Days of Little Texas (3 page)

After I get done telling about the day of my anointing, the Holy Spirit comes up in me so strong, it’s like somebody opened the top of my head and poured in liquid fire. I am wide open, taking it in. The Spirit is the only thing protecting me now.

Then I’m not even here anymore. I am not anywhere but inside their eyes, the girls’ eyes, and it all begins again. I put my mouth against the microphone. It tastes like a metal flower.

“The Lord is a-coming,
ah!
” I say, but it’s not really me saying it.

Something has me by the shoulders, lifting me clean off the earth.

“He’s a house afire,
ah!
He’s a freight train,
ah!
He’s a wrecking ball,
ah!
He is eternal,
ah!
Watchful over the sanctified,
ah!
He’s driving the tides of resurrection in your souls,
ah!
”

I don’t know where the words come from. They aren’t mine. On and on, gushing from my mouth like a raging flood. At the same time this big, blistering whiteness fills my stomach, rushes up my throat plumb to my eyeballs. Begins to carry me off.

“I say now, put your hand in the hand of Jesus,
ah!
Make yourself ready,
ah!
Because in my Father’s house there are many mansions,
ah!
He prepareth a place for the bridegroom to take your hand in marriage,
ah!
In the final days the clouds will roll back,
ah!
with a blasting of trumpets,
ah!
and the graves of the righteous will burst open,
ah!
and those who believeth on His name,
ah!
The dead in Christ shall rise,
ah!
Take His hand,
ah!
No man knoweth when his time cometh,
ah!
I say
no man
knoweth,
ah!
And those who do not repent,
ah!
shall be cast into the lake of everlasting fire,
ah!
”

My eyes roll back and flutter. I can’t feel the Bible in my hands anymore. The Holy Spirit is lifting me up, floating me away; everything is floating, someone is screaming, then ten thousand voices are screaming, and my soul comes flooding out my temples, pouring down the sides of my head like molten light.

It’s like I’ve swallowed the world.

But somehow I’m weightless. There is no roof to the tent anymore; I’m moving into the open sky. I can see myself down there, no bigger than a hickory nut.

I’ve left my body behind. I’m outside. Outside with her.

The girl from my dreams.

When I’m done testifying, the spirit that has toted me up to heaven slowly hauls me back down from the clouds. I become aware of things around me again—people standing, screaming, waving, clapping their hands. The girls, especially the girls.

They are reaching their arms out like they could touch me from twenty feet away. Some of them are weeping.

Sugar Tom’s Bible is heavy on my wrist now. I hand it to him. He takes it with both hands, saying “Amen,” and I watch Certain Certain put it back in the prayer box.

I turn my eyes from the congregation to look for Miss Wanda Joy. Her black eyes push their way into my head. She raises her arms and says the same thing she says after every sermon.

“If you believe in the Resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, if you are ready to offer up your soul in hope of eternal salvation through the blood of the Lamb, come forward. Come kneel at the Calvary Rail.”

The Calvary Rail runs along the edge of the stage. It’s nearly twenty foot long, made of heavy white oak varnished dark brown. The idea is, there’s room for all the Apostles.

But far more than twelve people come forward. Those that can, squeeze in, with the rest of them left standing. Miss Wanda Joy directs them to kneel, their fingers twined, heads bowed.

Miss Wanda Joy keeps her fingernails short for a reason; she goes down the line tapping each person on the head, repeating words I know by heart in one long string:

“AreyoureadytoacceptJesusChristasyourLordandpersonal-Savior?”

Each sinner nods, and Miss Wanda Joy goes to work, praying over them. Some of them shout. Some raise their hands as if drawn up by a heavenly magnet.

A woman with a purple shawl starts speaking in tongues, saying something like “Radda daddaa tat a ta!” and flops on the floor like a catfish. She lays there kicking and hollering
awhile, then a couple of men get her up and help her back to her seat. Gradually the rest of the kneelers stand up and go sit back down again.

I turn my attention to a line of folks that has formed up beside the stage. Certain Certain is waiting with the first woman. She comes forward careful, like she’s scared her legs are going to fold up under her. Certain Certain takes her by the elbow, holding her arm so ginger, you’d think the woman was made of spun sugar.

“It’s my hip, praise Jesus,” she says. “But I just know you can help me, Little Texas.”

She starts to pull up her white dress, lifting it up to show her veiny blue leg, but Certain Certain puts his hand on top of her hand, saying, “That’s all right, sister, that’s all right. We understand.”

“The doctor tells me I need hip replacement surgery,” the woman says, voice cracking. She looks at me. “And I’m so afraid. Praise Jesus, I am
afraid
.”

