Mercy Me (5 page)

“Where'd you find her?” Mrs. Purdy asked. I told her I'd found Flossie Ann in a drawer. She commenced to feeling the cat all over. “She's too warm. How does she look?”

“A mite skinny,” I told her, “but she'll not die. You better let me have her, Mrs. Purdy. She needs taking care of.”

“That's right. Here, you take her.” And she lifted Flossie Ann ever so gently. “See that she gets plenty of water. Where's my cane? . . . Thank you kindly. You go along, I'll get there in a minute or two.”

I took Flossie Ann to the kitchen to feed her. She was too weak to drink by herself, so I got the meat-basting thing, filled it with water, and put it to her mouth.

Mrs. Purdy tapped her way into the kitchen. “ Esmeralda, what do you think?”

“She's wobbly, Mrs. Purdy, but I'll see to it she gets over this.”

It took a while, but as soon as Flossie Ann had all the water she wanted, I eased her down on the floor. “Now, Mrs. Purdy, can't I fix you some oatmeal or something?”

“Well, now, I reckon you can. Guess I ain't et much in I don't know how long.”

That was no surprise to me. “I'd say it's near about as many days as Flossie Ann's been missing.”

“You're probably right.” She felt for the chair and sat down at the table. “Seems like I should've heard her calling me in that drawer.”

“Oh, now, Mrs. Purdy, you and me both have got hearing loss.”

Oatmeal cooks fast, and after I'd served Mrs. Purdy a bowl of it, I put the brown sugar and milk where she could reach it. Then I went back to the bedroom to make sure there was no mess in that drawer. It wasn't too bad, so I cleaned it up and was about to come out the door when I spotted a 1958 calendar on the wall. There was a picture of the Grand Canyon on it that was still in good
condition, so I asked Mrs. Purdy if I could have it. Of course, she said I could.

Beatrice had always talked about going to the Grand Canyon, and I knew she'd just love the picture. Which, I figured, was about as close as she'd ever get to the real thing.

I was tired when I got home that day. I flopped in my chair and thought,
Oh me of little faith,
because for once I could see the Lord had really answered my prayer about finding that cat. But what bothered me was that he didn't seem to answer the big things in life. Having prayed my heart out for Bud to come back from the war safe and sound and him winding up like he did was something I would never understand. And the thing about the preacher and his wife not having a baby when all over the country women were doing away with babies before they were born, I would never understand.

I knew all the things people said about unanswered prayer, like “You have not got enough faith.” Well, my faith might've been the size of a grain of mustard seed (I knew I had got that much, maybe more), but Jesus said this much planted in God was enough. People would argue that if your prayer be not answered, there was something wrong in your life. But not a day went by that I didn't ask the Lord to forgive me for any sin I'd committed, and I knew he wiped the slate clean. “The Lord is testing you,” people would say, but my Bible told me God don't tempt nobody. Or people would say, “Just wait.” Well, I waited till the day Bud died for the Lord to do something for him, and all I got was a flat-out no!

As soon as I let that thought slip out, I was sorry. Of course, the Lord knew I was mad about it. He knew my heart. He still does, and when I flare up like that, I'm always sorry.

It's just that sometimes I can't leave it be, Lord.

I sighed, weary with thinking about it.

6

I love my Sundays! I start getting ready on Saturday night—lay out the clothes I'm going to wear, see that they are pressed, wash and roll up my hair. While it dries, I read my Sunday school lesson.

Since it was not raining the Sunday after I found Flossie Ann, I walked to church. In class, Clara didn't take up all the time telling us who was sick and all, so we had a pretty decent lesson.

I tell you, Pastor Osborne's morning prayer always takes me right up to heaven, and that morning was no exception. His morning prayer isn't one of them that gives the Lord a shopping list of who's sick or in the hospital. He starts off with worshiping the Lord, then moves on to blessing the congregation from the little children right on up to the elders and deacons. He always prays for those in authority over us, the president right on
down to the mayor. You would think he has the newspaper open before him, the way he prays for crimes to be solved, for missing children, for prisoners on death row, for victims of storms and accidents. Missionaries get prayed for by name, and their needs get mentioned. Then on different Sundays he takes turns praying for teachers, policemen, doctors, and nurses—all the like of that. That morning he prayed for two Hollywood celebrities who were in trouble.

After a prayer like that, my heart was ready to hear the message, and what a message it was! He spoke on tears and sighs. I wondered what he would get out of that until he explained that tears and sighs are sometimes our best prayers. His text came from Exodus, the part when the children of Israel were in bondage and suffering so bad, and the Lord told them, “I have heard thy prayer, I have seen thy tears.” Oh, it was wonderful! After all, hasn't every one of us been at that place where we hardly know how to pray anymore and we just flood our pillows with tears?

Pastor Osborne said David once prayed that the Lord would put his tears in a bottle. To me that meant that David didn't want the Lord to forget whatever it was he wept over. I didn't know where David got the idea of the bottle, but Pastor Osborne explained that women collected their tears in a container of some kind and maybe those were the tears Mary used to wash Jesus' feet.

