them to say yes than listening to God. They set him up and he fell –for them. He did it all for them according to what they put in his heart. That had become his Christianity: the hope of the Perfect Explanation in the supposed non-interfering speech. There was nothing he could see outside of it.

But at least he was Reformed. He liked that word. He siad it often as his proof that at least he wasn’t a papist.

His life was a sacrifice he was certain, after having read their books, of which God would approve. Wasn’t God for certainty? Was God a god of confusion? Of course not! And while he was working for the confused, God took care of his own family. That’s how God is; that’s how It works. He ignored widows for them; the sick; the lame. He was studying for an Answer. Are non-widows or the healthy Less in God’s eyes?

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I don’t want vengeance; wouldn’t care if I got it or gave it away. What is it? What’s it good for? Only God knows what to do with it. I’m not God.

He still doesn’t understand. It’s too much for him. He thought not understanding certain things made him better even as he searched for a certainty for them. He thought putting a mote in his own eye for the emotional stability of the whole was the Way. They taught him that, little bit by little bit. They taught everybody that through him together with some twenties for his family to get a little taste.

On his death bed he wanted me to promise that I wouldn’t do it. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. –as if God weren’t in us. He was always like that: for God in such a way that all the good people die while the angels harp a happy tune. He said that (about vengeance) after the argument that made him see what they had done; after the look on his face they would have laughed at. Jimmy Brand?! Gilbert Sousa?! The Whitehalls?! Then, moments later: That’s why Roscoe Hemmings went to First Church. He pushed to get me to join the Masons. He stared at the ceiling with a gaze that saw back through all the years and was a kind of simple hopelessness over the time spent.

They are ..what are they? Spiritual cuckolds. Deviants who prey on good faith. If the Church were their mother, they are literal Mother Fuckers: Incestuizers and Seducers while being a husband of one wife and a father who maintains his household within a certain range. They made the Church itself the idol that had to worshipped.

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Benny stands outside in the parking lot and says : You can’t do that. Your Dad..

I hold up my thumb (of all things). I remind him I have a green thumb. I can do better than this –God has proved it.. This isn’t my life or even my job. Just a temporary thing in the middle of everything else. All that Rosemary at the house? I rooted all that from sticks from the big plant out front. God did it through me. I got a green thumb—God proved it. God’s made things grow through me –done good things through me. And you can’t even say this is evil unless you use their books and swear their oaths to Lucifer. Unless you look through their eyes.

Ben says: We just have to keep looking. Have faith. We got to keep our faith! God will give us the Answer!

I never lost my faith. If anything I found it. God’s proving it right now.

I didn’t go looking for this; this came looking for me. Literally. It hunted me like all the rest. It had me while I was growing up, just like it had Dad. Looking back, Mom knew something was wrong; she just couldn’t put her finger on it. She and Grandpa didn’t get along.

I got that from them too: whatever Mom says can’t be right. Preachers wives …are preachers wives. I was there praying for their good according to what they wanted as I heard it from him. Nobody could stop me. Dad knew what he was doing. We were going for a Breakthrough together. How could Mom always be sabatoging his efforts? Why couldn’t she understand? I was there when they made everyone work for vanity. I was there! For decades.

It’s about the kids coming up. They will NOT live under the same.

Look around, Ben. Things weren’t like this when they first got here. Things weren’t like this when we got started in life. They were raised safe. Then they took over and now look at it –in one generation. It ain’t about Democrat or Republican either. It never was. It’s about what is right before God and not men.

I pull the slide back and hear the bolt slam a round in the chamber. It sounds heavy-quick: of good quality; real. You pull this trigger in a gun like this and it’ll actually go off and be ready to do it again before you can blink. Something will happen too. The Glock twenty three c is a good weapon. Nice balance. You can shoot Glock’s forever without having to clean them. Or about twenty thousand rounds worth of ammo per cleaning job. No joke. They shoot underwater for God’s sake. Only downside is plastic magazines. They wear out over time. Not like the metal magazines for a Sig Sauer or a Browning. The forty is a good caliber though. Good stopping power. Everything is a trade off: power versus portability; weight versus power; size versus overall utility; commonly available parts versus the specialized weapon; legal status of getting a permit for the different tools. You know. We got a CIA knife over here –on sale. Composite. Don’t show up on radar. X-ray either. But you probably knew that.

They say to those whose ears they think they have: You can play until the money runs out. –while they use cash as an addictive medium for the free will lie: The more money you got, the more your will is free! Who can’t use more money? You’ve won!

‘Til the money runs out you control? That the word from the Big Boss from Somewhere Else? From the Light Bearer? From the High Holy Potentate?

But justice is free; moneyless. Priceless. When God says go, the talking, the jokes is over. And God has already given His Word, even though they think there is no God except the ‘Light Bearer’, so supposedly any other He can never Speak.

It’s an old — an ancient war. This is just the current round between God in us and Lucifer in them. God brought me up the slow path. But I’m here now.

It took God a lot to get me here. It cost Him.

Glock’s don’t have a traditional safety. God in you squeezes –it goes off. So if they tell you as a last resort that you’ve forgotten to take off the safety? Don’t believe them on that one either. Just squeeze.

I’m all out of answers and technical details. Go home, Ben. I’ll be alright.

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2 Chronicles 36:15,16 And Jehovah the God of their fathers sent to them by his messengers, rising up early and sending; because he had compassion on his people and on his dwelling-place. But they mocked at the messengers of God, and despised his words, and scoffed at his prophets, until the fury of Jehovah rose against his people, and there was no remedy.

Ezekiel 8:7-18 And he brought me to the entry of the court, and I looked, and behold, a hole in the wall. And he said unto me, Son of man, dig now through the wall; and I digged through the wall, and behold, a door. And he said unto me, Go in, and behold the wicked abominations that they do here. And I went in and looked, and behold, every form of creeping thing and abominable beast, and all the idols of the house of Israel, portrayed upon the wall round about. And there stood before them seventy men of the elders of the house of Israel, and in the midst of them stood Jaazaniah the son of Shaphan, with every man his censer in his hand; and a thick cloud of incense went up. And he said unto me, Hast thou seen, son of man, what the elders of the house of Israel do in the dark, every one in his chambers of imagery? for they say, Jehovah seeth us not; Jehovah hath forsaken the land. And he said unto me, Yet again thou shalt see great abominations which they do. And he brought me to the entry of the gate of Jehovah’s house that was toward the north; and behold, there sat women weeping for Tammuz. And he said unto me, Seest thou, son of man? Thou shalt yet again see greater abominations than these. And he brought me into the inner court of Jehovah’s house, and behold, at the entry of the temple of Jehovah, between the porch and the altar, were about five and twenty men, with their backs toward the temple of Jehovah and their faces toward the east; and they worshipped the sun toward the east. And he said unto me, Seest thou, son of man? Is it a light thing to the house of Judah to commit the abominations which they commit here, that they yet fill the land with violence, and keep provoking me afresh to anger? And behold, they put the branch to their nose. And I also will deal in fury: mine eye shall not spare, neither will I have pity; and though they cry in mine ears with a loud voice, I will not hear them.

