The Big Star

What do we know and understand about ourselves? Is everything just a big show? Are we drawn to the bigger, brighter things? Hank and his mother-in-law spend an evening together that he won't forget.

When he had gotten home from work, he found his wife lying atop the covers of their bed, lights out, and a wet cloth across her forehead. It was a migraine again. Her boss was a real b*****d and she’d been coming home from work this way, more and more often. She would take a pill and lay in the dark for a couple of hours until she felt better. Hank knew to leave her alone.

 

“Is there anything I can get you?”, he asked softly.

 

“Mama. Can you take Mama to the revival tonight? I promised I’d take her.”

 

“Sure.”

 

It was not the way that he had intended on spending the evening, but he remembered the words of the Preacher, “…for better or worse, in sickness and in health”, and his answer had been, “Yes”. “I’ll get her there.”

He had heated up a can of pork and beans and eaten a ham sandwich before he called his mother-in-law, letting her know he was headed her way. She had responded, “Make sure you wear a tie.”

 

#

 

His mother-in-law lived in a blue-collar section of town. Her house was a small, square-shaped, frame house that sat atop an open foundation of concrete blocks. Her dog of many years would wander out from under the shade of the house whenever someone came into her drive. Often, as a hound does, he would bark once or twice for good measure.

When Hank pulled into his mother-in-law’s drive, the front door swung open quickly and she was out on the stoop and down the two concrete steps before the dog could get himself from under the house. She was a short, boxy-shaped woman, whose arms swung at her sides when she walked. Her Bible in one hand and her purse in the other, both swinging back and forth as she headed toward the car. That evening, she wore a bright floral dress that had small orange and pink, and yellow flowers all over. A nausea of flowers and color that had been vomited onto a black fabric.

 As she walked down the short sidewalk from her doorway to the car, Hank noticed that her long hair that usually hung freely to her waist had been swooped up and reigned into a more manageable and attractive, just below shoulder-length hairstyle. As she grabbed the door handle and swung herself into the car, Hank said, “How are you doing tonight, Miz Irma?”

 

She had looked Hank over before speaking. “You forgot your tie.”

 

“Damned, if I didn’t”, he had replied.

 

“Hank, we are going to a revival.” she had stated with great irritation. “You best watch your language, and I told you to wear a tie.”

 

Hank had intentionally used profanity, knowing that he would get a rise out of his mother-in-law. He had also intentionally not worn a tie. The windows were down in Hank’s car to circulate the warm summer air. His arm propped up on the window frame. Miz Irma immediately began turning the handle that raised the glass in her door.

 

“Why are you riding around with the windows down? Don’t you have air conditioning?”

 

Hank began to raise the window, while his other hand reached over and turned on the air. He looked at his mother-in-law and grinned,

 

“You afraid of messin’ up that new hairdo?”

 

He had not gotten a reply as the air conditioner began to blow.

 

As they backed from the drive and onto the street, the old dog stood in the yard and watched as they pulled away.  Miz Irma sat contently in the passenger seat, her hands covering the Bible that sat in her lap. Her gaze was straight ahead. 

They bumped over the railroad tracks and onto Main Street, through the middle of town. The Big Star Grocery that had operated for decades stood empty; its windows boarded as weeds grew through the cracks in the parking lot. The Big Star had been a business that had served the community well. A small, old-style grocery whose selection and prices reflected the small market that it served.

And then a Walmart had been built over the county line, some twenty miles away. Its presence had caused the demise of the only grocery in town. Now the forty-mile round trip was necessary for milk and bread. Newer. Bigger. Brighter.

It was the same all the way down Main Street. There were as many empty storefronts as there were operating businesses, maybe more. Many of the survivors were on life support. Stores that had been around for generations found their profit margin getting slimmer and slimmer. Children that would have taken over the family business and carried it forth, had moved away.

 

#

As they neared the edge of town, the small, white-planked, Pentecostal church came into view. Its short steeple rose from the slightly sloped, rectangle-shaped roof. It stood in contrast to the First Baptist Church which Hank and his family attended, a tall, red brick building with large columns that sat in the middle of town. Its steep-pitched roof was topped off with a tall cross-laden steeple. Bigger and brighter.

 

“Holy Rollers”, Hank’s father had called them. And Hank’s mother-in-law fit the description. When the church door opened, Miz Irma was there, there in body and spirit, hands in the air, her head shaking from side to side, often chanting some unknown tongue. A bonafide Holy Roller. It made Hank nervous to attend a church service with her. He never knew what to expect. Where the spirit might lead her.

The parking lot was about half full when they arrived, but they were early. Irma had made sure of that. It had been advertised as an “Old Fashioned Revival Meeting” and that put a sense of dread into Hank. But he would give it a chance. Time would pass and in a matter of hours, he would be at home, asleep in his bed.