I just marveled at that man. You never got one of them quickie sermons off the top of his head like some preachers would give you.

People in my church are quick to clap at any little thing like they were watching TV or some entertainment, but that morning the Spirit was moving, and you could hear a pin drop.

While he was talking, I found myself wishing he had used that verse, “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.” Pastor Osborne never fails to sow the good seed of the Word of God at Apostolic, but with hard hearts and minds made up, it hasn't always been easy. But he was and still is a real soul-winner who goes after the drunks and wife-beaters as well as the top dogs in town. I bet he's watered that seed real good with his tears. I hope I live long enough for that morning when he reaps with joy.

I think he got his verses on sighing from the Book of Lamentations, which is full of doom and gloom. When you can't pray and you sigh a lot, Reverend Osborne said Jesus is listening and hears them sighs as if they were words. I remember reading in one of the Gospels that Jesus sighed himself, so I guess he knows good and well what a sigh means.

I needed to go to the bathroom, but I tell you, I did not want that sermon to end. As far as I was concerned, he could've gone on all day. But he wound it up in the sweetest kind of way. He quoted a verse from Revelation, telling us our prayers go up before the throne of the Lord as incense, a sweet-smelling fragrance that fills heaven.

Can you beat that? Made me want to come right home and get on my knees. As we filed out of church, I shook Reverend Osborne's hand, but I could hardly speak I was so full. He took me aside and leaned down close to my
ear to speak privately. “You know, Esmeralda, when I was a young man entering the ministry, my pastor told me, ‘Robert, always speak to the broken hearts. There's one in every pew.' When I started out preaching, I didn't pay much attention to that. I guess a man has to have a broken heart himself before he can . . .” His voice cracked, and he let go my hand.

Now I know people might say a man of the cloth ought to be able to live above his disappointments and so forth. Maybe he should, but he's human too, the same as me. One thing is sure: Pastor Osborne didn't put on a happy face and pretend he had not got a care in the world, like the hypocrites do.

I had invited Boris to come for Sunday dinner so I could talk to him about that Nashville music, but after hearing Pastor Osborne's sermon, I was glad he didn't come. I wanted to be by myself.

Well, somebody had invited Boris to be their guest at the restaurant. After morning service, the church crowd always goes to the all-you-can-eat restaurant here in town. Once, one of the waitresses told me she hates to see them come in.

“They forget their manners, if they have any,” she said. “It's ‘Miss' this and ‘Miss' that. You can't fill up their tea glasses fast enough. And there's one lady always says she ordered something else, not what I brought her. And there are others who'll say the food is cold or too salty. There's one man always asks if the mashed potatoes are made with instant potatoes, when he ought to know by now that's the only kind we serve. You would think after
what they put me through, they would all leave a big tip. I do well to get fifty cents from some of them, but I get tracts every Sunday. I tell you, Esmeralda, if that crowd would eat at home on Sundays, maybe I could get off now and then to go to church myself.”

I'm glad I don't go out to eat with that crowd; they would embarrass me to death. Papa brought us up to remember the Sabbath day and to keep it holy. I don't condemn anybody for eating out and shopping on Sunday, mind you, but I can't do it. For me, it's a sin. Besides, like I say, I love my Sundays.

For dinner I had a pot roast with onions and gravy, real mashed potatoes, slaw, and green beans cooked the way Mama always cooked them, with seasoning. And I made good biscuits and ice tea that has got the flavor it is meant to have.

After I ate and cleaned up the kitchen, I flopped in my recliner. Started to read my Bible but couldn't keep my eyes open. So I took a little nap. That refreshed me, and when I woke up, I felt like singing.

Over a lifetime I have sung the same hymns so many times I can sing all the verses without looking at the book. Right now, if I was to call up Beatrice and ask her what hymn is on page fifty, without looking, she could tell me “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” Or if I asked, “Page ninety-four?” she could tell me in a skinny minute it is “At Calvary.” In fact, we sung them two so much the pages have fell out the book.

I can't always sing around the house when I'm working, but sometimes I do. If anybody was to hear me, they'd probably think I was hog calling. But on Sunday
I rear back in this chair and sing to my heart's content. I never get tired of singing, but my main business on Sunday afternoon is to get in a lot more praying than I get done weekdays. True, sometimes my mind wanders and I start thinking about other things. I hate that.

If I was talking to somebody visiting me, I sure wouldn't be looking out the window or over their shoulder at somebody or something else. That would be impolite. But with the Lord, well, if you've ever done much praying, you've had the same experience, I'm sure. I'll tell you one way that helps ease my conscience. I tell myself that whatever my mind wanders off to, that's something I ought to be praying about. And I sometimes pray out loud. That's beginning to come natural with me, because to tell the truth, I feel like the Lord is right here with me some Sunday afternoons. Even when I don't feel it, I believe he's here.

By the time I finished my Bible reading, I didn't have time to read Splurgeon. I had to get up and get ready for evening service.

By the middle of the week, I had a letter from Beatrice, and wouldn't you know it, she mentioned about how her mind wanders when she's praying.

In the letter, she didn't mention her foot problem, so she must've gotten over that.