Ezekiel 9:3-11 And the glory of the God of Israel was gone up from the cherub, whereupon it was, to the threshold of the house; and he called to the man clothed with linen, who had the writer’s ink-horn by his side; and Jehovah said unto him, Go through the midst of the city, through the midst of Jerusalem, and set a mark upon the foreheads of the men that sigh and that cry for all the abominations that are done in the midst thereof. And to the others he said in my hearing, Go after him through the city, and smite: let not your eye spare, neither have pity. Slay utterly the old man, the young man, and the maiden, and little children, and women; but come not near any man upon whom is the mark; and begin at my sanctuary. Then they began at the elders who were before the house. And he said unto them, Defile the house, and fill the courts with the slain: go forth. And they went forth, and smote in the city. And it came to pass, while they were smiting, and I was left, that I fell upon my face, and cried, and said, Ah, Lord Jehovah! wilt thou destroy all the remnant of Israel in thy pouring out of thy fury upon Jerusalem? And he said unto me, The iniquity of the house of Israel and Judah is exceeding great, and the land is full of blood, and the city full of perverseness; for they say, Jehovah hath forsaken the earth, and Jehovah seeth not. And as for me also, mine eye shall not spare, neither will I have pity: I will recompense their way upon their head. And behold, the man clothed with linen, who had the ink-horn by his side, reported the matter, saying, I have done as thou hast commanded me.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen

It hadn’t rained in months.

A few sprinkles here and there had cooled things off. But no serious, steady rain had come in over sixty-three days.

Even as he watched it fall, hour after hour, it took most of the afternoon for Ken to realize the rain wasn’t worth hating and that standing in the rain knowing something was wrong with the world didn’t help him or the world. It made an impact on him the same way the air got heavier but didn’t keep him warm. He gave up standing and walking in it as way of understanding it with the same stoic grimace as when he finally stopped chasing the feeling he heard on somebody else’s guitar over the radio and packed his own away.

He went inside and changed.

When it did finally hit him that the weather wasn’t an interruption but a replacement of his plans, he sat down on the porch steps watching the water fall in steady thunder on the roof and searching for another reason to get away. At least for the next week, watering the garden wasn’t necessary.

It was almost four o’clock.

He didn’t care about getting wet. But there needed to be an efficency in the reason.

In just a little while she would be home. Something would start it up and she would be yelling again. She wouldn’t stop until she fell asleep.

Even though he knew at the bottom of it all he was just getting away from her words, still he wanted there to be a genuineness in his absence, a reality to hold up in the stead of the honesty she would use as more wood for her fire. If you was a man you wouldn’t be scared o’ me.

She never stopped.

He looked at his watch. Ten minutes.

The rain hadn’t slowed since it began. That was good. They needed the rain; even desperately.

Without another thought he stood up, put on his hat and walked out into the rain, straight ahead and into the puddles forming in the dirt driveway. Soaked almost immediately, his overalls taking on the dark of wet and sagging with the weight, he headed toward the road in the opposite direction from which he knew she would come.

Lightning spread in crooked fingers all around him, crashing in thunder that rolled from what seemed arms length away into the distance. Car lights from up ahead appeared through the rain.

He walked on.

A few minutes later a truck went by, lumbering down the dirt road behind him and sloshing the water out of the ruts in the clay. He stood to one side and watched it disappear in the rain again.

The water in the ditches crept out over the road and onto the fields on either side. Weaving in and out of rushing water that ran down the ruts, he walked on wondering if he was only a quarter of a mile away by now and hoping it was a half a mile.

He topped the hill and started down the other side, knowing that if it stopped raining she couldn’t see him even if she looked this way.

He wasn’t walking out.

He was just going for a walk without making a point of it. Somehow he would know when it was over. Maybe it would be her voice, or an event unknown as yet. But one way or another he would be back with her. And her voice.

He stopped suddenly and looked at his watch. It was four-thirty. It seemed no time at all since he had taken the first step. He remembered the water, the puddles and the truck. They were no reason at all.

He walked on in a stumbling gait on the slippery road, holding his hand up now and then to see what was ahead.

A car had been abandoned. He could see both rear tires were buried in the mud. There wasn’t anyone inside.

He walked on.

Bobby Williams drove up in his big, new truck. Carol Lintel was sitting beside him. The radio blared country music. Bobby rolled the window down. “You need a ride, Ken?”

Ken didn’t answer, just stared ahead and then back at the truck.

“What are you doin’ out here? Get in! I’ll drive you home.”

Ken searched Bobby’s eyes for a reason and saw Carol frown.

“No thanks. Ya’ll go ahead.” He waved a thank you, turned and walked on.

The truck sat there a moment and pulled slowly away.

Later, several hills later and down by the bridge, he played the scene over in his head. Bobby would surely stop by and tell her where he was. Bobby would ask if something were wrong–which would only add fuel to her fire. He could hear her already. You embarressed me! How dare you! Bobby and that new woman of his –who just divorced Ed Jenkins by the way!–stopped by here and told me you were walking away..in the RAIN! Do you know what that makes me look like! Me!? You ain’t even got a job, I’m supportin’ the both of us and now I’m the one made to look bad?! No sir! No way! You’re gonna….

She would go on for hours and not even take a breath. Jesus would come up. He would of course agree to everything she said and if He was present would’ve added more besides.

He leaned on the bridge wondering why God let people do that. They used the name of Jesus for every heinous thing imaginable and it seemed God never said a word about it. If God was the one everybody appealed to ultimately, why did He let this go on? Sometimes it seemed as if God was against Himself through other people. If that was true…

He dispaired of understanding. Without understanding, nothing would change. It would just go on and on and no one would stop. He thanked God for the rain and prayed for understanding before he got home.

The wind picked up. He closed his collar and sat on the rail, watching the water rush by beneath.

A while later, he hopped down and walked on. Tiptoeing between ruts with a hunched back and exaggerated step, and avoiding the small puddles like a victory, he didn’t hear the car until it parked behind him. He turned to say no thanks when he saw it was her.

They stared at each other through the window.

He searched for a reason, or at least a little softness in her eyes.

But she was angry, irrespective of her uncertain smile and wave to get in the car.

He disliked her for a moment, even as he loved her. She didn’t know how to be real. Everything she did was to prove she knew what other peoples love was: every movement a probe, a test to get the same reaction the other people got when they used words like love and marriage. I’m doin’ it right. You ain’t got a clue.

How could she not know that?! She was the one.

He knew how to give the reaction she wanted to prove she was doing love. It was easy. If he did it just right they would make love tonight and there would be quietness for a day or for an hour.

He couldn’t fake it, at least not now. Not any more.

She rolled down the window an inch. “Get in!”

“I ain’t done yet.”

Lightning struck a tree on top of the hill. The thunder boomed across the field and over them, shaking the bridge.

“What are you doin’ but gettin’ wet?! Get in before you get sick! I can’t take off work to take care of you! We can’t afford…”

He turned and walked down the bridge, starting in a hesitant stride. She was like a magnet for him; always had been.

She was the one.

But not like this.

He walked on.

She grabbed him from behind and whirled him around. “You leavin’ me?!”

“No. I’m just goin’ for a walk. I’ll come home when I get home.”

She wiped her hair out of her face. “Bobby stopped by with his latest woman. Said you looked sad.”

“Get in the car before you get sick. I’ll be home later.”

“I love you.”

He turned in exasperation. “No, you don’t. You try. I know you try. You get as close to what them other people say is love as you can. But that love is just somethin’ to hold up in front of those other people…like a trophy from the fair. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”

“I love you no matter what you say. I love you. That’s it. I don’t need your say so.”

“Go home. I’ll…be there later.”

“I want you there now.”

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

She stood there searching for what to say next. She thought of books and poems and Shakespeare and the women on TV. She thought of Jesus and the preacher and what they would say. She started several times to say something.

He disappeared in the rain toward the top of the hill.

She turned around on the bridge and drove toward home, fidgeting at first with the radio and then turning if off. The squeak and whump of the wipers timed his walk away.

