Part 1 (2/2)
He was gone, just like that, as if he'd never been there.
After one more hurried trip around the tree, she stopped, a hand against the trunk to steady herself, her eyes scanning the prairie. Her heart was beating faster than when she'd come up the rise. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. She was shaking.
AT OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS CHURCH in Antioch, Arnold Kowalski was busy dust-mopping the quaint little sanctuary, pus.h.i.+ng the wide broom between the pews and down the center aisle, moving a little slowly but doing a thorough job. Arnold had been a soldier, a carpenter, a diesel mechanic, and a mail carrier, and now, since retiring, he had taken upon himself the unofficial t.i.tle of church custodian. It wasn't a paid position, although the church did provide a little monetary gift for him each month as an expression of love and grat.i.tude. He just did it for G.o.d, a few hours a few days a week, pure and simple. It brought him joy, and besides, he liked being in this place.
He'd been a devout member of Our Lady of the Fields for some forty years now. He never missed Sunday morning ma.s.s if he could help it. He never failed to make it to confession, though now at seventy-two the confessions were getting shorter and the penance easier. He liked to think that G.o.d was happy with him. He considered himself happy enough with G.o.d.
Except for one thing, one minor grief he had to carry as he moved slowly down the center aisle pus.h.i.+ng his broom. He couldn't help wis.h.i.+ng that G.o.d would pay just a little attention to Arnold's arthritis. It used to flare up occasionally; now it was only on occasion that it didn't. He was ashamed to think such a thought, but he kept thinking it anyway: Here I am serving G.o.d, but G.o.d keeps letting it hurt. His hands throbbed, his feet ached. His knuckles cried out no matter which way he gripped the broom. He was never one to complain, but today, he almost felt like crying.
Maybe I'm not serving G.o.d enough, he thought. Maybe I need to work longer. Maybe if I didn't take any money for what I do here . . .
What am I missing? he wondered. What am I leaving out?
He always took off his hat when he entered the building and blessed himself before entering the sanctuary. Right now, as usual, he was wearing his blue coveralls. Perhaps a tie would show more respect. He pushed a little more dust and dirt down the center aisle until he stepped into a beam of sunlight coming through a stained-gla.s.s window. The sun felt warm on his back and brought him comfort, as if it were G.o.d's hand resting on his shoulders. From this spot he could look up at the carved wooden crucifix hanging above the altar. He caught the gaze of the crucified Christ.
”I don't want to complain,” he said. Already he felt he was overstepping his bounds. ”But what harm would it do? What difference would it make to this big wide world if one little man didn't have so much pain?” It occurred to Arnold that he had addressed G.o.d in anger. Ashamed, he looked away from those gazing wooden eyes. But the eyes drew him back, and for a strange, illusory moment they seemed alive, mildly scolding, but mostly showing compa.s.sion as a father would show to a child with a sc.r.a.ped knee. Sunlight from another window brought out a tiny sparkle in the corners of the eyes, and Arnold had to smile. He could almost imagine those eyes were alive and wet with tears.
The sparkle grew, spreading from the corners of the eyes and reaching along the lower eyelids.
Arnold looked closer. Where was the light coming from that could produce such an effect? He looked above and to the right. It had to be coming through that row of small windows near the ceiling. To think he'd been attending this church for so many years and never noticed this before. It looked just as if- A tear rose over the edge of the eyelid and dropped onto the wooden cheek, tracing a thin wet trail down the face and onto the beard.
Arnold stared, frozen, his mind stuck between seeing and believing. He felt no sense of awe, no overshadowing spiritual presence. He heard no angelic choir singing in the background. All he knew was that he was watching a wooden image shed tears as he stood there dumbly.
Then his first coherent thought finally came to him. I have to get up there. Yes, that was the thing to do; that would settle it. He hurried as fast as the pain in his feet would allow him and brought a ladder from the storeroom in back. Pausing before the altar to bless himself, he stepped around the altar and carefully leaned the ladder against the wall. Every climbing step brought a sharp complaint from his feet, but he gritted his teeth, grimaced, and willed himself up the ladder until he came eye to eye, level to level with the carved face.
