in Heaven. Pastor never took his eyes off me, the two of us certain Missy Cook stood just outside the room, listening to all that went on. I never broke, never surrendered to him that I did all of this to give some sort of honor to my momma’s memory, what I thought she’d want me to do.
It wasn’t but a month after Cathe ral’d found Christ that I’d been baptized in the Pearl myself, the same Pastor working on me whatever magic the Holy Spirit had given him to save my soul from the ravages of sin. When I came up from under water, Pastor’s hand at my back and lifting me, I’d expected to see a new world, one somehow clearer and more delightful, leaves on trees brighter, greener, the sky some miraculous shade of blue. Instead, I’d only rubbed my eyes, then opened them to the same trees, their dull green branches heavy with late summer air, the sky a pale and hazy blue, the river itself the same thin wash of brown.
I was thirteen, and the Sunday before had made the decision to come forward after Pastor’s invitation, and make my public confession of Jesus Christ as my Almighty Savior. The sermon over, the congregation standing and moaning out “Nearer My God to Thee, ” I’d simply made my way along the pew and past Missy Cook without looking at her, afraid that if I caught her eye she’d give some genuine smile, the possibility of that happening a dire threat to any peace I planned to find in Jesus.
Once in the aisle, it was easy, I only walked forward the few feet to the pulpit Missy Cook always sat in the second row on the center aisle and waited for Pastor to come down, ask me what I wanted, then present me to the congregation.
But once his hand was on my shoulder, I saw this wouldn’t be as simple as I’d thought, somewhere inside his eyes was love, I could see, easy and pure, a shine I hadn’t expected, his hand on my shoulder not nearly as heavy as I’d figured it would be. He said, “What is it, Miss Jewel?
” I closed my eyes, not wanting this man’s hand on my shoulder, the same one that’d tried to pat my head twice before. Not wanting to see in his smile that he was only a man, one who loved God the best way he knew how. My teeth clenched, I’d had to push the words from me, “I want to accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.”
“Praise God, ” he said just loud enough for me to hear above the roll of verses being sung behind me, people all with their eyes on me, Missy Cook chief among them.
The hymn ended, the long last Amen dragged out for days before the organ went quiet. The only sound left was the whisper of a hundred bamboo fans. Pastor held my shoulders, and turned me to face the congregation.
My eyes were still closed.
“Through the powerful grace of God our Heavenly Father, ” he began, and I could feel his fingers tense with the words, as though by squeezing my bones he might instill the Holy Spirit in me, “Miss Jewel Chandler has come humbly before our congregation to declare publicly her acceptance of Jesus Christ as her Personal Lord and Savior on this day.
She will be baptized into the glory and righteousness of God our Father next Sunday afternoon, and I am sure it is her wish that everyone here be present to welcome her into God’s precious fold.”
That was when I opened my eyes, only to see Missy Cook, a lace hankie to her broken-glass eyes. She was crying, her shoulders heaving with some divine relief, as if she’d had the largest part in my coming to the Lord.
But of course it hadn’t been her. It hadn’t been Pastor, either, the sermon he gave that morning lost to the great abyss most every sermon I’ve ever heard has fallen into. It wasn’t the congregation, which had doubled by the time it’d made its way to the bank of the Pearl to watch Pastor and me, the two of us in white robes that took up the river brown as soon as our hems touched water. None of them, I knew, were there to see Jewel Chandler be baptized, but were there to see Missy
It wasn’t but a month after Cathe ral’d found Christ that I’d been baptized in the Pearl myself, the same Pastor working on me whatever magic the Holy Spirit had given him to save my soul from the ravages of sin. When I came up from under water, Pastor’s hand at my back and lifting me, I’d expected to see a new world, one somehow clearer and more delightful, leaves on trees brighter, greener, the sky some miraculous shade of blue. Instead, I’d only rubbed my eyes, then opened them to the same trees, their dull green branches heavy with late summer air, the sky a pale and hazy blue, the river itself the same thin wash of brown.
I was thirteen, and the Sunday before had made the decision to come forward after Pastor’s invitation, and make my public confession of Jesus Christ as my Almighty Savior. The sermon over, the congregation standing and moaning out “Nearer My God to Thee, ” I’d simply made my way along the pew and past Missy Cook without looking at her, afraid that if I caught her eye she’d give some genuine smile, the possibility of that happening a dire threat to any peace I planned to find in Jesus.
Once in the aisle, it was easy, I only walked forward the few feet to the pulpit Missy Cook always sat in the second row on the center aisle and waited for Pastor to come down, ask me what I wanted, then present me to the congregation.
But once his hand was on my shoulder, I saw this wouldn’t be as simple as I’d thought, somewhere inside his eyes was love, I could see, easy and pure, a shine I hadn’t expected, his hand on my shoulder not nearly as heavy as I’d figured it would be. He said, “What is it, Miss Jewel?
” I closed my eyes, not wanting this man’s hand on my shoulder, the same one that’d tried to pat my head twice before. Not wanting to see in his smile that he was only a man, one who loved God the best way he knew how. My teeth clenched, I’d had to push the words from me, “I want to accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.”
“Praise God, ” he said just loud enough for me to hear above the roll of verses being sung behind me, people all with their eyes on me, Missy Cook chief among them.
The hymn ended, the long last Amen dragged out for days before the organ went quiet. The only sound left was the whisper of a hundred bamboo fans. Pastor held my shoulders, and turned me to face the congregation.
My eyes were still closed.
“Through the powerful grace of God our Heavenly Father, ” he began, and I could feel his fingers tense with the words, as though by squeezing my bones he might instill the Holy Spirit in me, “Miss Jewel Chandler has come humbly before our congregation to declare publicly her acceptance of Jesus Christ as her Personal Lord and Savior on this day.
She will be baptized into the glory and righteousness of God our Father next Sunday afternoon, and I am sure it is her wish that everyone here be present to welcome her into God’s precious fold.”
That was when I opened my eyes, only to see Missy Cook, a lace hankie to her broken-glass eyes. She was crying, her shoulders heaving with some divine relief, as if she’d had the largest part in my coming to the Lord.
But of course it hadn’t been her. It hadn’t been Pastor, either, the sermon he gave that morning lost to the great abyss most every sermon I’ve ever heard has fallen into. It wasn’t the congregation, which had doubled by the time it’d made its way to the bank of the Pearl to watch Pastor and me, the two of us in white robes that took up the river brown as soon as our hems touched water. None of them, I knew, were there to see Jewel Chandler be baptized, but were there to see Missy
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