He walked on searching for why he missed her when she wasn’t there. When he was engaged he would have said it was her simple laughter. A few years back it would have been her quiet assurance of things being right. But he had work at the mill then.

The rain slowed down to a drizzle and a breeze picked up. Shivering slightly, he finally turned around just shy of the old iron stob that everyone said was the old surveying landmark and that the surveyors said no one used any more. Even covered in weeds and mud it was its own spot just by reputation, situated on the other side of the ditch; three quarters of a mile from Johnson’s store.

Three steps back and he remembered what had happened. Somewhere, somehow she had gotten a new sense of humor. It had come from church and from work, from her folks and from his. It had come from him. It had taken him all this time to see it. Something invisible had come and stolen her while she was still standing there.

He nodded as he sloshed through the mud, the sound of birds once more filtering through the dusk. Nothing last forever, not even drought.

The more he knew God the more he was aware. There had been a promise of her, of everyone never fulfilled in all these years. They all pretended it was the humor and that the humor fulfilled all the promises. But as he walked he knew one day that real joy was coming, like a rain with hands and break the back of humor.

Turning back again he hopped the ditch and made his way through the soggy grass to the old iron stob. Taking out his pocket knife, he began cutting the grass and weeds away from it in a wide circle, beating back the onslaught of weeds that threatened a reputation; a promise.

Staying put was a defeat for him in her system; running away was worse in his. He knew God wouldn’t let him leave and yet had held her in ignorance that set her against him.

And Jesus is Christ; upright. God is perfect; holy.

—————————————————

Psalm 22:1-5 To the chief Musician. Upon Aijeleth-Shahar. A Psalm of David.

My *God, my *God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou far from my salvation, from the words of my groaning? My God, I cry by day, and thou answerest not; and by night, and there is no rest for me: And thou art holy, thou that dwellest amid the praises of Israel. Our fathers confided in thee: they confided, and thou didst deliver them. They cried unto thee, and were delivered; they confided in thee, and were not confounded.

And Job said: Job 9:20-24 If I justified myself, mine own mouth would condemn me; were I perfect, he would prove me perverse. Were I perfect, yet would I not know my soul: I would despise my life. It is all one; therefore I said, he destroyeth the perfect and the wicked. If the scourge kill suddenly, he mocketh at the trial of the innocent. The earth is given over into the hand of the wicked man ; he covereth the faces of its judges. If not, who then is it?

Job 42:7 And it came to pass after Jehovah had spoken these words to Job, that Jehovah said to Eliphaz the Temanite, Mine anger is kindled against thee, and against thy two friends; for ye have not spoken rightly of me, like my servant Job.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen

“Law enforcement was serious business back then—like it is today.”

Gab nods and smiles. He nods and smiles at everything.

We’re standing in front of the old Shady Rest juke joint. It’s run down now; a of concrete block shell: collapsed roof; vines everywhere. All that’s left of its former glory is the chipped paint, broken glass, a few beer cans from several generations, weeds spilling out the front windows; trees coming through and shading everything else.

The only thing that looks new, alive and authentic to the name (if you don’t know its history) is the huge oak trees with big, knotty roots and Spanish moss that swings easily in the breeze. They were probably here back then too. But trees always look new and alive no matter how big they get and you never really know how long they’ve been there.

Every time I come by here I think of a big, forties-looking sheriff’s car. It’s the kind of place a snake would live in: not much traffic, other small creatures for food, an excuse of any kind would work no matter what happened because there isn’t anybody else to say otherwise, except on those occassions when God comes around. –The kind with the big bubble on top and the yesteryear siren? “Sheriff” painted on the side with a single, big star and a little beat up. Couches for seats. No seat belts. A thirty eight special and twelve gauge shotgun for armament. Tragedy on wheels for a writer in the south.

One day I’m going to write a story about this place. It’ll have old, tinny blues music, sweat, the drinking of liquor, mason jars and period clothes. Tobacco. Law enforcement. Grits. Salvation. Screen porches and doors. Someone will say “What’ch you doin’ boy?” and something about New York and up north. Racial stuff. It’ll have souls and spirits and characters recognizable to the general public as people because of the emotions they’ll do. One group will be ‘out’ and another will be ‘in’. It won’t be a comedy. It’ll make a statement about God, the human condition. Love. Everything. Maybe even make peace between everybody up north and everybody down south.

Gab must be thinking the same thing. He lets out a “WaaaaAAAAA!” that starts out low and gets louder like the old sirens. I nod and grin.

Hank jumps. I laugh. He was lost in his own thoughts and Gab’s siren must have sounded like an alien, demon spirit from the pit of all the evil that took place here suddenly moving through to inspect his domain. Possession. (Hey—that too.). Everything. A prison or road gang angle. Women. People with cars and those without them. Mules. Hound dogs. Huntin’. Dancing and sex will be implied but not demonstrated.

The wind picks up and the moss brushes my face. I’m standing under the shade. You too, brother. Old oak trees and Spanish moss. Lemonade. Church. Fresh cut lumber. Turpentine. Guilty laughter. Clean fun.

It started out and finished a juke. No one recalls the owner’s name—or what happened that closed it down. But they do say he changed the name to Shady Rest (from ‘Traveler’s Rest’) because it is what the locals had taken to calling it: he sold beer; moonshine under the table and played that music. As deep a sin pit as there ever was.

Somebody will take a sip in that story. And a bite. Bobcats. Alligators. A body. The swamp.

We’re out walking because we had a flat tire. We usually drive by this place and don’t stop. It’s not spooky per se. It’s just that nobody really has any business here anymore.

We were on the other side of the road, but Hank just helped a turtle to cross the asphalt faster. They tend to be slow and get run over with some frequency. The sign is still here and creaks on its hinges. There will be a repetition of the same mistakes over and over.

A woman in a car drives by. We stare stupidly to make it obvious we’re just visitors and don’t know where we are.

Gab lives just up the road. We can bring his truck down. It’s got the tools we need. But the air is hot now and we’re soaked through already.

It’ll have shade too, that story–some relief beyond ‘I saw it and understood it.’ And somebody will come home and everything will be alright. Except for one character. One family. Somebody always takes a hit.

Tall grass. Turtles. Roads. A perfect, Red Delicious apple. Everything.

For now we stand here and wait. We see what we can see and be what we can be in the small concrete square of the old patio. A moment will come and we’ll know the time to move on has come. A breeze or maybe someone we know will blow by. Perhaps the sun will go down beyond the overhang of the old oak’s branches or moss. We’ll just know.

Hank kicks a can toward the tree and sighs.

The turtle? He’s not moving and has no expression on his face.

——————————————————

Isaiah 34:13-17 And thorns shall come up in her palaces, nettles and brambles in her fortresses; and it shall be a dwelling-place of wild dogs, a court for ostriches. And there shall the beasts of the desert meet with the jackals, and the wild goat shall cry to his fellow; the lilith also shall settle there, and find for herself a place of rest. There shall the arrow-snake make her nest, and lay, and hatch, and gather under her shadow; there also shall the vultures be gathered one with another. Search ye in the book of Jehovah and read: not one of these shall fail, one shall not have to seek for the other; for my mouth, it hath commanded, and his Spirit, it hath gathered them. For he himself hath cast the lot for them, and his hand hath divided it unto them with the line: they shall possess it for ever; from generation to generation shall they dwell therein.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen

The blueberries are just coming in here in the panhandle. Blueberries—not gooseberries. Let the reader beware the difference. We had good rains this winter, even this spring, so it should be a good year for berries.

Nobody wants to pick the small berries—the ones with the real flavor. Not even me –and I know they taste good.

