My Writing Space

            The crowd prays silently in the rows of small metal chairs, accompanied by crickets in the heat of the humid southern night. Mid August near the river was always too hot and too wet. The plants in the audience fanned themselves with their program flyers while they sat pretending to pray. So many people showed up tonight, Jimmy wasn’t sure that his people were going to have space in the audience. Word of the boys “talents” had spread far beyond the small towns they were grifting.

            Of course, Isaac didn’t know they were plants. Jimmy had to hire locals to fake illnesses for the boy to cure. The boy and his mother were delusional. But Jimmy couldn’t fault them that. They had nothing when he found them, dirt poor on the dying remains of corn field outside of town. The few farm animals that hadn’t run off or been sold to pay the bills, were dying of starvation. Isaac and his mother, Mary, had begged Jimmy to take them with him. They said they could pitch in, the boy was strong and his mother was healthy enough. Jimmy could always use another hand feeding his crew and setting up the tents. So he brought them along.

            Jimmy always liked to let the tension build before he went out and “preached the good word”. His choir filed in as the crowd began to look up from their prayers. They filed in along the rows of metal chairs sitting on the slightly raised stage. As the last of them came to stand in front of his chair, they began to hum in unison. In the back row, one of them began to clap in a healthy southern rhythm. The crowd began to sway as if on cue. The steady rhythm was picked up by the audience. Then clear strong voices sang out in praise and those who were able stood to join the choir. A common “amen” or “Hallelujah” cried out here and there in the audience. Three full hymns were sung, before Jimmy made even a move to join the choir on stage. Let the audience begin to feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. As the third song began to fade and the audience began to be seated, Jimmy strolled out on stage with a gentle ease and a smile that had won many hearts and several thousand dollars.

The audience had come to see Isaac, but they knew that the way to Isaac and their salvation was to go through Jimmy Solomon. Jimmy would preach a little, sing a little, pass along the collection plate, all the while lamenting the plagues and disease this world was forced to endure. But, ladies and gentleman, there was a solution, a cure to all that ails you. And his name was Isaac Christianson. A young faith healer, who lived his life in the solitude of his trailer, spent his life in prayer and reflection, with his only contact to the secular world being his devoted mother and of course, Jimmy.

Isaac was a plain southern boy; he looked like a thousand other boys who had grown up south of the Mason Dixon. His chestnut hair cut in a short bowl cut. His dull brown eyes stared out at a world he barely saw and seemed to never understand. But when he smiled, radiance far beyond him lit up the room. Isaac claimed that it was God’s gift to him that kept his mother and him alive, and the same divine providence that brought Jimmy to their door. Jimmy, however, was far less willing to leave his fortunes to Gods will.

If the boy believed he could heal through faith, far be it from Jimmy to deny his faith. Jimmy would provide him people to heal. Jimmy, for a small price, set up private meetings with the local farmers for crop blessings and livestock healing. One rancher had paid Jimmy 20,000 dollars to have Isaac at the insemination of his prize heifer. Word of mouth had it, that heifer gave birth to twins and they were the healthiest calves in the country. People paid a small fee to get into the tent revival now. The potluck dinners and bible studies over flowed with food and gifts. Not to mention the take from the collection plate. People had even started asking for Isaac to be present at their children’s baptisms, births and other special occasions.

In Isaac, Jimmy had found his gimmick; Mary saw a saint, and the crew saw a meal ticket. In himself, Isaac saw a disciple of the lord. He knew the lord had a plan for him, and Isaac accepted his duty with humility. Isaac would be a tool for the lord; God would bring miracles back to earth through Isaacs’s hand. If Isaac believed and remained faithful, God would use him to bring religion back to the heathen landscape to which Isaac had been born. With those thoughts coursing through him, Isaac stood outside the tent listening to the sermon that brother Jimmy gave. Isaac knew that Jimmy was misguided in his need for money. But Jimmy provided for his traveling congregation, for that Isaac couldn’t judge him. God would show Jimmy the right path, Isaac had to leave such things in Gods hands.