His eyes had not been playing tricks on him. The face, only a third life-sized, was wet. He looked above to see if there was a leak in the ceiling but saw no sign of a stain or drip. He leaned close to study the image for any sign of a device or some kind of trickery. Nothing.
He reached, then hesitated from the very first tinge of fear. Just what was he about to touch? Dear G.o.d, don't hurt me. He reached again, shakily extending his hand until his fingertips brushed across the wet trail of the tears.
He felt a tingling, like electricity, and jerked his hand away with a start. It wasn't painful, but it scared him, and his hand began to quiver. Electric sensations shot up his arm like countless little bees swarming in his veins. He let out a quiet little yelp, then gasped, then yelped again as the sensation flowed across his shoulders, around his neck, down his spine. He grabbed the ladder and held it tightly, afraid he would topple off.
A strong grip.
A grip without pain. He stared at his hand. The vibration buzzed, and swirled under his skin, through his knuckles, across his palms, through his wrists. He lightened his grip, tightened it again, held on with one hand while he opened and closed the other, wiggling and flexing the fingers.
The pain was gone. His hands were strong.
The current rushed down his legs, making his nerves tingle and his muscles twitch. He hugged the ladder, his hands glued to the rungs, a cry bouncing off the wall only inches from his nose. He was shaking, afraid he would fall. He cried out, gasped, trembled, cried out again.
The electricity, the sensation-whatever it was-enveloped his feet and his scream echoed through the building.
SUNDAY, PASTOR KYLE SHERMAN prayed the prayer of benediction, the pianist and organist began playing the postlude-a modern rendition of ”Be Still My Soul”-and the congregation of the Antioch Pentecostal Mission rose to leave. The after-service shuffling was the same as one would see in any church. Folks gathered up their coats, Bibles, Sunday school papers, and children, then formed slow-moving cl.u.s.ters in the aisles and doorways to joke and chat. Families, singles, friends, and visitors pa.s.sed through the main doorway where the young pastor stood to shake their hands and greet them. Kids went as wild as their parents would tolerate, running outside after being scolded for running inside.
Dee Baylor was among the departing saints that day. A steady and constant presence at Antioch Mission, she was a robust, heavyset woman in her forties with a prominent nose and hair that added measurably to her height. Short, mousy Blanche Davis and tightly permed, blue-rinsed Adrian Folsom were walking with her across the gravel parking lot as the three worked excitedly to keep the Christian grapevine alive.
”That's all he said?” Adrian asked.
Dee didn't mind repeating the story or any part of it. ”Just that *her answer was on his way.' And according to Sally he said his way, not its way.”
”So who was he talking about?” asked Blanche.
”Maybe her future husband,” Adrian ventured. ”G.o.d told me I was going to marry Roger.”
”So what about the crucifix at the Catholic church?” Blanche wondered.
”You can't limit G.o.d,” Dee answered.
”No, you can't limit G.o.d,” Adrian agreed with extra insistence in her voice.
”But a weeping statue?” Blanche asked, making a crinkled face. ”That sounds awfully Catholic to me.”
”Well, it's something a Catholic would understand.”
Blanche considered that in silence.
”We need to be seeking the Lord,” said Dee, her eyes closing prayerfully. ”We need to be expecting. G.o.d has plans for Antioch. I think the Lord is ready to pour out his Spirit on this town.”
”Amen.” That was what Blanche wanted to hear.
”Amen,” Adrian echoed.
Dee looked up at the sky as if looking toward heaven. The clouds were breaking up now. Patches of blue were beginning to show, promising a pleasant afternoon.
Adrian and Blanche walked and continued the conversation until they noticed they were by themselves. They looked back.
”Dee?”
She was standing still, clutching her Bible to her bosom and looking heavenward, her lips moving rapidly as she whispered in another language.
”Dee?”
They hurried to her side. ”What is it?”
All she could do was point, then gasp, her hand over her mouth. Adrian and Blanche looked quickly, afraid something might fall on them. They saw nothing but billowing clouds and patches of blue sky.
”I see Jesus,” Dee said in a hushed voice. Then, raising one hand toward the sky she shouted ecstatically, ”Jesus! I see you, I see you!”
<script>