You go and see the bush and all you really do is gage two things: size and color. Blue with a little frosting—that’s good. Big is good. But small with a deep blue/black translucence to it—that’s best. It’s sweet with just a bit of tart to it. The best of berry pickers pick them all. The best pies have a mixture of all sizes and shapes.

There are teardrop shaped berries. Round berries. Squat, big-middle berries. Football shaped berries. They all get ripe at different times, even different berries on the same cluster on the same bush. So the season is spread from late April/May to July/early August.

Most people around here pick a certain amount generally known as enough–and never for cash: personal consumption. That amount is indicated by the size of the container. You take a quart jar, you get a quart. You take a ‘large bowl’, you get a large bowl of berries. Works for most people. Not Dad.

I’m at one bush, he’s at another. “How much have you got?” I mean—it’s hot. Rattlesnake season coincides with berry season as well. No kidding. I killed one last year longer than I am tall.

“Seven hundred and eighty nine.”

“How much is that?”

He knows other people’s units of measure, even as he counts in his own. “About a quart.”

But it is not as through you could keep track of how many berries in a quart. So I don’t really know how much longer we’re gonna be here. Different sizes—different shapes and different bushes—different amounts per quart.

I suppose as I pick that somewhere in heaven someone is writing down “Seven hundred and eighty nine blueberries almost makes a quart”—it’s the secret number that runs the crisis algorithm of the universe. God says: Seven eighty nine? Angel says: Check. Another age (dispensation actually, but we won’t go there) begins. It’s crucial not just that he pick the berries for personal consumption, but that he count them, I ask, he says in my hearing “seven hundred and eighty nine” and “almost a quart.”.Something clicks into place—the universe is saved. But not for long. Somewhere another crisis has developed: it’s not just the berries.

—————-

We go for a walk.

“How far do you think we’ve come?”

“..eight hundred ninety seven, ninety EIGHT, ninety NINE, NINE HUNDRED. Be quiet –it throws me off.”

Saved again. Mars spins on.

But the odd thing is he can be ordinary—if not cavalier on other numbers.

“You got any coke left?”

“A little.”

“Overdrawn again?”

“I don’t know what happened.”

——————-

It’s an odd thing. At the exact moment of crisis, he becomes entranced with the particular. Large asteroid headed towards earth—Dad starts counting. “That’s over two thousand.” We only hear about the asteroid later as it skips off the atmosphere.

“Two thousand what?”

“Peas. Zipper creams. That’s approximately four-fifths of a five gallon bucket of pods in which the pods are laid vertically in rows, not just all thrown in. Throw these hulls out for your mother.”

——————–

There’s one number that never changes in his mind. It’s the maximum number of persons that have been regular attenders at any church at which he has been the pastor: Fifty Five. Not the people on the rolls. The people who actually showed up.

His buddies from seminary? Hundreds. The guys on TV: thousands. Dad: fifty five.

He’s always viewed money, blueberries and such as a race. The more you have than zero the more distance between you and where you started and the faster you get away from what might catch you from behind. Know where you are. There is no such thing as too much or too fast.

But souls are a different arena altogether. The person in front of him is the speed limit. Even God only goes so fast so nothing flies apart.

I say he’s too nice. He beats around the bush. The big names are mostly in heresy anyway to get the numbers they do. Dad’s heard the arguments: mix a little heresy on purpose to draw the people and the then zap ‘em with the gospel when they get there. Funny thing. No zap. Crowds get bigger. Can’t zap ‘em now, the new building has to be paid for. If they actually told the truth, they would be back at the speed limit and wouldn’t be getting ahead. They’ve grown used to it now. There is Christian PR to be done in the overall culture. But the soul in front of you? Nice to meet you. Have you heard of our new members class? Otherwise you’re fired. Gotta have those people skills.

—————————–

Dad’s doing the speed limit in an old clunker car.

But he’s real. But it burns him sometimes. It makes him small in his own eyes, almost a failure. He knows he shouldn’t compare. But he does—until the next person in front of him. So the encounter is a strange mix of revelation and catastrophe-he-is-abruptly-getting-over-on-the-spot; smooth road and speech bump. He wants to say the thing that blesses you AND the thing to make you come back and come back and come back. Instead God says the truth and its catastrophe for us all; it is a rebuke. We don’t realize it’s a blessing until weeks and years afterward. The big numbers are a fly that buzzes him while he’s speaking. It’s the same with me. I think it’s the same with everybody.

If you tried to read him emotionally and you didn’t know Christ you’d go insane. When you meet him you’re a soul and his speed limit. God gives himself to you through my Dad. You can’t speed either—which can be its own catastrophe. The thing about the Anchor of the soul is that you don’t move. And the world is going by at the speed of light.

We’re on our way back from a church God’s starting. Today’s sermon was ‘I have received of the Lord.’ It was communion Sunday. It was just me and him and God. Mother wouldn’t go. After it gets going and there is a crowd she’ll waltz right in. “That’s my husband.” “I used to teach Bible studies.” She’s got words prepared already to make people stay at the speed of light. All she needs is a crowd. She used them today on herself and stayed home to watch the TV pastors as the camera swept over the crowd.

He slows down and looks at the gages on the dash. “See there?” he says. “Twenty seven point eight miles per gallon. Bet you can’t do that.”

———————————————————

Psalm 37:16 The little that the righteous hath is better than the abundance of many wicked;

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen

He’s bending over the tractor as I drive up. “Come on over here and pick this up”, he says as I get out of the truck.

That’s Mr. Charlie–all business. No ‘good morning’, just straight to it.

I go over and pick up the back of the planter so he can fit the cotter pins that hold it in place.

“Now we got to go get some gas and go home and get my sixes.”

“What’s that?”

“My sixes! The plates that go in the planter. It lets a seed kernel of corn drop every six inches. We’re gonna plant them pretty close together today. Usually I use eights or nines. But not for this time of year.”

“Yes, sir.”

We drive out past an old tobacco barn growing up in weeds. He grimaces looking at it and says nothing. The wood is strong, but brown, grey with drought, stress. It’s my ideal of the color of patience. We go get gas, the plates; we’re back.

He walks over and checks the planter again; points to one of the hoppers.

“Can you get this one here open? I can’t get it to move, it’s a hard one.”

I reach over and pry the pin open. I’m back from the Army two years now and here to help him plant a few rows of corn today. He doesn’t need anything from me but muscle.

Mr. Charlie’s been planting corn for over seventy years with no irrigation and has lost only two crops. Today he wants to roll the dice one more time. It’s late August. One of the crops he lost was this year–it didn’t rain for three months straight.

“My fingers won’t do what I tell em’ to do anymore, after that doctor had my arm all constricted the way he did.” He works his fingers for the pleasure of it. “I tell you, I’m glad to get that cast off!” He looks the whole apparatus over and nods and rotates his hand and wrist. “That’s fine. I’ll drive over to the patch and we’ll fill’er up over there.” He climbs into the seat of the old tractor. A few tries and it’s purring. It sounds very …reliable.

I go for the truck, get in and see a way around the trees. I’m in a ‘73 Chevy beater truck with no reverse gear. I busted the reverse clutch in the transmission pulling out azalea stumps last year. His dust trail leads over the dirt road and we’re there before I have time to get hot.

“Yeah, ” he nods and says as if in reply to climbing off the tractor and leaning on the planter, “I’m glad we’re startin’ early. It’s supposed to get up to ninety something again today after some showers. I can’t stand that like I used to could.”

“You want the thirteen-thirteen-thirteen or the five-ten-ten first?” I ask.