“Bring the sister forward,” I say to Certain Certain.

As Certain Certain guides her closer, I catch the cloggy scent of some fancy perfume. I take her hand; her skin is loose, cold, and her jowls are saggy. But that’s the outside. Sugar Tom always says for a healing to do its business, it’s more important what’s on the
inside
.

“Welcome, sister,” I say. “Now, tell me. Just how long have you been burdened with this affliction?”

She gives a sad little smile, and her eyes nearly disappear in wrinkles.

“Well, it started after my husband—his name was James—after he passed on. Four years ago this March. James was a big man. He helped me so much. There are just so many things a small woman can’t do for herself—”

“And have you been to many doctors to help you with your pain?”

“Oh yes, Little Texas.” She brings up her tiny hands. “Nashville, Atlanta, Birmingham. All over. They all tell me the same thing. What I’ve got—it’s degenerative. They can’t fix me without putting in a replacement hip. I’m so afraid.” She turns to face the congregation like she is speaking to them now. “I don’t like hospitals. I don’t even like visiting people in hospitals.”

“I understand,” I say. “Now, would you like to have this burden lifted from you today? This very minute?”

“I would! I would!”

“And do you declare Jesus Christ to be your personal Savior and Redeemer?”

“I do! Praise Jesus, I love Him so much, of course I do!”

“Well then. Do you believe He can heal you, sister?”

“Oh yes. All things and more He can do. I believe that, Little Texas. With all my heart.”

“And can you feel the power of your belief deep down in your soul?” I say, readying my other hand.

“Why, yes, I do!”

Her eyes get wider and wider—she has a look I’ve come to know so well. Sugar Tom calls it the “house afire look.” Eyes wild, staring. Just about crazy with hope. But mostly the look says this:
Deliverance
.

“We are
delivering
them from their sickness, their burdens,” Sugar Tom says.

The time is right. I snap my hand out and holler,
“Praise Jesus!
” At the same time popping the heel of my palm against the woman’s forehead,
hard
.

There is a moment, an instant truly, where I feel something like a heat hot as orange coals in my hand, and the fire rams the woman straight upside the head, and she tumbles over backward into Certain Certain’s big hands—I hear a
whoosh
come out of her. Then she’s soft as tallow dripping down a candle and flops over into his arms.

The healed woman’s eyes are closed, and she is
smiling
. Smiling all over, as if Jesus Himself had just laid hands on her. Certain Certain gently drags her to the other end of the stage—one of her flat little shoes comes off, and Miss Wanda Joy picks it up and hands it into the congregation.

Then the next one comes, and the next and the next and the next. And each time there is that feeling of the fire leaping, something jumping from me to them, and that smile. That everlasting smile.

Healing all these folks, it’s like—it’s like passing into a cloud, one of those kinds that goes straight up like a triple-scoop
ice cream cone. Coming out the other side, full of mist and sunshine.

I think maybe it’s like love.

Like love is coming out the tips of my fingers and straight into their bodies. The love runs back and forth between us. Everything else falls away. When I’m in it, there is nothing else for me.

And I’m okay again. I’m all right for a little while. Till the fear starts all over again.

Sometimes I’m so drained after a service, I can sleep ten hours. Tonight I wish I could jump down from the stage and run straight to the motor home to my bed. But there are always people wanting to talk about the sermon, needing a prayer, or just wanting to touch me, shake my hand.

Miss Wanda Joy says meeting folks after a service is the second-most-important part of a ministry. Certain Certain calls it “ginning up repeat business.” I’m so used to it, I almost don’t have to listen.

“Lord bless you, Little Texas!”

“Praise Jesus for bringing you to us!”

“I was hoping you could pray for my boy overseas in Iraq.…”

Tugging my arms, pulling at my suit coat, touching my face. I move through them quick as I can, but it feels like walking through a car wash without the car.

I’m not who they think I am. I’m not who they think I am. I’m not…

Finally the last of them go, and the road leading back to the highway looks like a ribbon of red taillights. I can already taste supper without even knowing what it’s going to be.

Then, as I’m about to leave, a small woman comes rushing up out of the shadows and grabs my hand. Her light, curly hair is a wreck, and her eyes are shiny with tears.

“It’s my daughter
,” she says, blowing it all out in one terrified breath.

A tall man comes hustling up behind her carrying a girl.
Oh Lord
. This girl is blond-headed and wearing a blue dress that comes about to her knees. Her skinny arms and legs are dangling, head lolling. Her mouth is open and her eyes are closed.

“My
baby girl
…,” the man says, so choked up the words come out in pieces. “We’ve been—everything was fine—she was
fine
—Lucy—please, please, Little Texas. Help her.
Please
.”

