THE TRUTH
barnettTHE TRUTH
I parked my car in front of the worn-out house. A sign announced: Christian Rest Home. I walked up the sagging steps wondering, “When it’s my time, will I find an Atheist Rest Home?”
I carried with me the antique Bible my grandmother Essie had given me prior to
her passing just last week. I didn’t really want to [accept] it, but I couldn’t disappoint Granny Essie on her death bed. After all she had shown me kindness throughout my years. She took me on her knee and told me stories when I was little, cooked me her famous gumbo when I was a teenager and continued to have hope that I was a good Christian even when I went away to the State University in the capital where –diós mío—there abounded atheist professors in all departments, Communists in every nook of the campus and nude models in the art classes. Granny’s Bible’s gold-lined pages were dog-eared from 80 years of use and its leather cover embossed with her name: “Esta Belinda García.” I actually treasured it, while simultaneously not believing in it.
I stepped onto the ancient porch. It shook beneath my feet. I wondered if Mrs.
Shendall would mind my wearing shorts instead of Sunday-go-to-Meeting attire.
“Oh hellfire and brimstone!” I thought, “Why can’t I just be what I am in front of her? Why do I have to grow wings and play my harp for her? Why did I even let Mother talk me into doing this? Just because Mother says I was special to Mrs. Shendall when she was my babysitter 20 years ago, I have to go be all holy with her now? Can’t I just disillusion the old bones bag, give her a glimpse of the real truth before she dries up and blows away?”
I twisted the tarnished doorbell. A middle-aged woman with sad eyes opened the stained glass door. “I’ve come to read to Mrs. Shendall, m’am.”
“Yes, you’re the one she calls her little angel, aren’t you? Well young sister, you’re a mighty fine Christian to come bringing Mrs. Shendall such happiness. It won’t be long now, you know. The Lord will come for her soon.”
“Nome, I didn’t know that.” I’m just like a fiction character, I thought. Here I am, a confused atheist today, a more confused who-knows-what tomorrow, reading the Bible aloud to a sick old bag, while laughing inside at the irony of the old girl and myself. I don’t want to be two contradictory selves. I will decide now. I will free this old woman from her illusions of me and of her religion. Thinking that I am as blind to the truth as she, she will want me to read Matthew 11:28:
“ Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
But, showing her that I see the light of reality, I will read to her instead from Ecclesiastes:
“… all is vanity and vexation of spirit.
All are of the dust, and all turn
to dust again.
For he cometh in with vanity, and departeth in darkness, and his name shall be
covered with darkness. ….do not all go to one place?”
The sad-eyed woman led me down a dark corridor and opened a peeling door. “I’ll leave you just an hour, [young] Sister. We cain’t tire her out, you know.”
I stood in the drooping doorway. The smell of old flesh hung in the room: flesh kept under sheets, behind shut doors and shaded windows, waiting to return to dust. The smell of agéd breath was there, too. Hot breath, breathed through arid mouths emptied up from tired hollow lungs. And there was the stench of urine, stale and impotent from bodies shriveled like dry creek beds.
There were three cots. Mrs. Shendall was in the middle one. Two other elderly women lay on either side, quiet but for blowing hot breaths through always-open mouths. I sat beside Mrs. Shendall’s cot and lay Granny’s Bible in my lap. Mrs. Shendall couldn’t see me, because she was almost blind.
“Hello, Mrs. Shendall.” Her head rolled over on the pillow like something heavy and dead. Her milky eyes bugged out from her skull. The top of her head was bald.
“Ah-ah.” she stuttered, “It’s my little angel come to read me the comforting words of the Lord.” She put a skeleton hand on mine. She reached out for me with zombie-like arms. I could feel every withering bone. I put my lips to her cheek. The skin hanging there was soft and limp.
Under the sheet her hollow breast moved. “Re-read,” she blew out.
“The truth,” I whispered. But she couldn’t hear. I’ll blow her concepts clear out of the Bible Belt today. I raised my voice, “The TRUTH!” I will be triumphant. Reality will reign and I will mete out Justice to rectify all those times I was judged, labeled a sinner, a wayward prodigal. All those times I was told the Devil had my soul. All those times. Now for the Truth.
I absent-mindedly let my Bible fall open as I stared hard at the dying soul, her blind eyes full of tears, her chest rising and falling with anticipation for the loving words of comfort. Armed with malice toward all those who had wronged me, I began strongly:
AND YE SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH, AND THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YOU FREE!
“Yes, yes,” she rasped. “No one. No one reads to me. Not in twelve months. It is so
good to hear, my little angel. It is so good to hear the Word of the Lord.”
Staring at her, I felt conflicted. Inside me, a pang of anguish grew as Hesitating, I observed her nearly lifeless body lying there like a half-corpse. Oh my god! I thought of Granny’s funeral last week. Granny was like this: just a shell, an emaciated shadow of her former rotund, cheery self. For an eerie moment, I saw Granny’s face on Mrs. Shendall and I realized Mrs. Shendall was not going to die. Instead, she was actually dying.
I looked down at the random page the Bible had opened to. It was Matthew, 11:28. Damn! How could this have happened? What unseen power had done this to me? [Whatever] you are, get outta my face! And then--Oh what the hell, I thought as I made a quick decision. I took the hand that was already turning to dust and read:
“Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest….
I flipped the pages at random again, and landed at John 14:
“Let not your heart be troubled….In my Father's house are many mansions: … I go to prepare a place for you. And … I will come again, and receive you unto Myself that where I am, there ye may be also. And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know.
And again the thin gold pages opened to Matthew 5:
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure of heart,
for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called children of God.
©barnett