Good Heavens (26 page)

“Miss E., in five years I've been clean three times. Being clean never lasted more than the week or two I spent in jail. Never lasted any longer than it took me to hit the streets again. For five years I was either stoned, getting stoned, or getting over being stoned . . .”

“Well, you're clean now. How long have you been at Priscilla Home?”

“Six weeks.”

“So you've been clean six weeks?”

“Well, yes, I have. But it hasn't been easy. When I first came, it was awful hard—you can't understand what that craving is like unless you've been there. The worst is behind me, but once I leave here. . . . This is the longest I've ever been clean.”

“How do you account for that?”

“Well, I guess it's being in this Christian environment. Besides, I know I'd get kicked out if I relapsed.”

“Has the fear of being kicked out ever stopped you before?”

She laughed. “No. I've been kicked out of a couple of rehabs.”

“You don't think the Lord has something to do with you staying straight for six weeks?”

“Oh, I know my parents have been praying for me.”

“Well, Angela, if you have crossed the line like you think, why are you bothered about it?”

“Why? Miss E., anybody who thinks they have gone too far would be upset same as me.”

“Maybe, but chances are they wouldn't be.”

“What do you mean? Why wouldn't they be upset?”

“Well, in my opinion, the reason you're upset is because the Holy Spirit is working on you.”

“You think so?”

I didn't have to answer that, but I was pretty sure.

“Well, you might be right,” she admitted. “I feel real bad about the way I've been living. I know I hurt my mom and dad, but like I say, unless you've been there you can't know what it's like. Everybody who works in a place like this ought to have been strung out on drugs for a few years so they'd know what it's like.”

“You think so? In other words, say you want to work with prostitutes; does that mean you have to
be
a prostitute before you can help them?”

“Well, no, I guess not.”

“Oh, Angela, I believe drugs is more than anybody can handle by their self, but Jesus can give you the victory.”

“I wish he would just take away this craving.”

“It don't always work out that way, Angela. But if he don't take away the craving, he'll give you the grace to overcome it.”

“Miss E., I wish I could believe that.”

“Well, I don't know what more to tell you, except it ain't enough just being sorry for your sins, you have got to repent. Instead of turning your back on the Lord like you been doing, you have got to turn your back on the devil.”

“I've heard all this before, Miss E.”

“I reckon you have, but right now you are making a choice. Either you're going to trust Jesus—believe that what he did on the cross will save you from your sins—or you can be stubborn as a mule and keep right on going the way you been going.”

She didn't say anything, so I quoted some Splurgeon to her: “Choose your love, Angela, then love your choice.”

In a little while, she got up and said she was going to bed.

“Well, good night, Angela.”

She came over to the couch, gave me a peck on the cheek, and said, “Thanks.”

Disappointed that there was nothing more accom
plished, I sat there wondering if I should have asked her to pray with me or something. I remembered the night Maria died and Dr. Elsie asking Lucy, “Did you draw in the net?” Lucy had drawn in the net. Maria had received Christ. But Angela?

My heart was as heavy as lead.
Lord, please, please, I've done all I know to do. Help Angela . . . help Portia. Set them free, Lord
.

I felt like my prayers were bouncing off the ceiling. Maybe it wasn't right to be lying on the couch praying, so I put a cushion on the floor and got down on my knees.

But I couldn't pray; I was so choked up all I could do was groan. Crowding in on me was Dora, Portia, Angela, Evelyn starving herself; Lenora living in a shell, Emily who couldn't read; they were all too much for me. Martha might have the victory, but only time would tell. And what about Linda?
Linda. Lord, I don't know if you sent her here or if the devil sent her. What do you expect me to do? No, I can't say that I love her. I know I ought to, but Lord . . . ?

Like I said, all this was too much for me, and I wasn't getting anywhere praying. Kneeling like that, my legs were falling asleep, so I got up and lay back on the couch.

Daylight was coming on before I faced up to what was wrong. A body can't pray when there's something between the soul and the Savior. It wasn't just Linda.
It's Ursula, ain't it, Lord? I have got to do better by
Ursula, don't I? Lord, it's so hard . . . so hard to take that woman
.

Dr. Elsie had said I could help Ursula. How could I help her when I not only didn't like her, I had such bad feelings toward her I could spit in her eye!

A long time ago, Pastor Osborne had told me the best way to handle burdens is to focus on Jesus. I had tried that before and it worked, so that's what I did. I called to mind many of the things that Jesus said, like, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden.” One thing right after the other came to mind. “My sheep hear my voice and I know them,” “I will never leave you nor forsake you,” “My peace I leave with you,” “Ask . . . that your joy may be full,” “I will come again and receive you unto myself.”