“It don’t matter none. Just pour it on in the hopper there.” He pulls a small wrench out of his back pocket and tightens a fitting. “I’ll have to adjust this thing back here so it don’t let too much out. Otherwise the corn won’t come up. That thirteen-thirteen-thirteen will eat it up– burn it before it even breaks the …you know, surface.”

“So you want the five-ten-ten?”

“It don’t matter none.”

“Yes, sir.”

I bring a bag of fertilizer and dump it into the hopper. “That enough?” I ask.

He looks at it and says “We’ll start with that and see how we do. You got the seed?”

“Yes, sir.” I pull out a bag of seed corn and hand it to him.

“How much did you get?”

“Six pounds.”

“What is it?”

“Golden Queen.”

“Well, that’ll be alright. That’s really just a yellow ‘Silver Queen’. Couldn’t get any of that sixty day variety?”

“No sir. All they had at the co-op was ‘Silver Queen’ or ‘Golden Queen’. They said it would take more than two weeks to order anything else and that was if they could get it this time of year. I wanted to wait and see what I could get in Tallahassee. But Dad went ahead and bought it. I said if he was going to do it anyway we should get yellow corn. That’s my preference anyway.”

“How much was it?” he said, measuring out the corn into the two seed hoppers equally.

“We got a deal on it because he said it was so late in the year. It’s regularly seven dollars a pound. But we got it for five.”

“Well, that’s not bad.”

“No, sir.”

He gets on the tractor and squints toward the end of the row. Finally he pulls his hat down to shade his face and puts the tractor in gear, lowers the planter and he’s off. He goes slow, making sure he’s got his landmark still in sight but checking the rate of flow of the fertilizer and the corn occasionally.

He’s back. “Well, that’s four rows! Look at that. Can’t nobody say Charlie Walker can’t plow a straight row. But I think this thing back here needs adjustin’. I didn’t do anything but go down and back and look at all the fertilizer that’s gone.”

He steps down, pulls a larger wrench out from under the seat and adjusts the hopper. “Alright, let’s try it again!” He goes down and back again. “That’s just about perfect!” he says as he swings the tractor around for another run.

I nod and smile and he’s off again. After several more rounds he needs more fertilizer. “Don’t fill it up all the way. I don’t think we’ll need it and it’s hard to get out of the hopper once you put it in.” He climbs down and works his arm again.

“How many rows do you think we’ll end up with?” I ask.

“Twenty-four.” he says as if it were already done.

I start to put the empty bags in the back of the truck and he taps my shoulder and points at the end of the row. “You don’t never want to plant all the way to the end or out to the road. If you do the rainwater ‘ll just run right off. I been working this field for twenty-five years now; took it over when your granddaddy got tired of havin’ his calves shot ‘cause he wouldn’t let nobody hunt back in here.”

He takes off his hat and swipes his forehead with his arm. Squinting across the field, he says, “Now you look at this field. It’s as level as can be. When it rains all that water stays right here. I plow it one way one year and the other way another year and it don’t all get dragged to one side.” He turns me around by the shoulders. “Now look. Can you see ‘ol Summer’s field over there?”

I look past the line of trees and see the field next to ours. It hasn’t been plowed this year and is high in weeds.

“He plows the same direction every year. Ten years ago I told him he needed to go at it from another direction. He wouldn’t listen. Now one side of his field is a full eighteen inches higher than the other. Every time it rains he has to dig out his driveway again– keeps wonderin’ why.” He laughs to himself and gets back up on the tractor. He makes several more rounds.

“That’s twenty-four.” he says.

“Mr. Charlie, that’s more corn than all of us put together are gonna eat. Between the corn and the peas and squash, cucumbers and okra we’ve already got planted, we’ll have more than we can give away.”

“Nobody ever has more than they can give away. And this is gonna be the best corn we ever planted! The signs is in the heart today. Yesterday they wanted to plant but I said if you’d help me I’d rather plant today–yesterday’s signs was in the arms.” He stretches out his arms. His hands tremble slightly like a preacher, like Moses hands stretched out over the Red Sea. Then he smiles and drops his arms. “That’s O.K. for vining things like pumpkins and winter squash and such. But the heart sign is the best of all for corn and things that grow up and bushy. The weatherman said it wasn’t gonna rain so I waited.” The wind blows with the scent of rain over the field. “Well, I got some seed left over and some fertilizer. I’ll drive back under the shed yonder and we’ll unload.”

I follow him around and we unload and save what we didn’t use. I thought we were supposed to plant it until we ran out of seed. I don’t say anything as I store the remnants of the bag behind the seat in the truck.

“Well, ” he says, leaning on the truck before we go, “We did our part. Now it’s up to the Lord.”

They’re First Baptist. Free will all the way. Democrats. They have a role in life specially cut out for God after they have supposedly done what they wanted. I shrug. He frowns. In his system my shrug means I lack faith. He is an older man. “Yes, sir.”

I drive him home. He doesn’t see well enough to drive on the road any more. We pass our house on the way and he says after a small silence at the stop light, “How those bananas doin’ your daddy planted?”

“They’re doin O.K., I guess. He said I cut them back too low and they wouldn’t make any bananas this year. But I think they look fine.”

“Yeah, they’ll be alright. Those bananas, They’re used to hard livin’ –like those palm trees growin’ on the coast.”

“Yes, sir.”

The light changes just as I realize how cool it is now. The trees are beginning to whip back and forth. I gently press the pedal and we move on. The truck sputters. He grips the door harder as I push on the gas. In the side mirrors we see the rain coming up in a wall from behind us.

————————————————————–

Deutoronomy 32:9-18 For Jehovah’s portion is his people; Jacob the lot of his inheritance. He found him in a desert land, And in the waste, howling wilderness; He compassed him about, he watched over him, He preserved him as the apple of his eye. As the eagle stirreth up its nest, Hovereth over its young, Spreadeth out its wings, Taketh them, beareth them on its feathers, So Jehovah alone did lead him, And no strange *god was with him. He made him ride on the high places of the earth, And he ate the produce of the field; And he made him suck honey out of the crag, And oil out of the flinty rock; Cream of kine, and milk of sheep, With the fat of lambs, And rams of the breed of Bashan, and he-goats, With the fat of kidneys of wheat; And thou didst drink pure wine, the blood of the grape. Then Jeshurun grew fat, and kicked–Thou art waxen fat, Thou art grown thick, And thou art covered with fatness; –He gave up God who made him, And lightly esteemed the Rock of his salvation. They moved him to jealousy with strange gods, With abominations did they provoke him to anger. They sacrificed unto demons who are not God; To gods whom they knew not, To new ones, who came newly up, Whom your fathers revered not. Of the Rock that begot thee wast thou unmindful, And thou hast forgotten God who brought thee forth.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen

But the natural man does not receive the things of the Spirit of God, for they are folly to him; and he cannot know them because they are spiritually discerned; but the spiritual discerns all things, and he is discerned of no one.

God’s First Letter to the Church at Corinth through His apostle Paul 2:14,15

———-

They do the things you should have done when you said it– if things were the way they used to be. If you were what you used to be: one of them.

They are a mirror and don’t mind making it obvious. In fact they can’t help it. They do things you used to do when you first encountered the same thing God just said through you. But you can’t do first things any more. You tried for a while to hang on to the nifty feeling whenever it hit and do the expected new thing again to prove you are a harmless novice at life.

But the fear of men is really gone. You can’t even fake it any more.