Isaac knew the people he healed every night were paid to be sick, he could see it. Isaac listened to the small still voice inside him; he reached out to those he could, while creating the show Jimmy needed him to create.  He would heal a sick child here, cure stage one cancer there, nothing big, nothing noticeable. The Holy Spirit inside him told him it wasn’t time yet. The lord would give him a sign; Isaac had to wait for his own version of the burning bush. As Isaac prepared to go on stage tonight, the small voice spoke up.

“Just one extra tonight Isaac, you will see her, you will know.” The small voice whispered in his head, blocking out the applause of the crowd and the song of the choir. Isaac thought it was weird to have a theme song anyway. He didn’t see the point in it. None of the Apostles had theme music, if they lived without it, so could Isaac. But Jimmy had insisted, so Isaac left him to it.

As Isaac stepped onto the stage, he could see a soft glow in the third row, a pale girl of about 7 or 8 years old. Her face brightened in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, there was fear there. Her lips were red where the coughing fit had brought a little bit of blood. A napkin was clutched in one hand. Isaac held a hand up in praise as he greeted Jimmy on the stage. They shook hands and hugged. Jimmy spoke some words into the microphone, and a bunch of hands darted up in the audience. A few of the hands were darkened in Isaac’s sight, signifying true illness. Jimmy waded through the crowd grabbing hands and leading them to the stage. A line formed at Isaac’s feet. To Isaac’s surprise some of those who were in front of him were actually sick. Isaac healed the first few, praying over them, laying his hands on them and then leaving them to move on the next.

Those who were healed went over to the audience to let them inspect their health and see that they were healed. Isaac would move on to the next and ask him or her what ailed them, and they would tell him something that they had been paid to say. For a few, Isaac would send Gods love into that place where they were hurting and heal whatever was wrong with them, regardless of what they would say. Then he would whisper to them to go and tell no more lies.

When Isaac had got through the entire line, he stepped off the stage, like any normal night. He was supposed to wade his way through the crowd, and exit through the rear of the tent. Then he would retire to his trailer for more prayer and bible study, or so the world believed. Yet, as Isaac walked down the aisle between the rows of chairs, he stopped, reached out to the little girl. In a strong clear voice, he spoke to her.

“God has told me you would be here tonight Ruth; He has great plans for you. He wishes for you to be a beacon of his word in this world. Can you do that Ruth? Do you promise to try to live in Gods love, and by Gods words?” Isaac asked while caressing her cold hand. Beside her a woman cried softly, thanking God that Isaac had stopped for them.

“I will try my hardest, if God will relieve me of this Leukemia, I would surely dedicate my life to his service.” The little girl said in a weak and quiet voice. Isaac smiled and gathered her up in his arms raised his face skyward and began to pray for her. The small voice inside him joined him in his prayer. Isaac felt warmth grow inside him as the choir began to sing a simple round of Amazing Grace. Ruth’s mother cried next to them, praying as hard as she could. Ruth let out a long sigh and smiled up at Isaac as he ended his prayer. Isaac set Ruth down and the little girl and her mother followed him from the tent.

At the podium, Jimmy stared at the spectacle with mixed feelings. On one hand he was angry for the deviation in the schedule, on the other; Isaac had put on quite a show. He made a mental note to have the little girl looked in on. Perhaps they would follow up with her, make a big enough deal that they could raise prices. He wondered as he closed the evening services when Isaac and his mother had time to add a plant of their own to the mix. He would have to have Mary watched more closely, perhaps the girl was her family.

Weeks passed without another deviation, the girl was all over the local papers and her father turned out to be a local newscaster. She was all over the media, and Jimmy’s little tent revival grew bigger every night. They had needed an extra tent by the second week. They had stopped moving from town to town, the local law enforcement asked them to stay in one place until the media hype died down. They were causing traffic jams on normally quiet country roads.

One night after a particularly profitable show Jimmy was approached by a man asking to televise one of the revivals. Isaac had made national news and the national networks wanted a story. Jimmy got Isaac and Mary’s permission, and they began to plan for their first national exposure. Jimmy had the choir outfitted in new robes, which of course, had been donated by local patrons calling themselves Jimmy’s new congregation. Chairs were donated by all the local churches. One or two of his crew were talking about setting down roots and starting up an honest church here.

