Child of the Mountains

4





It’s about not judging people.




SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1953

I felt a troubling today. Me and Uncle William and Aunt Ethel Mae went to their church at the coal camp. It looks a lot like that Samaritan Holiness Church back in Paradise—the one me and my closest kin attended ever Sunday morning and evening, and Wednesday night. They’s both pure white on the outside. They’s both got a steeple. They’s both got wood pews lined up on either side and a coal stove for keeping the church warm in winter. They’s both got a cross on the front wall and a place for the preacher to stand up higher than everbody else. A wood sign hangs near the cross and has numbers that can be changed to show attendance and offering. There’s a fancy wood box called a pulpit that has a slanted wood top for the big Bible to rest open on during the preaching. The preacher stands behind it and uses it for reading the Word of God. At the front of both of them churches is a altar rail behind a padded step. That’s so’s people can kneel down to lift up their hearts to God and get saved when the preacher finishes sermonizing.

The only real difference is that the coal camp church has something that looks like a big bathtub behind the pulpit. You have to walk up some stairs to get to it and then down a few stairs to go into the water. They use it for baptizing.

In Paradise, we walk down to the Kanawha River when folks want to get baptized. We sing hymns and always this one as we join up at the river:

Shall we gather at the river,



Where bright angel feet have trod,



With its crystal tide forever



Flowing by the throne of God?



At the smiling of the river,



Mirror of the Savior’s face,



Saints, whom death will never sever,



Lift their songs of saving grace.



Yes, we’ll gather at the river,



The beautiful, the beautiful river,



Gather with the saints at the river



That flows by the throne of God.



Gran explained to me and BJ that getting baptized was like taking a bath that would make you feel cleaner than any other. It showed you was trusting God to wash away your sins. After BJ got saved and decided to be baptized, he called it getting dunked. I figure God got a good laugh out of that one.

Gran said, “Them Methodists and Episcopalians only get a sprinkle of holiness on account of only getting a sprinkle of water poured on their heads when they get baptized.”

But later Mama told me, “I don’t think God cares how much water gets used. He probably cares a lot more about what’s in your heart.” She also said it was probably best not to tell Gran she said that.

But the biggest difference is the preachers. When Pastor John talks about God he smiles and looks real hopeful. Pastor John says God loved us enough to send his only son to die for us. I figure that must be a whole lot of love. It sure did pain my mama to lose her only son. Pastor John says we’s supposed to love each other just like God loves us and not to judge one another. When we sing about God, we all feel like kinfolk.

Seems like the folks here in Confidence have done already judged me afore they even talk to me. Some of them women comed up to Aunt Ethel Mae after my first church service. An old lady with blue hair and crinkled-up hands and face spoke to her. “Dear,” she said, “you sure is a saint a-taking in your sister-in-law’s daughter after what she done to her own flesh and blood.” Then she shook her head and clicked her tongue as she looked down at me.

Aunt Ethel Mae pinched up her face real tight like she done drunk herself some lemonade without a speck of sugar. I expect she thought that made her look like a saint. “Well, we all have to do what we can for our Lord and Savior, don’t we?” she said.

The old lady pinched up her face, too. She nodded and patted my aunt’s arm. “That’s all the good Lord asks of any of us.”

I bet Anne of Green Gables would have fierce words for that old lady, something like, “You know a whole bunch more about what the Devil asks of people than the good Lord.” That’s what Anne would have said. But I didn’t say nary a word. I just looked down at the hole in my shoe and thought about how I best cut a piece of cardboard to put in it.

Reverend Sanders, Uncle William’s preacher, ain’t no better. He seems to think we don’t hear too good. He screams and yells while he pounds on the pulpit. It gets real scary when he waves the Bible around like a sword. His face gets all red and sometimes I think he looks like Satan hisself. Sweat pours out of him like he’s on fire in the bad place. Today when he started up a-talking about how sinful we be, I wanted to run and hide like I used to when Daddy comed home all liquored up.

The preacher opened his eyes real wide, like he was a-trying to see inside of us. “You can’t hide from God!” he shouted. “God knows your every thought.” I commenced thinking about God knowing that it’s my fault Mama’s in jail. My face got real hot and my eyes started to tear up. The preacher saw them tears and lunged toward me like a snake to a baby rabbit. He pointed right at me.

“That’s right, little sister!” he screamed. “Know the awful truth of your sin. Confess it to God and be saved!”

I could feel all the eyes of them people boring holes clean through me. Some of them said, “Praise God!” and “Hallelujah.” Reverend Sanders got real quiet for the first time. He seemed hopeful that I would spit out some words. But I just sat there, biting my lip and cracking my knuckles and staring down at the floor. Finally, he started up yelling about God again to everbody.

Reverend Sanders don’t know nothing nohow about me. I done got saved and baptized at Pastor John’s church. I wish the Rapture of the Saints would of come right then and God would of took me clean out of that place. God would pull Mama right through that jail cell like it was water. Her and me would fly up to Heaven together, holding hands and smiling at each other. We’d meet BJ and Gran and even Daddy in the air, just like the song says.

I like to think about Pastor John and them folks at the church in Paradise. But it makes me sort of sad, too, not just for missing them, but on account of recollecting about BJ. One Sunday, it was me what figured out that BJ was sick.

Pastor John—he up and commenced to preach about Jesus talking to crowds of folks. They was all a-pushing and a-shoving, trying to get real close to Jesus. The young’uns tried to move to the front, but the grown-ups shoved them to the back. Pastor John said they acted like a lot of folks today. They think young’uns should be seen and not heard. But he said Jesus didn’t never think that way at all. Jesus told all them people, “Let the little children come unto me and forbid them not. For of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” That’s another Bible verse Gran made me rememorize.

I looked over at BJ and Mama. Mama sat listening to Pastor John, a-smiling and a-nodding. I heard her say a real soft “Amen.” Then I looked back down at BJ, sleeping in her lap. I seen he was wringing wet from sweating like it was the middle of summer. But it was November. I wiped BJ’s brow with the sleeve of my sweater. After that I leaned over to kiss him. I knowed right then and there that something weren’t right.

“Mama,” I whispered. “BJ’s sweating bullets.”

Mama felt his brow just as everbody got up to sing “Just as I Am.” Gran felt him, too. She leaned her head over to the side, like she was a-trying to puzzle it out. But she didn’t say nothing. That scared me real bad. Gran always has something to say about everthing.

“And when I kissed him,” I whispered some more, “it was like kissing a ham. He tasted all salty.”

As it turned out, that meant something awful.