Then, in the middle of nodding and smiling to what they say in reply it hits you: You are old in more than one thing. You’ve got a history of multiple things; of being multiple beings even though you are only one now. They are reflecting you then (at various points—the you stretched over time from before) and thinking it is you now. They are being one with who you used to be and true in that solidarity. They are both honest and dishonest, in that truth is truth and everything else isn’t. They have perfect intentions according to what you used to think was truth. They have taken who you used to be for a friend and missed you completely.

It makes them smile, wave you over to a cushion and offer you tea.

You get the definite feeling this is all scripted. No one speaks the other guy’s words, (not really) so it’s all hand signals/body language and eye contact; almost like a meeting a girl for the first time all those years ago.

Except they aren’t women.

You wonder if it is the same for them and how to connect with them and how you’ll get through it without somebody pulling a trigger. Nobody is very far from their weapon; everyone sits as casually as weapons can sit.

You’ve been Spoken to by God and He crossed you over to the other side in Christ. Yet your body looks the same; only older. You still drink and eat.

Right? American? Tea? Water? Beer? We have Bud Lite.

Nod. Shrug.

Every body is wondering what to say.

Merhaba. The old man speaks without smiling.

Absolutely. Let’s do it, whatever it is we’re doing in addition to what we think we’re doing. Destiny is not a goal or a job. You can’t get there and yet can’t escape. It’s a process that is real to be Life. It’s God Himself.

Turn down the sugar. Accept the tea. The old man smiles for real on looking in my eyes and looks at his friend.

He thinks he understands. He thinks he knows me.

All I know is how alone, with all the tea, wine, cakes and carpets Jesus , the Spirit and the Father were in the midst of being crowded, sitting in the honored spot of men as they, as best they knew, gave Him their own hospitality: He knew it was the enemy and they did not. They thought he was about to give them ‘more’ Controllable Inspiration that they could turn on and off as Power; the Dreams of Thieves.

They want what they call information.

——————————————

John 2:23-25 Now when he was in Jerusalem at the passover, in the feast day, many believed in his name, when they saw the miracles which he did. But Jesus did not commit himself unto them, because he knew all men, And needed not that any should testify of man: for he knew what was in man.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen

The peppers are hot. Very hot.

The conversation is going back and forth over Scoville units and their connection to names.

They all know that names are funny things. In all of recognizable experience names are call signs more specific than you. Names are marks of individuality and general widgets that signal the emotional utility contained within the bearer to those who search for utility. Because of some invisible law of names and experience, they make you feel good or bad just to say or hear them beyond any physical realities of the bearers.

It is this last characteristic that all of them are seeking, as the name will serve as the initial selling point of the sauce. But it is also the last characteristic which is the limitation. There is hot. But then there is stepping over the line (no curse words are allowed in the name). Consumers have as many lines as there are mouths.

There are other hot sauces too. The bottles are lined up across the desk like ignorant cities waiting for the siege by a better Name. The other sauces have declared the rules of what sauce names have to be—at least to the educated consumer: the connoisseurs of hot; the demographic. The other names have been said first and have already staked their claim on the terra firma of hot sauce market share. There is “Hot as Hell”; “Acid Storm”; “Mike’s Mind Numbing Madness”; “Sergeant. Fury”; “Satan’s Scream”; “Cross Eyed Betty”, along with simple “S & P” and “Jermaine’s!” It isn’t as if the others have used up all the words of hot. Cool is strong and true and new. But most of the others have hot muscle names of broad appeal; beefy names of power: front rack names. Useful names.

They will have to compete with the names first and the flavors second. Competition among themselves has been the practice. Those other guys must have families too. And that’s how they got their names. They need a new name that breaks the rules, brings a better education and yet doesn’t step over the line.

Frank pours himself a cup of coffee. “How about “Hitler’s Breath” or “Saddam’s Sanity”? We could put a picture on the front of the old Iraqi information minister saying “It’s not hot at all!” Or we could go old school and name it something like “Honest Bill’s Hot Sauce” or just “Hot Sauce” –in black and white small print.

“How about Woosy? The sauce anybody can take? A drooped-eared cat on the front? Then why did we grow to the expense of growing Habaneros? It’s got to scream ‘Habanero’. Hot flavor.” Ben smirks.

“That has nothing to do with what I said. You know what I mean.”

Ben hears the names drift over him into the background as they speak. He looks out of the window at the field of peppers. Hitler’s Breath. Saddam’s Sanity. The Information Minister. Frank always has the gift: the big sack of words. It isn’t fair. Frank always says the necessary things at the speed of light while he is standing still.

Ben remembers years ago when Bobby Lee got married. They had trekked up north ( Maryland, Maine .. something like that ) and Frank had had the Ford Fastback. He had stayed out front because he also had the radar detector. Nine hours into the trip Frank had finally slowed down. Ben had gunned the old truck as fast as it would go and had passed Frank doing eighty, smiling to himself until the cop had pulled him over.

Two hundred and thirty bucks.

Frank hadn’t even gloated. “You never learn. I told you I was out front to look out for us and that when the Super Snooper went off I’d slow down. Why does it always have to be you against me? Why do you always have to be that way?”

It is hard to look back and understand he has grown only because it is witnessed by Frank as well. Ben wants to grow in private, to walk through seas of fire, come out on the other side as whatever he would come out as and surprise his older brother just once. He wants to out-bless his older brother into submission; not be clumsy in the say; make it all even and not offensive. Every body will win. Maybe even their souls.

They will acknowledge him.

But to Ben, names of product are exercises done on an emotional dart board at best.

Ben turns back to the conversation. “The Natural Way to Male Enhancement.”

Frank nods and smiles. “Satan’s Growth Hormone?” “The Devil’s DNA?” “The Cure for Baldness?”

They laugh spontaneously and see it as good luck. It is the most genuine humor they know. The laughter is a proof of movement because it is an accident. They don’t know why or what is moved. Nor do they care. They have heard it at other times through themselves and others. They hope it is a tool, like the tractor or the fence. They hope it works right now; a worm hole that lands them in a galaxy of sure-fire Name.

It has done its job, however it did it and moved them on from where they were.

In a different place, a different set of thoughts, but still the friend and confidant of the consumer, the new words come quickly for Frank. “Laughing Jim’s Hallucinogenic Throat Balm.”

“The original. Accept no substitutes.” Dad smiles from behind his paper and props his feet on the desk.

Frank throws his coffee into the rubber plant. “Well, we got time. Those peppers won’t be ripe for another two weeks and the paste has to age for at least six months.” He turns at the door. “Male enhancement. Good one, bro.”

He’s got so many he throws them away like cold coffee. The way he threw yours away.

After Frank has left Ben thinks of “Pure” and “Easy”. He writes “Easy” down carefully to see what it looks like in print and thinks of “Hot Sauce” in small, cursive letters underneath, then to the upper right side like a mathematical exponent. He sees “Five Acre Farms, A Family Business Since 2005, Gretna, Florida.” in tiny, plain text towards the bottom of a minimalist blue and orange label. A green glass, pepper shaped bottle. A cork instead of a screw top with a red wax, hand dipped coating like champagne or whiskey.

Theirs will be the best.

——————————–

Ecc 4:4 And I saw all labour, and all success of work, that it is man’s jealousy of his neighbour. This also is vanity and pursuit of the wind.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, Amen

The earth is darker when it’s wet. Perhaps wet things look heavy because I’ve worn wet clothes a time or two. Sticky. More. You, know?

I hear her say she can’t have children. She says that: ‘children’—not ‘the kids’ or ‘little ones’ (when she is being soft) or ‘rug-rats’ (when she is angry) like usual.

How she manages it I don’t know: there is no accusation in the tone, no fear. It (everything: the moment, the truth, us, how we relate it all to everything else) is simplicity awful in its absence of needing anything else to make me understand; in its proof that we really knew that the saying of things three and four times just to hear ourselves speak in the past has always been a pretense.