Isaac spent those weeks in prayer. He studied furiously, the small voice preparing him for the miracle he was about to show the world at large. Word had been sent to the local churches and flyers printed up, all who couldn’t afford healthcare, all who needed a doctor but couldn’t see one, all who were faithful or wanted to see the lords grace were welcome. That night, the tents were set, the walls left off and the chairs set out in long rows. People began to show up in two and threes, then in tens and twenties. Banquet tables were set with food overflowing, somewhere a large BBQ was burning and the smell of the meat permeated the air.

Jimmy surveyed the crowd, his mind already counting the cash that was rolling in at the gates. If everything worked out tonight, he could have his own show. He could stay in one place and run this scheme on the television like all those televangelists. With one exception, he had Isaac. There was something about that boy. He drew in the fanatics and the skeptics alike. People flocked to see him. He barely spoke a word, just stated his simple faith and people followed him where ever he led them. Jimmy was thankful for Isaac. He had to make sure that, when they settled Mary and Isaac got a nice big house to settle into.

The choir took its place, the lights for the cameras glowed in the darkness, the crowd murmured. The choir began its music as they always had, sweeping the crowd up in their music. And when it had faded, Jimmy took the stage to a roaring applause that took a few minutes to dampen. Jimmy preached that sermon like he was born to it. He played to the crowds, the camera, the camera men, and the audience watching at home. Jimmy preached, and sang, and passed the plate, and preached some more. Then he asked the crowd to grow silent. He asked that all be still to hear the voice of God within them. Jimmy invited Isaac out to the stage quietly and calmly, like it were any other night.

Jimmy reached the stage with a humble glory, he waited patiently as Jimmy asked for those who were sick to come forward that Isaac may lay his hands upon them and they would feel gods love. But the voice spoke, and drowned out all that Jimmy was saying.

“Now Isaac, Go forth into the middle of our people. There God will create you as his miracle in this place.”

Isaac raised his hand, stopping Jimmy, Isaac strode to the center of the crowd and cried out.

“Lord God, Work your miracle through me your willing servant!” Isaac felt the familiar warmth grow from the center of his being, light grew around him, far above him he heard a thousand voices joined in a chorus of praise. Then all Isaac knew was light and warmth.

Jimmy glanced over at Isaac in shock, a small fear growing in him. An annoyed thought crossed his mind about Isaac ruining the big night. As Isaac walked into the crowd and cried out to God. Jimmy half shook his head in amazement at the showmanship the boy possessed. Jimmy couldn’t have planned that if he had tried, and he was glad he hadn’t. It looked better not scripted. Then Isaac took on a glow around him, as if he were drawing all the light out of the room and into himself.

Jimmy looked around and saw awe and peace on the faces around him. He felt like he had been the only one left out of a big joke. Jimmy looked back at Isaac as the light grew and spread, points of light spinning through the audience embracing hundreds at once. Isaac spread his arms and the light brightened and spread outward over the crowd, embracing everyone in warmth, light and a golden peace. Then it was gone, shooting upwards like a star falling in reverse. And with it went Isaac. One moment he was at the center of the light, then it was as if he were the light, and then the light and Isaac were both gone.

The faces around him shone with tears, those in wheelchairs cried out in praise as they stood for the first time in years, voices that hadn’t spoken in decades spoke again in praise. All around him there were murmurs of thanks, people crying, people shouting their hallelujahs to the heavens. And there, finally turning on him, were the TV cameras. The camera men took in the scene with their cameras, a few of them laughing or crying as they did so. They turned to Jimmy to pick up the pieces and answer the questions. Fear gripped Jimmy’s heart, how could he explain what had just happened? Who was he to answer questions in the face of such happenings?

And from somewhere inside James Solomon heard that small still voice for the first time.

“Fear not Jimmy, I am with you,always.”

The news of the Tragedy that changed our country came to me early in the morning, lying in bed after a long night with a sick child, the TV came on in my room and my husband sat at the foot of our bed. He was shocked staring at the news in disbelief. Then the phone began to ring, family members calling to make sure that my family was safe and ok. I responded the only way that made sense to me at the time.

