Read Online Sweet Jesus by Christine Pountney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christine Pountney
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industrial carpet, in an auditorium full of folding chairs, under harshfluorescent lighting, weeping like a baby. The service was over and most of the congregants had stood up and were collecting their songbooks and Bibles and quietly, peacefully, making their way home. While others, like himself, were being prayed for in small groups.
Dear Father in Heaven, shower this man with your love, we beg you. Let him feel the power of your Holy Spirit move within him. Let him feel the breath of your Holy Spirit like a flame on his tongue, that he should be set free in your mercy, to go forth and witness to the glory of your word, in the name of your son, Jesus Christ. Amen.
He remembered a young Indian man who sat down cross-legged in front of him and opened his Bible. The pages made a wet sound. He put his hand on the back of Harlan’s neck and leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. He said in a heartfelt voice, And his father, when he saw him coming, ran to meet him. Such was his happiness.
And such
was
his happiness, he thought. It had lasted well into his early thirties and seen him through two university degrees, his marriage to Connie, and the birth of his three children, so how had he lost it? How had he forfeited the purity of a life surrendered in humility? All he knew was that it had been a long time since he’d felt the reassurance of his faith, and God seemed so remote these days. He needed the communion wine, he wanted the blood of the lamb smeared across his face. Something to wallow in. To match the intensity of his self-loathing. Here I am, Harlan thought, three blocks from home, turning left when I should be turning right. A father unable to turn the wheels of his vehicle towards his family.
His head was reeling and he counted up his drinks – four beers and the last third of a bottle of rum he’d mixed withCoke back at the office. Harlan pulled over. A quiet suburban street. Turn the engine off. Crack open another beer. Take a slurp. The lawns were so green in the lamplight, neat as buzz cuts, shaved right down to the curb. Harlan lay his head on the wheel. He could hear the sound of water. Like a rushing river, with its banks burst. He saw his sisters, standing upright and stoic in a miniature full-rigged ship, the size of a rowboat, taking a hairpin turn in a swirl of whitewater. He was watching and waving at them from the balcony of a convention centre. They looked like pilgrims on the
Mayflower
. Then suddenly, in a row, three loud and startling knocks.
Harlan lifted his head and a teenaged girl in a red hoodie quickly backed away from the window. She looked alarmed. Are you okay? her lips said.
Harlan lowered the window. Sure, he said in a breezy manner. Juzz ah, his mouth was numb.
I thought maybe you’d had a heart attack, she said.
No, I’m fine, thanks, Harlan said, swallowing, then yawning vigorously.
The girl turned around. He’s fine! she shouted at the house behind her. In a bright doorway, an old woman stood, shaking her head. Something like a crucifix glinted on her chest. The young woman – who was so pretty and fresh-faced and wholesome-looking – shoved her hands in her back pockets and nodded. Well, that’s good, she said. Have a good night, and she left.
Harlan felt exposed, embarrassed, as if he’d just been caught in a lewd act. There was something about her, though. What was it? And then he realized. He recognized her. She went to his church. Harlan started the car and drove home.
Connie heard the bleep of Harlan’s car alarm before he walked through the door. It was one-thirty in the morning. Her husband was carrying the soft leather briefcase she’d bought him last year, but she had the funny impression it was empty by the way it folded on the table when he put it down. Where have you been? she said, leaning back against the counter with a mug in her hands. She had her reading glasses on and the lenses went snowy as she blew on her tea.
Harlan came
Dear Father in Heaven, shower this man with your love, we beg you. Let him feel the power of your Holy Spirit move within him. Let him feel the breath of your Holy Spirit like a flame on his tongue, that he should be set free in your mercy, to go forth and witness to the glory of your word, in the name of your son, Jesus Christ. Amen.
He remembered a young Indian man who sat down cross-legged in front of him and opened his Bible. The pages made a wet sound. He put his hand on the back of Harlan’s neck and leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. He said in a heartfelt voice, And his father, when he saw him coming, ran to meet him. Such was his happiness.
And such
was
his happiness, he thought. It had lasted well into his early thirties and seen him through two university degrees, his marriage to Connie, and the birth of his three children, so how had he lost it? How had he forfeited the purity of a life surrendered in humility? All he knew was that it had been a long time since he’d felt the reassurance of his faith, and God seemed so remote these days. He needed the communion wine, he wanted the blood of the lamb smeared across his face. Something to wallow in. To match the intensity of his self-loathing. Here I am, Harlan thought, three blocks from home, turning left when I should be turning right. A father unable to turn the wheels of his vehicle towards his family.
His head was reeling and he counted up his drinks – four beers and the last third of a bottle of rum he’d mixed withCoke back at the office. Harlan pulled over. A quiet suburban street. Turn the engine off. Crack open another beer. Take a slurp. The lawns were so green in the lamplight, neat as buzz cuts, shaved right down to the curb. Harlan lay his head on the wheel. He could hear the sound of water. Like a rushing river, with its banks burst. He saw his sisters, standing upright and stoic in a miniature full-rigged ship, the size of a rowboat, taking a hairpin turn in a swirl of whitewater. He was watching and waving at them from the balcony of a convention centre. They looked like pilgrims on the
Mayflower
. Then suddenly, in a row, three loud and startling knocks.
Harlan lifted his head and a teenaged girl in a red hoodie quickly backed away from the window. She looked alarmed. Are you okay? her lips said.
Harlan lowered the window. Sure, he said in a breezy manner. Juzz ah, his mouth was numb.
I thought maybe you’d had a heart attack, she said.
No, I’m fine, thanks, Harlan said, swallowing, then yawning vigorously.
The girl turned around. He’s fine! she shouted at the house behind her. In a bright doorway, an old woman stood, shaking her head. Something like a crucifix glinted on her chest. The young woman – who was so pretty and fresh-faced and wholesome-looking – shoved her hands in her back pockets and nodded. Well, that’s good, she said. Have a good night, and she left.
Harlan felt exposed, embarrassed, as if he’d just been caught in a lewd act. There was something about her, though. What was it? And then he realized. He recognized her. She went to his church. Harlan started the car and drove home.
Connie heard the bleep of Harlan’s car alarm before he walked through the door. It was one-thirty in the morning. Her husband was carrying the soft leather briefcase she’d bought him last year, but she had the funny impression it was empty by the way it folded on the table when he put it down. Where have you been? she said, leaning back against the counter with a mug in her hands. She had her reading glasses on and the lenses went snowy as she blew on her tea.
Harlan came
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