“Elwyn, what are you doing?”
I kissed her on the mouth. I pressed her hands up against my chest. She tore away from me and sprang to her feet. “Elwyn—help me, Jesus!—what are you doing?”
“You’re a beautiful woman,” I squeaked, but it was no use. She was not to be seduced.
“Elwyn!”
I buried my head in my hands.
“You need prayer, Elwyn,” she said sadly. “You need the Lord.”
“Yes,” I replied, without looking up. “Yes.”
Now there was a soothing hand on my neck like a mother’s. I wept and I wept.
“Serving the Lord at your age is not easy, Elwyn. Don’t give up.” Sister Morrisohn rubbed my neck and prayed. “Christ is married to the backslider. Confess your secret sins.”
And confess I did.
And then I wept some more because the more she rubbed my neck, the more forgiveness I needed. For when she got down on her knees beside me and began to pray against my face, the very scent of her expanded my lungs like a bellows, and her breathing—her warm breath against my cheeks, my ear, into my eyes burning hot with tears—was everything I imagined a lover’s kiss might be.
At sixteen, I met my first great temptation, and I yielded with surprisingly little resistance, I who had proclaimed myself strong in the Lord. There had been, it seems, a chink in my armor, through which Satan had thrust his wicked sword.
As I wondered how I could have felt so strong and yet been so weak, I labored mightily to get back into the ark of safety.
I took a more active role in the Lord’s work. On Sundays, I rose early and joined the maintenance brethren in preparing the main hall for morning service; I stayed late to help them clean up afterward. Brother Al and Brother Suggs were surprised but happy to work with me. Often, we discussed music.
“Elwyn, I really like when you do that dum-dum-da-dum thing at the end of service,” said Brother Suggs, a retired seaman of about seventy who had both a stoop and a limp. When he pushed a broom, he resembled a man perpetually playing shuffleboard.
Brother Al, a squat man with a massive chest and arms like telephone poles, shouted down from the ladder upon which he stood replacing a cylinder of fluorescent light: “I was first trumpet in my high school band.”
Unemployed and in his late twenties, Brother Al spent his days lifting weights or visiting the three children he had sired out of wedlock with a Nicaraguan seamstress named Bettie. This was, of course, before he had accepted the Lord.
“Maybe you and me’ll do a duet one Sunday,” Brother Al suggested. “Maybe we will, Brother,” I answered, scraping chewing gum from the underside of a pew with a putty knife.
Now on those Sundays when it was not my turn to play piano for the youth choir, I stood as usher at the entrance to the church: I’d rather be an usher in the house of the Lord than a prince in the palace of hell. My legs, standing motionless for the better part of the hour, were diligent for the Lord, my knees strong and true.
I stopped the children from talking or fighting, tapped them awake when they fell asleep. “Suffer the little children to come unto Me,” Christ said. When babies cried, I was quick to pull them from their grateful mothers’ arms and take them outside into the calming sunlight, or lead some other mother—a visitor—to the restroom at the back where she could change a soiled diaper, or perhaps nurse her baby.
When the Holy Spirit descended, I waited for Him to touch one of His favorites—Sisters Davis, Breedlove, Naylor, or Hutchinson—and set her to trembling, to move upon her so powerfully, in fact, that she would collapse. I would rush to the fallen sister and drape the velvet shawl over her spasming legs, hiding what would otherwise be revealed—the usher is the guardian of decency—and then with the help of another usher, I would carry the fallen sister to the nursery where she could rest on a cot until the Spirit had passed.
Scripture says it is not through our works that we are saved, but only through His Grace, and Scripture can’t be challenged. I reasoned, however, that if I were indeed going to work, then let it be in the service of the Lord.
It struck me that part of my problem was that I didn’t pray enough; yes, morning, noon, and evening found me on my knees, head bowed, but what about the times in between? Scripture admonishes us to pray without ceasing, so I increased my standard prayers to five times a day and began a campaign of fasting on the weekends.
One Sunday afternoon, during the lull between morning service and youth hour, I sat in my bedroom reading from the Book of Daniel, searching perhaps for my own handwriting on the wall.
I heard my grandmother say: “Elwyn’s not eating today?”
As was customary, we had guests over for Sunday dinner—my grandmother and Sister McGowan, my old piano teacher.
My mother answered, “Elwyn’s fasting.”
“Fasting? Every time I come over here he’s fasting.”
My mother said, “All of us Christians should be fasting along with Elwyn. There is so much trouble in the world.”
“Especially the way them Arabs have shot up the gas prices,” said my father.
“Please pass the salt,” said Sister McGowan.
“Here it is, Sister,” said my father. “Over there in the Middle East, there’s sure to be a war. Armageddon.”
“We are living in the last days,” said my mother.
“Watch and see if the Lord doesn’t return soon,” said my grandmother. “Watch and see.” There was a chorus of Amens, and then she continued, “I still think he’s been too serious lately. Something’s bothering him.”
My mother said: “‘Wist ye not that I must be about My Father’s business?’ The Lord was only twelve when He said that.”
My grandmother’s voice boomed, “Don’t quote Scripture with me, girl.”
“Mother,” said my mom timidly.
“I know my grandson. And I know—”
“So much salt?” I heard my father say.
Sister McGowan answered, “I know it’s bad for my blood pressure, but I’ve had more of a taste for it since Barry and Peachie announced they’re getting married.”
Oh Peachie. My foggy eyes could not read the prophet. I found my ear moving closer to the open door. Why did I want to hear what I already knew?
“Peachie and Barry make a nice couple,” said my father. “I pray their children don’t witness Armageddon.
“They’re so talented,” added my mother.
Then there was awkward laughter as they attempted to maintain the pleasant air.
“Humph,” snorted my grandmother, “all this time I thought she was Elwyn’s girl.”
“Mother,” said my mom, “Elwyn doesn’t have a girl.”
“At sixteen?” said my grandmother.
“But he likes girls, I can tell you.” My father laughed without vigor. “He’s my son.”
“I-thought-Elwyn-liked-Peachie,” my grandmother said, punching each word.
It became quiet.
I