 “Yes, we’re fine; the west coast hasn’t been hit yet.” I growled into the phone, annoyed with the self absorption of my family. If they were that concerned, why not call the Red Cross and find out where you could go to help. Why call family who lives ten minutes from you and was no where near the tragedy? It made no sense in my shocked brain. The news was everywhere; it was the biggest thing to happen in my lifetime. Years from now we would all sit around and reminisce where we had been when the planes hit. Just like my mother and her friends sit and talk about where they were when JFK was shot.

I chided myself for such callous thoughts. Shouldn’t I be more concerned with the children who lost parents in that falling tower? Shouldn’t I want to hold my own children tight and reassure them that the same thing wouldn’t happen out here? But I couldn’t shake the relief that flooded me at the time. I sat for a long time, thanking god that I lived in a small town on the west coast. They would never attack out here. There was nothing of strategic value out here. We are safe out here

The conscience of our nation changed that day. Hidden patriots came out of the closet, a righteous anger rose up in the streets of small towns all over our country. Paranoia bordering on religious hysteria gripped our country and a new type of racism was poured out on our streets. We demanded justice; we sought vengeance against those who would dare to attack us on our own soil. The government answered our cries, carrying our young men and women to far off places in search of the horrible people responsible for the loss of so many lives.

Those who had lost nothing but a sense of security began to mourn the loss of those who died in the Tragedy. People all around the country developed the sudden need to take care of people who hadn’t matter to them before the incident, men and women found heroism in them that no one knew was there before. People who had called for justice and demanded vengeance cried out at the brutality of war. Protesters called for the government to keep our country safe without putting our own young men and women in danger. It is a silly thought but it is what the country seemed to demand.

We all know someone who knew someone who had lost a loved one in the event. Or in the war that followed. Everyone had an opinion on the war and our troops, even those of us who had never cared before. Suddenly we were concerned about men and women who had signed up years before and knew what they offered their country. For years afterward, the aftermath of such an atrocity left us reeling, searching for answers and the sense of security we had felt before. Our men and women died on foreign shores for a cause most of us misunderstood.

While they were away on foreign shores, they were heralded as heroes and multitudes of people raised banners, and held rallies calling for their safe return. Once they returned they were forgotten or dismissed by both the adoring public and their government. I was angered that people cared so little for those who gave so much for us. I lectured my children about the importance of our troops, I taught them as I had been taught that the American Troops gave us our freedom. Our nation should be thankful! Then we all went about our lives. Nothing else changed for us, not for years after the initial incident.

Then my brother, Michael, who had been in the reserves for years, got activated. His unit was sent to Iraq, then Pakistan, or somewhere in the Middle East. If I had paid more attention, I would have known were. But I only thought of the inconvenience of explaining to my young children why their uncle wouldn’t be at all the important holidays and family occasions for a while. I became active in the local “war effort”. My family and I sent letters to the troops every week or so. Care packages to my brothers unit and those whose names and addresses came to our attention. My children learned to write letters and got information on reports for school from those brave souls who shared a bit of their lives with us.

Then the nightmares started. I began to hear the news at night before bed. The body count seemed to rise more and more. When they first began, every soldier sent home in a coffin had my brother’s face. Then as time went on, they began to have young shocked faces of my own boys. The faces of children on the bodies of men, wearing shocked or pained expressions. Eventually they began to look at me, great hordes of familiar dead eyes turning in unison to stare at me and shed a single tear. The worse the nightmares got, the more I paid attention to the news reports.  I started watching political shows and channels hoping to catch glimpses of information about the troops.

I finally had to stop watching the news, stop reading the papers. I continued to send letters and care packages to all the soldiers we knew. To every young man who was known by my friends, or friends of friends, we sent care packages, letters, card, and pictures, anything that would remind them of home. To let them know they were loved and cared for back home, I prayed at night for the safe return of every soldier whose name I had learned over the year my brother had been away.

Early the next October, as we were preparing holiday baskets for the troops, my family got a visit from the local base. Michaels’ unit had fallen under attack and the unit had scattered. At that moment, no one knew whether he or the rest of his unit were alive or dead, only that they had been attacked. The nightmares that night were the worst, dreams of shelling. Smoke everywhere, sun shots, explosions, men screaming around me, all calling my name, asking me to take them home, home to see their mothers. Every one of them had my sons’ faces. Childish hands reached up at me from bloody torsos, barely breathing. Faces caked in filth shed muddy tears, as they cried for families back home.