The man goes to lay the girl flat on the stage, but Certain Certain brings some blankets to make a pallet. I look at the girl. Her face is red, skin wet, soft pink lips turning bluish.

“What is it?” I say, mouth going dry.

“She got—we were on vacation—she got sick coming up from Pell City,” the man says. He is crying now. His wife is clutching his hand so tight, the blood is draining out of it.

“Anything, we’ll give you anything, just help my baby girl….” His voice chokes off again.

“I—I don’t know,” I say. “This looks to be an emergency. Regular doctors might could handle it better….”

The woman’s eyes cut me off.
Pleading
. She turns the man loose and clutches my arm.

“Please
.”

I look at Certain Certain; he raises his shoulders. Miss Wanda Joy comes over, her mouth set in a tight line.

I kneel beside the girl. My heart is in my neck. “I’ll do— I’ll do what I can.”

She looks to be about my age. Thin and small with curly blond hair. Her face is wet, wet as if somebody just splashed her. I bend over her.

“Y’all step back, give her some air.”

The top of Lucy’s dress is open a little bit. Her skin is smooth and perfect.

I have absolutely no idea what I am doing.

I don’t feel ready. Everything is wrong. When the Spirit comes over me, when I’m full of the Holy Ghost, I can move mountains. I
know
I can. But everything strong has already rushed out of me tonight. I am empty. Tiny.
Weak
. This is just
Ronald Earl Pettway kneeling here, not Little Texas.
Pray
, I think.
Pray to heaven…
.

I close my eyes and clasp my hands together in the air over Lucy’s chest.

“Dear blessed heavenly Father
. Please guide my hands and bring about a healing to this girl’s—to
Lucy’s
—spirit, her soul, and her body.”

I open my eyes. Her father is hovering over my shoulder, her mother at my elbow. I put my ear close to Lucy’s mouth. She is breathing, but it sounds shallow, rough.

Then Lucy’s eyes flick open and lock on mine for just a second. She moans, face twisting in pain. Her hands clutch at her stomach, fingers digging in. She starts tearing at her dress, pulling so hard the buttons are about to tear loose.

“Get her hands!” I say to her father, and he and Certain Certain bend low to pull them back.

Lucy screams and bucks forward, then flops back, limp. I lean over and put my hands over her. I’ve never been so close to a girl like this. She’s everything I’ve ever been afraid of, all of it, in one soul, one body, taunting me.

I glance at Miss Wanda Joy. She makes a face like she disapproves. But I’ve got to do something.
Anything
.

“Please
,” Lucy’s mother says.

My hands start to shake. I don’t know how to make them stop. I drop them down to the only place it feels safe to touch, the place between Lucy’s chest and belly—so warm!—
the material of her dress is so thin, I can feel her hot skin. Her bosom is small—that’s what Sugar Tom says to call it, a bosom.

“Lift her up,” Miss Wanda Joy says.

“But…,” I say.

Certain Certain has already got Lucy under her arms and is standing her. She doubles up in pain again and slumps toward me. Her father helps Certain Certain prop her up.

“Now,” Miss Wanda Joy says, looking at me. “Do it now.”

“Hurry,” Lucy’s father says again. “Look at her, look at what she …”

Her lips are turning bluer. Is she even breathing?
Lord help me, help me, please
. Then her eyes pop open and she is staring right straight into my eyes, pleading for something:

Take the pain away, take me away, save me, save me, save …

A single tear burns down her face.

I clap my eyes tight, force myself to clear my mind.
Think. Something clean. Something pure. Remember. Remember
. And I do remember. Mark, chapter nine, verse three: “And His raiment became shining, exceeding white as snow.”

Shining white as snow, shining white as snow, shining white as snow
.

I say it to myself over and over—till it seems like I’ve said it a thousand times. And at last the whiteness, the goodness, the
clean
fills up my head. It’s all I can see, even when I open my eyes. Now, thank the Lord, I can feel His power flood into
my fingers, boiling straight up to the tips. My voice comes out hoarse.

“Are you ready to be sanctified by our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?” I say.

Lucy’s answer is barely a whisper, more lips than throat.

“Yes.”

I slam my hand into her forehead, not the heel this time, but laying my whole fingers up into her wet hair—

A sound comes up in my ears, a sound like I’ve never heard. Like something
moving
, something tearing apart. I don’t even know if it’s anywhere besides my head.

Lucy howls and bows her shoulders. I open my eyes—I can see again. Then Lucy goes slack and drops straight into Certain Certain’s arms. He lays her back on the blankets. I look down. Lucy is smiling.

A smile that only comes from a deep inside healing.