"Great Jehoshaphat and Gully Dirt" is presently out of print. It is reproducedhere in its entirety.
Copies of the first edition of the original work are available by e-mail fromnkemp@busprod.com, or WSmithMD@aol.com.
Copyright © 1975. All rights reserved.
All Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
An usher I'd not seen before carefully wheeled my chair down the center aisleand over to the right so that I would be facing the pulpit. Most Sundaymornings I sat on the opposite side of the church. But this usher didn't knowthat. Oh well, no matter.
The usher was saying something to me, but before I could adjust my hearing aid,I had to push my shawl back and slip a glove. By then, he had quit talking.
He let my chair roll to a stop so close to the chancel rail. I could havereached out and kicked it with my foot—that is, I had been in the mood tokick a chancel railing and if I could have moved either foot.
I was almost in a kicking mood!
No, no! I shouldn't think of such a thing as kicking that brass rail. I shouldbe wishing I could kneel down before it. Somehow, though, my mind wasn't onpraying.
The usher stepped back, then hesitated.
"Will this be all right, Mrs. Goode? Can you hear Dr. Shirey's sermon fromhere? Or would you rather be a little over toward the choir and the organ?"
"This is fine. Thank you kindly." I was surprised the man knew my name.
He smiled and handed me the morning bulletin.
The minute the usher's back was turned, I clicked off my hearing aid so that Iwouldn't have to listen to the pastor's sermon, the organ, or anything else. Ijust wanted—well, I didn't know exactly what I wanted.
The only reason in this round world I kept coming to Central Avenue Church wasthat it was right across the street from Crestview Rest Home, and I had to getout and away from that place once in a while. Crestview wasn't so bad, asnursing homes go. In fact, it was all right. Still, any rest home is a sadcomedown from one's own house—and such a change.
As the congregation filed in, I looked about me. The sanctuary, quiet andbeautiful with its stained-glass windows, its high, arched ceiling, and itsdeep carpets, was the only serene spot I had found since I came to the city.Out on the streets all was rush, confusion, turmoil—enough to drive oneto distraction.
Here, too, I managed to block out for a little while the feeling ofhelplessness I'd had since I became so frail. The doctors kept saying that mygeneral condition was good and my arthritis might improve some. But as yet Icouldn't see much change.
To make myself lift my head and quit looking at my stiff, swollen knees, Iturned toward the nearest window. I liked those green velvet curtains and thematching cushions on the pews. Both were the exact color of an Arkansas pine inearly spring, when it takes on new life and puts forth myriads of tender buds,each a creamy, candle-like shoot, lovely enough to adorn a sacred altar.
I gazed at the candles on the altar and at the open Bible, crisscrossed withits narrow scarlet ribbons. The sight of that Bible was always a pleasure. Itbrought back memories my old church down at Drake Eye Springs—small,standing so calm in its grove of aged white oaks.
That little church had everything a big church has—except a steeple. Butthe colored folks up at Sweet Beulah Hill had a steeple. They had built a tallbelfry and spire for church, and Sweet Beulah's bell could be heard for miles.
But it wasn't green curtains or candles or the memory of old country ch