I woke up screaming my brothers’ name, in the other room I could hear my children crying. Nightmares had wakened them as well, dreams of their uncle and their friends being killed on foreign sands. We huddled together, weeping and praying for news. Several nights passed like that. During the day we finished our projects, wrote our letters, and finished our chores and homework, at night we ate dinner, watched some TV, and then sat around the living room huddled in fear praying for our family to come home to us.

Thanksgiving night, as we sat around a bountiful table, we all spoke a little on what we were thankful for in the past year. This year, with my brother missing and the rest of my family so saddened, there was little actually said. My family had all gathered at my house this year, I lived closest to the base, and my brothers home. Being closer together and closer to his house, made us feel like he was at least partially there. We said our grace and set about to carve our turkey and dish our holiday meals, leaving Michaels traditional spot set, but empty. As the Turkey passed beyond me, a knock came to our door. The entire family froze; hope shining in some eyes, horror in others.

I slowly got to my feet, steadied myself and walked into the other room. Beyond the door there was a familiar looking young man with crutches wearing a crisp clean dress uniform. I smiled at him politely, assuming from his dress and the crutches that he wasn’t hear to deliver bad news, and asked him how I could help him.

“Ma’am, I know it is a holiday and all, and you don’t know me, not really. But you see, I know your brother, we serve together, and well…” He trailed off, blushing a little, as he reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a tattered letter obviously written by one of my children. “I was invited to dinner if I made it home in time. So, I thought I would stop in. I have no family in the area, and I’m missing them tonight, I don’t mean to impose, I really just wanted to say hello and thank you…” He stuttered to a stop as I put up my hand.

“Honey, what’s your name? We write a lot of those letters.” I asked smiling at him as I opened the door to allow him access. I called into the dining room set another place; a guest of honor had arrived. I looked back to the young man, to welcome him in and was surprised to find tears in his eyes.

“Michael said ya’ll would treat me like family, but to take a stranger in on Thanksgiving… It is too much to expect. Thank you Ma’am, my name is Greg. Greg Mayers. You’re son Kevin has been writing to me for nearly a year.” The young soldier said all this quietly as he made his way slowly across the threshold. It was then I noticed that he was carrying a backpack on one shoulder and trying to work the crutches at the same time.

I made the introduction to the family, who all welcomed Greg with open arms, my parents insisting on him calling them mom and dad. My sons already calling him Uncle Greg, my husband poured him a beer and took his pack as he sat down, next to Michaels spot. He smiled as he looked at the empty dishes.

“Michael said you would leave him a spot. You guys are a truly loving family. I get a call every year and they all wished I would make it home. But I never get more than that really. I don’t think they ever leave an empty space at the table for me. But, I have something for you all.” He reached into his pack on the floor beside him, pulled out a small box, and began to rummage through it all. Inside there were trinkets for the boys, souvenirs from the places over seas that he and Michael had been. Then the true treasures came, letters from Michael. They had been wounded together and Michael had saved Greg’s life.

Greg told us that Michael was revering in a hospital in Iraq when he had left. The news is always slower than the transports. But Greg promised that Michael would be home by Christmas. We made Greg promise to be there as well. Homecoming wouldn’t mean as much without Greg there to represent where Michael was coming home from. Besides, Greg had been a part of this family’s life for the last year, he was adopted. He had to be here for Christmas.

Christmas that year was more special to our family than any before it. The Tragedy changed more than the nation. It changed the way our country looks at things. But the war that followed? It changed our families in a way that no war before it had. In prior wars our troops came home as heroes or villains. In this war, we are just so happy to have them home. We welcome our troops back to us with very little noise, but their places in our lives have been carved in stone and cemented with our tears.

God Bless America and her troops, wherever they may be. Guide them safely back home.

The news of our nation’s greatest tragedy passed me by in a haze of mixed background noise. I was busy furiously listening for approaching footsteps up the hall. The phones and call buttons going off randomly in the nurses station down the hall. The news quietly playing in the background on the little TV magically suspended from the ceiling. The other visitors stared at the TV in shock and despair, quietly whispering to each other. I paced in front of the door, waiting for the doctor to come and tell me what was happening to my boy.