I don't really know how long those bits and pieces kept coming to mind, but although they made me love Jesus, they didn't change the way I was feeling about Ursula and Linda. I tell you, I was ready to throw in the towel!

And then, believe it or not, a tidbit came out of the blue and slipped in my mind clean as a whistle. “My grace is sufficient for thee.”

I don't mind telling you, I busted out crying! I just let them tears roll. Even after the wake-up bell rang I didn't stop. Grace, grace, marvelous grace. That's what I needed—grace. I didn't get up from that couch until I heard the toilets flushing up on the third floor. I blew my nose, dried my eyes, and went on up to my room.

I made up my bed and then took care of things in the
bathroom. I was dog tired but felt at peace. Since Mr. Ringstaff was coming to work on the piano, I put on my prettiest top with my best slacks. I was thinking about Ursula and Linda, trying to figure out some way to make the most of the situation. They both liked my fried apple pies. I decided I had time to make some, so I tied on an apron and went in the kitchen.

While I was rolling out the dough, I was humming that old hymn, “Nothing between My Soul and the Savior.” I didn't have much confidence that fried apple pies would do much to improve the situation, but at least I was making a step in the right direction.

17

After breakfast Ursula said to me, “Are you going to tell Dora to pack her bags?”

That surprised me. I thought Ursula had given up on sending Dora home.

“Ursula, what Dora did is not like stealing or drinking. It's not a federal offence. In my book going off to be by herself don't even deserve a strike.”

“Obstinacy does not become you, Esmeralda.”

I followed her into the office. She was looking for her keys.

One thing I knew for sure, Ursula didn't want the job of telling Dora to pack her bags. Dora has a way of making the high and mighty feel low and foolish.

The only way you can win with a person like Ursula is to finagle. She was the kind who can't lose face, so I gave her a way out. “Ursula, don't you see there's been a breakthrough with Dora like you were hoping for? You uncovered a deep and festering wound buried inside of her. Don't you think she needs to stay on here to give us
the time we need to show her how Jesus can heal that wound?”

I honestly thought she was struck by what I said, so I added, “Splurgeon said, ‘Uncover your wounds to him, who so tenderly binds them up.'”

“Oh. So it's your
Splurgeon
again.” She went back to searching for the keys. “I'm in a hurry—can't you see I'm in a hurry? I've got to get to the bank.”

I followed her running down the steps. The girls sitting on the stoop getting their nicotine fix parted for us to pass. In the garage I opened the car door for her. “Ursula, about Dora—if we're going to have a garden, I need her help.”

She turned the key in the ignition. “Oh, all right, Esmeralda. But I warn you, if anything like this happens again, Dora will be dismissed!”

As if she needed my two cents' worth, I told her she was doing the right thing. “And Ursula, about Portia—”

“I don't want to hear another word about that. Portia is cognizant of the fact that she now has two strikes against her and that's that!” She backed the car out, turned it around, and gunned it toward the road.

Ursula had hardly driven out the driveway when Ringstaff arrived. He pulled in behind the van, and I didn't want to look anxious so I went and studied the garden for a few minutes, then took my time moseying down where he was at. He had got out the car and was putting on a gray lab coat over his clothes. When he saw me coming he smiled. “Good morning, Esmeralda. What a beautiful morning!”

“It is, isn't it,” I said. “You fixing to work on our piano, Mr. Ringstaff?”

“My name is Albert,” he said with that twinkle in his eye, and lifted the hatchback of the station wagon. “I brought my tools.”

I saw he could use some help getting that six-foot-long toolbox into the house and upstairs to the parlor, so I beckoned to the girls, and several of them snuffed out their cigarettes and came over to help.

We saw Ringstaff settled in the parlor before we went downstairs for Prayer and Praise. There was a full day ahead of us planting the garden, and I didn't want our session to run overtime. We wasted no time getting underway, and things were going well. Angela led us in a few choruses, and everybody seemed to be taking part. Even Emily quoted us a verse from memory. No doubt Portia had helped her memorize it, and I was pleased that their partnership was already working out so good.

Then Linda, yes, Linda, that fly in the ointment, came up with another big question. Twisting that disgusting baseball cap around on her head, she said to me, “Miss E., you Christians say that Jesus had to die for our sins. Why? If God is so good and loving like you say he is, why can't he just forgive sins? Besides, how come a good God let his so-called Son be crucified?”

At first I felt like I could answer that. After all, the Bible says, “Without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sins.”

But that didn't satisfy Linda. “Well, why? What has blood got to do with it?”

That unnerved me, because it wasn't easy explaining about all the animal sacrifices in the Old Testament and how they figured in this thing. I tried, but when I was finished, she said, “I don't get it.”