Just me, and I ain’t enough.
It be warmer in here than that little fire grate can explain, and I know I come to the right place, ’cause that mean there be a kitchen back behind the altar somewhere.
It started with the missionaries that came after the first storms. I guess there always been a tradition of church folks feeding the hungry. Even now, when the churches be in trees and religion be as mixed up as the people, there still be food coming out at the end of each service. I settle in to a back pew and tuck Baby Girl in my arms just as nice as can be. Maybe we both can rest up awhile, get some food in our bellies, and then be on our way. We in God’s house, so we gonna let him provide.
Soon as I think it, the curtain behind the altar open up and two kids come out, skinny and tall. They look enough alike to be brother and sister. The boy stand behind the altar, pale long-sleeve shirt buttoned to his chin, arms too long for the sleeves. His pants be too short for his legs, too, like he grew three inches just before he walk into the room. The girl be wearing a dress the same pale color as his shirt. Homespun, dyed with salmon berries. It look like a pillowcase on her, hanging on a drying line. She come stand by the front pew holding a big silver-painted tray. The boy raise his hands to the ceiling.
“Welcome, brothers and sisters, to the House of the Rising Son. I am Brother William, and this is Sister Henrietta. Join us, won’t you, in prayer?”
He got a soft voice, like a bale of cotton, serious for his age. Something change people’s voices when they find God—soft and gentle, or loud and fiery, there ain’t no in between. I been hoping for a fiery preacher to keep me awake. But with the heat and this boy talking, it gonna be hard for sure.
Before he get to preaching, the girl, Sister Henrietta, walk up the aisle, passing the plate for donations. I sit up and dig through my bag for a bottle of water, glad I got two left for Baby Girl. When Sister Henrietta reach me and hold out the plate, I put it in next to the freesteader’s dried fish and the pheasant the blood hunter already donated. The smuggler too far gone to be giving up anything but the ghost, and soon. Still, it gonna be a good dinner tonight, if the plate be any sign.
The trapdoor bang open across from me and I jump at the sound. A man with one leg climb through, and I wonder how he managed the rope ladder, even with them big arms. He drop a smoked ham hock on the collection plate, and that be it, five people and a tidy heap of food. They gonna give us some, save the rest for later, but that pheasant ain’t keeping like the hocks and the fish, so we doing all right.
The girl smile at the man, all soft and sweet, and let him pass. He move himself up to them front pews and prop up his legless thigh. I tuck into my corner and watch the whole room. Sister Henrietta slip behind the curtain with her platter of food, and I work harder than usual to keep my eyes open, waiting for the word of the Lord.
“Thank you, Sister,” Brother William say in that drowsy-making voice of his. “And many thanks to and blessings upon you, sisters and brothers. For it is a blessing that each and every one of us is alive and drawing in the blessed air tonight. Did not the Lord say that Heaven is like unto a grain of mustard seed, grown into a tree in which the birds of the air made nests in its branches? So, too, do we nest amongst the arms of cypress trees and know that we are closer to Heaven.”
I listen for a while just to have something to do that ain’t dwelling on what happened to Lydia, but it hard to pay attention when they just be preaching the same mess you hear in any church up and down the Delta. “Be kind to each other. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” With some mess about Job and Noah thrown in for good measure. It don’t go on as long as some of them Catholic masses the Ursulines hold, though, I’ll give them that.
Soon
It be warmer in here than that little fire grate can explain, and I know I come to the right place, ’cause that mean there be a kitchen back behind the altar somewhere.
It started with the missionaries that came after the first storms. I guess there always been a tradition of church folks feeding the hungry. Even now, when the churches be in trees and religion be as mixed up as the people, there still be food coming out at the end of each service. I settle in to a back pew and tuck Baby Girl in my arms just as nice as can be. Maybe we both can rest up awhile, get some food in our bellies, and then be on our way. We in God’s house, so we gonna let him provide.
Soon as I think it, the curtain behind the altar open up and two kids come out, skinny and tall. They look enough alike to be brother and sister. The boy stand behind the altar, pale long-sleeve shirt buttoned to his chin, arms too long for the sleeves. His pants be too short for his legs, too, like he grew three inches just before he walk into the room. The girl be wearing a dress the same pale color as his shirt. Homespun, dyed with salmon berries. It look like a pillowcase on her, hanging on a drying line. She come stand by the front pew holding a big silver-painted tray. The boy raise his hands to the ceiling.
“Welcome, brothers and sisters, to the House of the Rising Son. I am Brother William, and this is Sister Henrietta. Join us, won’t you, in prayer?”
He got a soft voice, like a bale of cotton, serious for his age. Something change people’s voices when they find God—soft and gentle, or loud and fiery, there ain’t no in between. I been hoping for a fiery preacher to keep me awake. But with the heat and this boy talking, it gonna be hard for sure.
Before he get to preaching, the girl, Sister Henrietta, walk up the aisle, passing the plate for donations. I sit up and dig through my bag for a bottle of water, glad I got two left for Baby Girl. When Sister Henrietta reach me and hold out the plate, I put it in next to the freesteader’s dried fish and the pheasant the blood hunter already donated. The smuggler too far gone to be giving up anything but the ghost, and soon. Still, it gonna be a good dinner tonight, if the plate be any sign.
The trapdoor bang open across from me and I jump at the sound. A man with one leg climb through, and I wonder how he managed the rope ladder, even with them big arms. He drop a smoked ham hock on the collection plate, and that be it, five people and a tidy heap of food. They gonna give us some, save the rest for later, but that pheasant ain’t keeping like the hocks and the fish, so we doing all right.
The girl smile at the man, all soft and sweet, and let him pass. He move himself up to them front pews and prop up his legless thigh. I tuck into my corner and watch the whole room. Sister Henrietta slip behind the curtain with her platter of food, and I work harder than usual to keep my eyes open, waiting for the word of the Lord.
“Thank you, Sister,” Brother William say in that drowsy-making voice of his. “And many thanks to and blessings upon you, sisters and brothers. For it is a blessing that each and every one of us is alive and drawing in the blessed air tonight. Did not the Lord say that Heaven is like unto a grain of mustard seed, grown into a tree in which the birds of the air made nests in its branches? So, too, do we nest amongst the arms of cypress trees and know that we are closer to Heaven.”
I listen for a while just to have something to do that ain’t dwelling on what happened to Lydia, but it hard to pay attention when they just be preaching the same mess you hear in any church up and down the Delta. “Be kind to each other. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” With some mess about Job and Noah thrown in for good measure. It don’t go on as long as some of them Catholic masses the Ursulines hold, though, I’ll give them that.
Soon
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