The Dry Grass of August(52)

“We welcome you.” She motioned to some empty chairs three rows from the back. “Help yourself.”

We took seats on the wide aisle. A center pole raised the canvas high off the floor. Support poles formed a vast square room, with flaps tied back at each corner to let in air. People sat on folding wooden chairs, ladder-backs and stools, metal porch chairs, wooden rockers. Children sat on fruit crates in the aisle. In less than a week I’d been in two tents—the first one at the carnival where I met Leesum.

The wooden altar had a cross painted on it, with twelve flaming candles set in brass candlesticks around the front and along both sides. A choir in purple robes filled chairs behind the pulpit, sitting silent and still, their faces lit by the flickering light. All I could think about was how hot they must be in their robes.

Stell’s shoulder touched mine. She fingered her cross, pulling the chain tight against her neck. Mary opened her purse and took out a fan—cardboard with a wooden handle and a picture of Jesus suffering the little children. “We can share.”

A family sat in front of us, a man in overalls and a white shirt, a woman in a flowered dress and hat. Three children, two girls and a boy. The older girl looked at me. She wore pearls and there was a coarse hair caught in the clasp.

Two boys in white robes entered through one of the corners of the tent, carrying flowers they put in front of the choir, which stood humming in unison, then falling into harmony until the hum became a strong chord that faded and grew, soft, loud, soft again. Eyes closed, they swayed side to side.

A fat man in a dark suit walked up the aisle, holding a Bible against his chest. His head was bowed and his eyes were closed, but he never missed a step. When he turned and looked at the congregation, the candles lit his face. His white hair bushed out from his head, and his eyes glittered as he set the Bible on the pulpit, then lifted his hands and said, “Brothers and Sisters, welcome to the house of God.”

“Amen!” the congregation responded in many voices. The hum of the choir rose in pitch.

“Welcome to Jesus!” the preacher shouted.

“Jesus! Amen!” the people replied. I heard Mary’s voice.

The humming got louder. The preacher lowered his face, closed his eyes. A woman began to sing, her voice strong and rich. “O my brother, do you know the Savior”—she stepped away from the pew, raised her arms and sang so loud the tent filled with her voice—“who is wondrous kind and true? He’s the rock of your salvation. There’s honey in the rock for you.” The choir echoed her last phrase. “Oh, there’s honey in the rock, my brother, there’s honey in the rock for you.”

The singing made the air in the tent even hotter, and I could hardly breathe for the smell of the bodies around me. The woman singing solo raised her arms again, and loose skin swung in arcs to her elbows. Her face glowed.

Stell Ann repeated the words. “There’s honey in the rock for you.”

The hymn ended and a man behind us said,“Sister Roland, she got the call.”

“A voice from God.”

Nothing else broke the silence until the preacher shouted, “Repent!”

Stell gasped. Mary sat still, her eyes closed.

“Repent!” the preacher screamed again. “Is there honey in the rock for you? We got to ask ourself this question every day. Not just on Sunday, not just when we in trouble, but every day. Every minute of every day we got to live for Jesus. Elsewise Jesus can’t be waiting around for us.”

“Can’t wait!” a man shouted.

“Amen!” came from several places at once.

“Has you got sin?” asked the preacher.

“Yes, Lord,” screamed a woman.

“Yes, yes!”

“Repent!” the preacher shouted.

“Amen! Hallelujah! Praise Jesus!”

“Some of you thinks your sins is forgiven,” the preacher said. “You repent. God forgives you. But the Lord don’t work in advance. He don’t pardon sins you fixing to commit.”

“That right, Lord don’t work in advance,” a woman behind me repeated. Sweat slid from my hair down my neck.

The preacher stared first at one person, then another. “Let the one who has no sin throw a rock at me now.” The only sound was the rustling of Mary’s sleeve as she fanned herself. “If there’s somebody out there who repented last meeting and hasn’t sinned in the meantime, come on up here and take my place.”

Voices rumbled, “Yes, Reverend. We all sinners. Amen. God’s love.” Nobody walked forward.

He touched the Bible on the pulpit. “Read the Word, my people! The Good Book will keep you straight. Study on it till it’s in your mind, for those times when a Bible ain’t handy or you cain’t find your glasses.” He picked up the Bible, opened it, and recited:



“Enter into his gates with thanksgiving and unto his courts with praise: Be thankful unto him, and bless his name. For the Lord is good, his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth to all generations.”





He snapped the book shut. “But none of us is ready to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Not you. Not me. We got to ask Jesus to forgive us. Get down on your knees. Pray till it hurts. Be ready when you’re called.”

Stell’s face glowed. Her lips parted. “Jubie?” She fell against me, then hit the floor, wedged between me and the chairs in front of us.