My youngest son James had fallen ill, suddenly, and badly. The doctors had sent me into the waiting room, there were tests that needed to be run, medications needed to be given. That was hard to do efficiently with a panicking, overbearing mother standing over you demanding to know what is happening to her little boy, even if he wasn’t quite so little anymore. So, I had been sent out here to this overly polite form of purgatory to await the doctor’s diagnosis.

Whatever was happening around me went unnoticed; all I cared about was what was taking the doctors so long. Finally I was granted a reprieve, of sorts. The doctor walked into the waiting room and asked me to come into a smaller more private room. Behind him followed a young woman, apprehension apparent on her face. I calmly followed them, sat when they told me to sit, and struggled to comprehend what I was being told. I got as far as Cancer, and nothing we can do but make him comfortable, when this terrible wailing drowned out everything else. This buzzing wouldn’t leave my ears and a woman somewhere was crying loudly. It took me some time to realize it was me.

Weeks later, as we sat around the foot of my sons’ hospital bed, watching him sleep peacefully. The machines that kept him breathing, sounded loudly, bitterly reminding me that they controlled so much now. But that was all about to change. He had asked to be allowed to go. And we were here to say our good-byes. Of course, all the crying and the apologies and such had been said already. Now he slept a medicated sleep, waiting to slip away peacefully, surrounded by those who loved him the most. We sang his favorite hymn, we prayed that god take and keep his soul. And then the machines were turned off. Slowly, as if he were peacefully dreaming, James slipped away from me. One moment he was there and my son, the next moment he was gone and all that remained was an empty shell and the background noise of the news and other mothers children rushing off to defend their great nation.

I sobbed quietly for a few moments, stroked his hand, soothed his hair, laid a kiss on the forehead I would never touch again. Then I fled the room. Sobbing nearly uncontrollably, I ran for the nearest exit. I needed air, I needed to be alone, I needed to grieve and curse god and let the anger out before it poisoned me and everyone I had left. At that moment, all I knew was the anger. How dare God take my son from me when so many others were living long and happy lives with a great future ahead of them, when all the future my son had was an eternity in the ground.

As I stepped out into the glare of the mid day sun, I saw them. There was a sports car just pulling in, it’s windows adorned with those little flags that were suddenly everywhere. It’s driver was a young man, not much older than my James. His spoke of America’s greatness, his car had bumper stickers that read about our nation’s immortality. I hardly knew what was happening until mid way through my rant. When I came to I was shouting at him, I had him cornered against his car and I could hear the security guards coming up behind me,.

“How dare you? Where was your patriotisms two months ago? If our country hadn’t been attacked would you still be supporting and proud of our nation? Does it take tragedy to show you people greatness? Well, let me tell you, you little spoiled brat! This country has always been great! We have always been proud. There have always been wonderful men and women who lived in this country and it takes several hundred of them to die to make you little shits wake up and notice them. How dare you so smugly wear these t-shirts and carry flags and bumper stickers when you have no actual clue what it is you’re supporting. There are people in this country who are dying every day who have nothing to do with some war or attack on our country. While you drive around in cars bought by daddy’s money and spout rhetoric about our nations greatness, because you saw a tragedy on the news.”

By this time the security guard had me by the arm and was shouting at me, but all I could hear was the rage in my ears and the indignation spewing from my mouth mixed with my tears. I allowed my self to be dragged away from the young man, as I began to sob. I was given time to collect myself before he escorted me back to my family. He asked them not to let me wander alone with my grief.

It was weeks before I could see a Pro-American anything without the rage building within me and the tears spilling from my eyes. To this day, any reminder of that horrible tragedy leaves me with a hole deep inside somewhere. But I now spend a lot of my time putting together care packages for men and women who are over seas. So many of them are James age, and the thought of him being over there by himself, alone and afraid, sometimes wakes me from my sleep. So, I do what I can, I write to them, I send them stuff, and I carry on with my life. My war efforts largely in secret, my own way of mourning the child I lost.

After all, his death was my 9/11, We all have our very own, Don’t we?