(1)
He never missed a Sunday morning church service, no, not once in twenty years, so why today did he have to have a flat tire.
The flat tire wouldn't stop him from getting his perfect attendance pin, though. He'd still make it to church; he'd get that reward. Jerry Wilkins felt the pride swell up like a dead corpse pushing against the coffin lid, felt those nails start to give, and immediately beat the hammer down hard to prevent it's escape.
"Sinner! Pride'll be your downfall." The old preacher, Brother Gene Rose, had said it often. He'd retired a few years back at the age of seventy-one. He remembered that lesson, he wanted to be good, but he wanted that pin, too. He needed something to salve the empty inside.
"You're a good boy, you've always been my good little boy." His Momma told him one last time just before she closed her eyes.
He'd been forty years old, but Jerry just couldn't help it. He cried in that hospice room when cancer made its final squeeze and she gasped her last. Of all times, it was the day before Mother's Day in '97.
"I'm alone, Lord," he prayed. Scared, he some prayed more, "What I should do?"
The Lord did not reply that day. Jerry had the church. That had to be enough. The stalwart few got fewer each week at Salt River Baptist Church. The new pastor, Brother Bob, was a part-time, stop by once a week, Sunday morning only preacher. He never had tome to pray with Jerry, not like Brother Rose had.
So, Jerry hesitated each Sunday as the rest of the members filed out to the parking lot and he prayed, "Send me a sign, Jesus. Tell me what I should do."
Each time there was no answer.
Now, only a few days before Thanksgiving, his ultimate reward sat ready to pluck. Only once before had anyone ever received the twenty year attendance pin in the history of the church – his Momma before she took sick.
Jerry wanted forgiveness for his sinful pride, but he wanted that pin more than grace.
As soon as Jerry pulled the Buick into the parking lot, he knew something was terribly wrong. Only one car sat there, the battered Ford pick-up of Don Walters. Deacon Don stood in his thread-bare polyester Johnny Carson suit, the same one he wore thirty years ago when he placed a hand on little Jerry's shoulder and said, "Gerald, why don't you let the Lord take your hand and lead you. Let him save you, son."
Don's arthritis caused his thin frame to stoop low these days. His once raven hair was thin and gray now. The thin green tubes stretched from the tiny oxygen tank on the two-wheel dolly. Tears ran down Donald's cheeks.
"Deacon Don! What is it?"
"Pastor Crittenden has done left us, Jerry. It's bad, son, it's real bad. We trusted him to take the offerings to the bank these last several weeks, but he cleaned us out. No money in the bank account; spent it all. He couldn't face us, so he left a note. He's left town, left the state and now we're finished. It's over.
"I don't understand." Jerry asked.
Deacon Don said. "Go home, Jerry. The others are already gone. Claire already left in the mini-van; she's waiting on me at home. I think we'll move on down to Sarasota to be with Judy. It's a durn shame it had to end like this." He hugged Jerry hard – as hard as his bad lungs allowed. Then, he wheeled his little life-tank back to the truck and got in. Jerry stood there.
"Lord?" Jerry looked up. "No attendance pin?"
Silence.
"No sign?"
Silence.
Jesus, I ask you one more time, send me a sign. If you're real, if you care, this is your last chance. Send me a sign."
Painful silence swallowed Jerry up.
(2)
Jerry drove the Buick down the same street that he drove every Sunday, but today something new sat at the vacant field of Magnolia and Clementine. A ragged tent sat back from the road. The sign announced, "Revival! Clean Up Your Damned Soul Here."
The blunt audacity of the sign shocked Jerry enough to turn onto the fresh gravel driveway and he parked right in front of that tent tabernacle. He eased out of the car, walked up to the tent opening and shouted inside.
"Hello."
Silence.
"Hello." He shouted again.
Silence.
