Part 6 (2/2)

Pete recovered just in time to see Bonnie racing for the platform, her full-cut clothing rustling behind her like natural, organic flags in a gale, pulling a running, off-balance Penny after her.

The couple from Moses Lake jumped up from their pew as the young lady gasped and pointed. ”It's crying!”

Everyone stood, pointed, shouted. ”Look at that!”

”It's crying, it's crying!”

”Saints be praised!”

Pete stared, aghast. Tears from both eyes now traced thin, meandering streaks down the wooden face of the image.

He took the arm of the young lady with leukemia. ”Come on, I'll help you.”

”But -” She pointed at Bonnie Adams, already grabbing a rung of the ladder and pulling at her unwilling daughter.

”Come on!” Pete insisted, and they hurried onto the platform, followed by an asthmatic man from Ritzville, a lady from Spokane with cancer and the friend who came with her, three elderly folks with arthritis, a Yakima man with a bad liver, and at least ten other people who were either sick or just plain curious.

”Get up there!” Bonnie yelled, pulling on Penny's arm. Penny tried to jerk away. ”I'm scared!”

”Make way!” Pete shouted, bringing up the young lady. ”Let us come through!”

”Only in your dreams, bub!” Bonnie started clambering up the ladder, stepping and tripping on her long, full pants legs.

The crowd stumbled and jostled around the altar and closed in around the ladder, pleading, praying, grabbing at the rungs in order to climb. Bonnie yelled back at them, stomping on any fingers that dared to climb after her. The two women from Spokane began to wail and weep. The man with the bad liver swore and said excuse me, swore and said excuse me. A forest of pleading hands reached toward the crucifix.

”Calm down now!” Pete hollered above the clamor. His back was against the ladder and some folks were trying to climb him. ”I'm sure there will be tears enough for everyone! No shoving!”

Al Vendetti heard the noise from his office and came running into the sanctuary. My G.o.d, they're going to break something!

The young woman from Moses Lake began climbing the ladder. Bonnie Adams stepped on her hand, she fell back, and her husband caught her.

”Please!” Pete begged. ”Let her come up the ladder! She has leukemia!”

Bonnie didn't hear him. Her full attention was on that wooden face. She brushed her fingers across the wet streaks, gathering the tears. A powerful tingle coursed through her hand and arm and she cried out, her hand trembling. Then she screamed, forgot her grip on the ladder, and fell, bowling over the two ladies from Spokane and the Ritzville man with asthma. ”Penny!”

With help from Pete and her husband, the young woman from Moses Lake went up the ladder.

”Penny!”

Penny reached around the man with the bad liver and the three arthritics. ”Mom, get up!”

Bonnie grabbed her daughter's withered hand, her wet fingers touching her daughter's skin firmly, purposefully. Penny began to tremble and scream, trying to pull her hand away, but Bonnie held on with all her strength, her eyes wild with excitement. ”You feel it, Penny? Feel the energy? I knew it! I knew it!”

The young woman from Moses Lake reached for the face of the image, touched it, and found it dry. ”Oh G.o.d, no . . .” She ran her fingers over the face imploringly, but there were no tears. ”No . . .

no, please, have mercy . . .”

The only tears now were her own.

Father Al worked his way into the crowd. ”Please, let's calm down, everyone! Let's not endanger each other!”

Penny was the one doing most of the screaming, her body trembling, her eyes fixed on her right hand, now uncurling as it slipped steadily from her mother's grip. ”I can feel it!” she gasped. The fingers wiggled. ”I can wiggle my fingers! Mom, I can feel your hand!”

”It works!” Bonnie exclaimed, her wide eyes filled with awe. ”This is a sacred place!”

Al reached Penny and took her shoulders to steady her. Bonnie let her hand go and Penny held it up in front of the priest's face, wiggling, twisting, and flexing it. ”You see? You see?”

