When the evangelist, Brother Wilbur, took his place behind the pulpit, he quickly read the scripture before stepping down by the altar and surveying the crowd.
''You are farmers!'' he screamed at them. “When you put seed in the ground, you expect it to grow!"
He had clearly caught the attention of the crowd, who were now all silently staring at him.
"Why?" he asked more quietly. "Why do you expect it to grow?" He indicated an old man in the front row for his question, but then answered it himself. "You expect it to grow," he shouted again, "because the Lord promised you that it would'"
Cleav's moment of serenity had passed abruptly, and he was now wishing that he'd chosen to sit farther toward the back. He considered himself a religious man, but evangelical fervor always seemed a mirage of righteousness rather than evidence of it.
Righteousness, he decided as he sat politely watching the little preacher pace frantically back and forth across the room at top volume, was nothing more than doing what you know is right. Even when doing it hurts you.
No, righteousness was no big mystery. It was love that was so difficult to understand.
He looked down at his wife beside him. Esme's hands sat idly in her lap and without thinking, Cleav allowed his right hand to join them.
Esme glanced up with surprise that quickly turned to pleasure. She gently caressed her husband's palm and held on to him with both hands.
The congregation was obliged to rise for prayer. Cleav and Esme, still clutching hands, bowed their heads with the rest. As the preacher droned on about the needs of the world and the people in it, both Cleav and Esme tried to concentrate on something besides each other.
When the prayer was over and the “amens” were spoken, both took their seats, but Brother Wilbur's tirade from the pulpit continued unflagging for well over an hour. Carefully manipulating the emotions of the crowd, the preacher had them yearning for the gentle "shepherd of men" one moment and fearing the wrathful king determined to cast sinners into the "lake of fire" the next.
Notes were passed from one youthful hand to another. Babies, their sleep disturbed by the noise and excitement, fussed and squalled in turn. Old Man Tyree fell asleep and began snoring loudly. And Garner Broadwick carved his name in the right rear arbor pole.
As the service reached a crescendo, the frequent "amens" were joined by shouts. Youngsters on the back rows eagerly watched the proceedings in hopes of seeing a fainting zealot or hearing someone speak in tongues. Jimmy Milo bet Noch Gingrich his best cat's-eye marble that when the women fell on the floor, they pulled up their skirts. Noch bet eagerly, feeling, right or wrong, he could hardly lose.
On this first night of the revival the boys were doomed to disappointment. When the invitation was given, only three people went to kneel at the unfinished pine bench that served as the altar.
A seven-year-old girl was seeking redemption from sin. Tearfully, the cotton-headed child confessed that her life of sin so far had led her to hide in the cellar when her mother called her to help with the laundry.
A thin, frightened young mother was worried about her sick baby. The child was the only one of her three that had been spared the measles last fall, and now he was looking mighty peaked. Pearly Beachum got up and put a consoling arm around the woman and promised her that they would take the child to see Old Grandma Woolsy the next day and get the baby a tonic.
The other mourner at the bench was the ancient, half-crippled Nola Hightower. The distraught woman, not a day under seventy, cried until little puddles seeped along the raw blond pine.
"Dear Sister, dear Sister," Brother Wilbur said as he attempted to help the old woman to her feet. The matron was amply nourished and hadn't been down on her weak, aged knees in a month of Sundays. Not even with the help of the preacher and her two canes could she rise to her feet. Finally, a man in the first row rose to help, and they managed to get her to a standing position.
"Dear Sister," Brother Wilbur began again, "tell us your name and the burden that's on your heart tonight."
"Speak up, Miz Hightower," another admonished. "We're all brothers and sisters here in the Lord."
Poor old lady Hightower could hardly speak but managed to choke out her name as she gained her composure. She was no public speaker, but she was far from shy and had lived too long to be intimidated by a crowd.
"Your message, Brother Wilbur," she said finally. "Lord, it really touched my heart tonight"
"Amen!" was heard throughout the crowd.
"You're a-talking 'bout the promises we make to the Lord," she said. "And the promises he makes to us."
The woman shook her head sadly and looked over the room. “Well, the Lord made a promise to me, writ right thar in the Good Book," she stated. "I know he keeps his promises."
"That he does, Sister," Brother Wilbur agreed.
"Tonight, I'm praying that he'll keep this one while I'm still alive to see it."
A murmur went through the crowd. Speculation. What could the Good Book have promised Nola Hightower?
"We can't know the time or the season that God works his miracles," Brother Wilbur warned. "The Bible says we must 'wait upon the Lord.'"
The old woman nodded. "I know that's true," Mrs. Hightower admitted. "But I've been waiting nigh on to twenty years. I ain't sure I got much wait left in me."