Because it is clear, I know she has already gone through it; is already old in it.

Hours? Days? She has no place to put it.

We had been talking about her new diet. I had said it was silly that she would actually say the sentence: “It’s not my week to have a sweet potato.” I had wondered how many times I would hear it again as if her proof she was sticking to the new diet; had found what she calls courage.

So now I’m wet. I know her moves, her moods. She didn’t say it to get even. It was just the right opening to get it out. Sweet potatoes.

I’ve been wet before. It’s heavy but it dries out.

Don’t turn left or right when you ought to go straight on.

“They said they can …try some things.” She closes the refrigerator door and stands there with her back to me.

I don’t say anything. Just stand here.

My Betty. She’s tough—got a hard mouth on her. She expects a lot and ‘ll tell you so in a minute. Her humor can be mean. But she doesn’t really mean anything by it. Everybody is a sinner from before, right? Everybody’s got history.

I always thought maybe….
Okay. I thought for sure. One day.
All those years I saved here and there, tucked a few things I heard away for my boy. Not be overbearing, just a nudge here and there; not raise him to be a fool like I was.

I just stand here.

The clock ticks off the seconds. I feel. She feels. We feel. It’s already too late but there seems something we ought to do. The air is still.

I know her. Beyond the emptiness and what we can’t hear through our child’s voice, she’s listening in advance to her mother; to her family talking to her; to my family talking to me.

Her sister’s got four kids. I come from a family of six. I’m the oldest. When she tells her mother, I know and she knows good and well her mother won’t even skip a beat and go right on with her stupid routine. Her saying nothing will be a loud and clear ‘I told you so’.

Her parents are of those that move quickly past bad news. “No point dwelling on what can’t be helped.” My family is the same. Betty is counting all the silences at Christmas and Easter and birthdays; how they will wonder why she stays away. They don’t understand the effect of what they say. She always tried to be happy for other people’s blessings and share in the joy. She just naturally assumed..

So did I.

Do the right thing.

But beyond the emotion is reality. She had an abortion years ago. She doesn’t know I know. She didn’t know what she was doing—it was way before we ever met. It wasn’t her fault. They talked her into being politically hip and killed a child to further their own agenda. She knows I’m against that kind of thing. As soon as I heard I decided to forget it right there. But it’s sticky. It is more than it first appears to be and it came right back. I don’t know how to get rid of it again. I love her more than I hate what happened, but I know she is afraid I’ll find out.

I guess I always thought, because of how she is, that if she knew I knew, she’d think I was stupid for loving her. What good is that whole conversation? To get tangled up in words no matter what is said –and with no resolution?

I haven’t thought of it in ages. I’m a shield against some invisibles. But I want to be a spear too. I want to protect her and kill the thing that hurts. She leans on me like I can stop it.

I purse my lips and rotate my watch around my wrist. It’s trimmed in shiny brass and leather. It’s a big gob of heavy duty she gave me last Christmas for the job. It’s got everything. Time. Date. Stop Watch. Some other stuff too I never use.

“My womb is dead.” She holds her hand over her stomach. “ I thought…” She starts to shake. I catch her before she falls.

We just sit down right here.

I have never heard sounds like this before. I never heard her say ‘womb’ before. The spirits in her aren’t the kind to say that. I knew there was more to her than just what she said. I knew it. I think that’s even like a rule and I’m the only one who knows: people are always more than what they say or show. I never heard anybody else say it and I never read it anywhere. It’s new knowledge shown to me.

My Betty. She’s beautiful when she cries—more so than at other times. Weird. I mean really real and beautiful. She’ll make a great mother. A perfect mother. She’ll worry and fuss like nobody’s business. I don’t care what other people say: I know she is moral. She stands for something good. She is good. –and she’d pass that on.

The wet with the nose and eyes and lips and hair thing. She looks at me and lets it all go. She knows I’m not leaving. She sees it in my eyes. I have the look of shields ( I hope) but I want to have the look of a successful kill. It is years too late. So she sees confusion too. I guess she takes it for lack of resolve and wonders if I know. Her voice changes as she sniffs.

“The Lowery’s are movin’ off—back to South Florida I think.”

I start to say something related to the Lowery’s or moving.

“The tomatoes are getting ripe. I heard they opened up the fields. We could pick our own for five dollars a five gallon bucket. I was thinking of canning some.”

She’s never canned anything in her life. She buys everything from a store. It’s a point of pride with her.

I say: Okay.

“Did you see my antler?”

I don’t know what to say: No.

She climbs up, pushes off me, goes to the closet and pulls out one deer antler. She points to the marks on the edges that are obvious chew marks of other animals. “A guy down at the library said the squirrels and possum’s, the little animals chew on the antlers deer drop off at the end of every year to get the minerals. See?”

There’s a place where the marrow is exposed with teeth marks around it. The exposed marrow looks like an empty network of small spaces that once would have held something the same color. One end of a point is chewed off and another is pretty chewed as well. The whole thing is heavy in my hand. Real.

“I found it while I was walking down by the bridge. It was just laying there just like this covered up in some leaves. It just seemed like something you would keep, you know?” She lays it on the coffee table. It rocks back and forth a bit. The curves are a good foundation for it to lie on its side, but the proportions are off balance enough so that it rocks for a while when you touch the top point. “I just thought people would feel smart looking at it. Like inside? The chew marks and all? There’s something very basic about it. Knobby, the color and streaks of bone, the chew marks—all that. It’s a kind of discarded holy thing little creatures were eating in secret.”

I smile and feel the edges of the teeth marks with my finger. You see how she is? No children–the Lowery’s—tomatoes—antler—holy secrets. It’s a strange kind of circle that goes around and around and always borders on spirituality.

It seems like we can’t get away from it.

******

She was going on about something. It wasn’t that I wasn’t paying attention. But it was the same old stuff in a circle and I saw it coming.

“Damn what a liar that spirit in you is!”

I had said it to myself so often about her speech I got used to it and forgot to be on guard against it. I didn’t even think about it. Then it was too late.

I know it’s true. Christ is in me and in my wife. We’re both born again and we both know words are spirit. But we grew up in the world like everybody else and they get us too with that blindness that comes from hearing them and having a history being deceived by them. It’s such a rare thing to say the truth of what is happening that when God does it through us, we’re almost deceived it’s us that wants to stop and speak the other way immediately; like something is Watching and we need permission. They make you think for a minute that it’s you who are leaving home and nobody will be able to understand you when you get back and that there is no where to go but back. They make you think it’s dangerous to even hear the truth much less say it yourself. And then when you do hear Truth again, you see what they’ve done to you all along.

But I didn’t know her back there or even now. In all those words and all those moves we never knew each other. I don’t want to go back at all. Somewhere, beyond the sex we know I’ll Know her. And that’s really the thing. That’s my part of things; how we’ll fix the whole situation.

She looks at me but doesn’t say anything. The moment passes.

Her mom calls again. This time I don’t care what her Mom says. Betty isn’t defending herself anymore. She just says “We’re really trying.” with that edge in her voice. Short conversation.

******

We turn our bed to watch the aurora at night when it comes. She brings wine sometimes. Sometimes I bring flowers.

“Do you ever think about Jesus when we make love?” It’s a new question for us.

“Sometimes.”

“Hmm. I never do.”

“What do you see?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“I see you naked, on top of me and I know that you really love me. But I get confused about what to think next. I think about what I think I’m supposed to think about—and I don’t know where to go or how to get there from here. It’s not the same thing as …climaxing. You know? It’s almost like a destination that’s not really related to the pleasure. I mean I guess it isn’t—maybe it should be? I don’t know about the other women. I just know me.”