He took her hand and felt it alive and strong in his own. ”Oh child . . .” Then he looked up at the crucifix and blessed himself.

WITHIN HALF AN HOUR, I heard about it from Sid Maher who heard about it from Paul Daley who heard about it from one of his paris.h.i.+oners who heard about it from Pete Morgan. Sid called Father Al to confirm it, and then he called me. Sid was a believer now, totally flabbergasted, unable to understand what it meant, how it worked, how he could explain it doctrinally. I had no answers for him; all I could do was thank him for calling, hang up, and get out of the house before Kyle took it upon himself to call me. The way I was feeling, I couldn't talk to him or anyone else.

By the time I even cared where I was going, I found myself near the cottonwoods on the little hill beside my house. I stopped, rested a hand against a gnarled trunk, and began to pray desperately, trying to think, trying to understand just what in the world I was supposed to do with all this. The thing that kept wrenching my insides was that I wanted to believe it was true, that G.o.d was indeed moving through our little town and, well, doing something, doing anything. But I'd already put in too many years of believing too many things too quickly. I felt cautionary red flags popping up everywhere. I had scoffed at the reports of people seeing angels, but I was now standing where something had appeared to me. The G.o.d I had known all my life didn't heal through tearful wooden images, and yet two witnesses-the biblical requirement-had confirmed the healings at Our Lady's. What must I accept next, that Jesus was really appearing in the clouds?

”Lord, please speak to me,” I said aloud as I looked across the expansive farmland to the west. ”Help me sort this out.”

I quieted myself and remained still, scanning the smooth, gently rolling horizon as I waited for a clear answer to come to mind. I listened for sounds, and even stole a few glimpses of the clouds, just in case. I recalled and sang an old song we used to do at prayer meetings: ”Speak my Lord, speak my Lord. Speak and I'll be quick to answer Thee. . . .”

I waited. I told myself I wouldn't wait long, but I waited.

Minutes pa.s.sed. There was no remarkable vision, no voice. The only sound I noticed was the distant purring of a lawn mower in the neighborhood behind me.

Well, I thought, I can spend the whole day up here doing and accomplis.h.i.+ng nothing, or I can get on with my life.

I turned and headed down the hill toward Myrtle Street, my prayers unanswered-again. I accepted that fact grudgingly even as I tried to remind myself, ”Hey, time is one of G.o.d's primary tools for teaching wisdom.” Time. And more time. And still more time. More praying, more asking, more weeks, months, or even years of anguish trying to pull it all together. This frustrating little session on the hill reminded me of something I'd learned over the years: G.o.d won't be hurried. Or in this case, I thought, whatever he's doing, he isn't about to clue me in!

I stepped out of the gra.s.s and around the wooden traffic barrier that marked the west end of Myrtle Street. The sound of the lawn mower was coming from John Billings's yard across the street from my place. Some guy was busily circling around the big yard on a little Snapper mower.

I checked my mailbox. Hm. More catalogs. Just what I need: a solid gold trailer hitch, a short-wave radio that fits on your wrist. . . .

The guy on the mower came whirring around the front of the yard. He was young, with long black hair bound in a ponytail, a beard, faded work jeans, a long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt, leather gloves. I couldn't recall John Billings ever hiring anyone else to do his lawn. Maybe he was a relative.

The young man looked at me, smiled, and turned the mower for another lap around the back.

I recognized him.

And I was stunned. Speechless. I stood there frozen, staring, my mouth dropping open so far I could feel the sun drying my tongue. A landscape man?

My mysterious vision of Jesus on the hill was just a landscape man, a young guy with long hair and a beard? He must have been out for a walk, or maybe scoping out another mowing and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g job. Maybe he was inspecting those trees for possible tr.i.m.m.i.n.g or removal.

I felt silly and embarra.s.sed. April Fool's. Just kidding. Gotcha!

But after that, I felt wonderfully relieved! It was John Billings's landscape man. His landscape man! I burst out laughing.

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