“What other women?” That’s the thing about being married to one woman: all the other women think they are an authority on my marriage and they are always trying to squeeze in somehow through my wife.

“Oh, you know. Whatever the other women are feeling or doing when they conceive. I just don’t think about them. I want my own conception with you. As long as its real. I want to do what I’m supposed to do.”

See how my Betty is? She’s a beauty.

*********

So she says her womb is dead. They say her womb is dead. No way. She just needs some help knowing what her womb is. It isn’t the rub or the smooches or the rest. It’s beyond the sex we know, that’s all. It’s just me and her. The bible says Adam knew his wife. She only conceived when he knew her. It says too that God closes up some wombs and opens others. (The wombs that He opens always come with mouths that act like they did it on their own. And the wombs He closes always get kicked even more.) I just have to know her. That’s all there is to it.

*********

“The Lowery’s are movin’ off—back to South Florida I think.”

I start to say something related to what she said.

“The tomatoes are getting ripe. They’re opening up the fields. We can pick our own for five dollars a five gallon bucket. I was thinking of canning. With my new canner?”

She’s never canned anything in her life. She buys everything from a store. It’s a point of pride with her. I bought her a new canner since she mentioned it the first time. “Okay.”

“Did you see my antler?” She’s got it on the mantle now.

I don’t know what to say. “No.” Who can really say they’ve seen anything when they’ve seen it only once?

She points to the marks on the edges that are obvious chew marks of other animals. “The guy, down at the library? He said the squirrels and possum’s chew on the antlers deer drop off at the end of every year to get the minerals. They can’t get them anywhere else. See?”

The marrow is exposed with teeth marks around it. One end of the point is chewed off and another knob is pretty chewed as well. I pick it up. It is heavy in my hand. Real. Bone has its own feel and weight like nothing else.

“I found it while I was walking down by the bridge. It was just laying there covered up in some leaves. It seemed like something you would keep. Or that you should keep I guess.”

I put it down. She picks it up and holds it up to the light.

She lays it on the coffee table. “I just thought people would feel wise looking at it. The chew marks. There’s something very basic about it. Humble –the teeth marks and the marrow exposed and all. Knobby, the color and streaks of bone—all that. It’s a kind of discarded …holy.”

I smile and feel the edges of the teeth marks with my finger. You see how she is? The Lowery’s—tomatoes—antler—holy. It’s a strange kind of circle that goes around and around and always borders on ..something we can’t see.

**********

Something has gotten between us. I know what it is but I don’t want to say. Once I say it I can’t go back from it. I don’t know how she’s going to take it.

She speaks on in her circle. I speak on in mine. We take journeys in front of each other and go nowhere.

To say, “That spirit in you is a liar.” is a kind of catastrophe. But that’s where it is. The things she says aren’t her. Sweet potatoes? I’ve heard them and know all their moves and I still don’t know her. They can’t help us. So what good are they? They speak in themes, an abecedary of lies even in the middle of sex. And I still don’t know her. They say the things you’d expect to hear in the middle of pleasure given that you heard what other people do and say. They take stuff off the TV and the radio, mix them up and feed them back to me in unique ways through her like a goo. Honey, this. Baby, that. oh. yeah. I hear them. But I don’t believe them.

She doesn’t either. But she can’t stop saying them. If she heard what I thought and stayed the way she is, she just think I gave up my chances to get a better life in the heart she has in common with all the rest. She’d think it was beautiful, like she got lucky in the love she knows. She’d be hurt and confused when if I told her thoughts of what I do are lies. I love her. But not she love she knows.

The difference between us is that I know the words she says aren’t her. She thinks they are and if they don’t speak those lies she is being oppressed. She is in a prison that is her own vocabulary, thinks that she must speak and it never solves anything.

Hearing them is like watching an old kung-fu movie: fighting as dance moves. Every move is an emotional punch that’s all practiced and mapped out in advance where everyone hesitates just enough to make the guy whose gonna eventually lose catch up and make him think he’s winning. “When a person does that—you do this. My kung-fu is better than yours.” They are doing the legend of Dour Master through her. No-smile style. They make her like that about herself.

But they are not her.

Her mom called. I didn’t hear what she said, only my wife’s reply of “We’re doing what we can. We’re working at it.” in self-defense. She takes up for us both in her love.

*********

She was going on about something. It wasn’t that I wasn’t paying attention. But it was the same old stuff in a circle and I saw it coming.

“Damn what a liar those spirit in you are!”

I had said it to myself so often about her I got used to it and forgot to be on guard against it. I didn’t even think about it. Then it was too late.

I know it’s true. Christ is in me and in my wife. We’re both born again and we both know words are spirit. But we grew up in the world like everybody else and they get us too –always trying to remind us of our history rather than now and our future. It’s such a rare thing to say the truth of what is happening that when He does it through us we’re almost deceived it’s us that wants to stop and speak the other way immediately. They make you think for a minute that it’s you who are leaving home and nobody will be able to understand you when you get back. They make you think it’s dangerous to even hear the truth much less say it yourself. It’s why people find themselves whispering to each other and don’t know why.

I didn’t know her back there –or now. Knowing a lot about her isn’t the same. Knowing what she isn’t is not the same. In all those words and all those moves we never know each other. I don’t want to go back at all. To hell with Dour Master. Somewhere, beyond the sex we know in Dour Masters domain, I’ll know her somewhere else. And that’s really the thing. That’s more important than the children — because I think the children are a result of that and it is larger than just babies. It’s what we’re really doing here. It’s why we fight against anybody who tries to stop us even though we can’t say what it is.

She looks at me but doesn’t say anything. She grins.

Her mom calls again. This time I don’t care what her Mom says. Betty isn’t defending herself anymore. She just says “We’re still trying.” with that edge I her voice. Short conversation. Again.

*********

We turn our bed to watch the aurora at night. She brings wine sometimes. I try to bring flowers.

“Do you ever think about Christ when we make love?”

“Sometimes.”

“Hmm. I never do.”

“What do you see?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah. I think it’s important.”

“I see you naked, on top of me and I know that you really love me. But I get confused about what to think next. I think about what I think I’m supposed to think about—and I don’t know where to go or how to get there from here. It’s not the same thing as …having an orgasm. You know? It’s almost like a destination that’s not really related to the pleasure. I mean I guess it isn’t—maybe it should be? I don’t know about the other women. I just know me.”

“What other women?”

“Oh, you know. Whatever the other women are feeling or doing when they conceive. I just don’t think about them. I want my own conception with you.”

See how my Betty is? She’s a beauty. She’s different that way and yet the same enough that I know she is real.

The aurora dances over the night sky in all its greens and reds. They say it’s magnetic. All I know is that it keeps coming back. I can’t remember what it was like last time other than the movement of the colors; couldn’t tell you if it was a bit to the left or right of where it appeared before. I suppose it to be the same because it has the name; we intuit and everybody else is looking at it too like its no new thing.

All the details go around and here we are again with technically perfect explanations of how and why and unable to really say anything that works. We just lay here and watch it in each others arms, caught in the repetition.

We notice everything – everything, and go around again. Sometimes we keep it to ourselves and sometimes He says it through us.

We wait outside of it; underneath it all for some.. result. We watch until something comes that has nothing to do with all we see and know, something that has nothing to do with our history.

That must be what children are: so unique, so unsayable that we can’t do it until they are here and we have already done it. We see other people doing it. They are never just more of the same.

Children are the thing we