Irma scurried to the front of the church to speak to two of her friends. Women in their late fifties or early sixties, one was tall and thin, the other shorter with a stocky build. Both with long hair that hung down their backs to their waists. Both wore skirts that hit near their calves. They were attractive enough women, but they just had that look. An often-unfashionable look that separated them from the Baptists and Methodists and Presbyterians. A look that branded them as Pentecostals.

A couple of men, both wearing ties, walked toward Hank. He shook hands with both as one of them said, “Brother Hank, it’s sure good to see ya’.”

 

“Had to bring Miz Irma. I’m her ride”, he replied.

 

“Sister Irma is such a blessing to this church. I’m sure she’s a blessing to you, too.”

 

“Oh, yeah… She is, she certainly is.”

At that moment in time, Hank thought that he was probably more of a blessing to Irma and not the other way around, but he kept that thought to himself. As the two men wandered away, Hank watched Irma as she jabbered with her friends. She seemed happy. She seemed at home.

 

#

 

The service had been noisy. Very noisy by Baptist standards. Voices shouted out from the crowd; music played in intervals as the sermon was preached. A fiery message that was often shouted from the pulpit. A preaching that was full of threats of damnation but also an invitation of hope. Hope through the salvation provided by Jesus. Turn or burn had been the theme.

Throughout the sermon, people were up and down from the pews where they sat, their arms in the air, as their heads swayed back and forth. Some wandered around the aisles, while others hopped and turned in circles. Irma had not been as vocal or dramatic as some. For that, Hank had been grateful. But she stood for much of the sermon, her arms in the air as they swayed back and forth as if wind was blowing the limbs of a tree. He didn’t know what propelled her from the pew and onto her feet, but something did. Something that Hank did not sense or feel. But Hank was a guest, and this was not his style of worship, so maybe there was something that he didn’t know or understand.

When they sang, he stood beside her, hymn book in hand. Songs that he had heard in the Baptist church. But Irma’s church seemed to put a little more life into the music. Irma by his side, her hands clapping, her body rocking back and forth. Instead of being a somewhat willing participant that held a hymn book, the music had become and was a part of her.

“Holy Rollers”, his father had said.

And here Hank sat, in an old-fashioned Holy Roller revival. If only his dad could see Hank now, he would laugh until tears streamed down his face. “Why the hell’d you do that?”, he would ask.

“For better or worse, in sickness and in health”, he thought.

#

 

As all the noise and commotion happened around him, Hank remembered the revivals that he had attended as a kid. Baptist revivals. Not old-fashioned Pentecostal revivals. It had been an every two-to-three-year ritual. Weeklong revivals, where parents would drag themselves and their children to church every night of the week. The big climax being on that upcoming Sunday.

He thought back on an unremembered pastor who had been the evangelist for his church’s revival. A pastor who along with his own pastor came to visit his home, one afternoon in the middle of the week. The pastors had sat on each side of him on the sofa. He had felt terribly intimidated. Grown men, needing him. It was his responsibility not to fail them.

The evangelist had his large, well-worn, Bible and he turned to John 3:16 and he had Hank read it aloud.

 

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in him shall not perish but have everlasting life.”

 

Then the evangelist had put his stubby finger onto the page and had turned to Hank and said, “Let’s read it again.”

 

This time, the evangelist read, and the man’s deep voice recited a more personalized version.

 

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that if Hank believes in him, he shall not perish but have everlasting life.”

 

Both pastors asked if Hank believed in Jesus. He had shaken his head and said, “Yes-sir”. And then, they gave him instructions on how to join the church and become a follower of Jesus. In the days that followed, Hank had worried that if he were to die or be killed before Sunday, he would never make it to the end of the sentence in John 3:16. That he would perish, go to Hell, and all because he had been unable to make a “public profession of faith” as the pastors had called it. He remembered his relief on waking up that Sunday morning. Knowing that all would be well if only he could make it to church and walk down that aisle.

 

#

 

As the sermon began to wind down, the Preacher stepped from the small stage and onto the floor. As his shiny loafers touched the carpet, four men, two on each side of the church, rose and took a few steps toward the preacher. With microphone in one hand, his other hand raised, he called out for the congregation to come forward. This was the part of the service that Hank hated the most. They didn’t do things this way at the Baptist church, and it made him very uncomfortable.

A small semi-circle of people had drifted down the aisles and the Preacher continued to speak. He paced back and forth in front of the stage as he brought home his message. With the microphone in hand, he told of God’s forgiveness to those who confess and repent.

Irma grabbed Hank by his shirt sleeve as she started toward the front. Hank tugged back and Irma turned and faced him. A serious look on her face. “God wants you down front”, she said with determination.

Hank relented. Slowly, he went down the aisle toward the front, following a step behind Miz Irma. When she made her way to the circle of friends, she raised her hands and laid her head back as if her neck had gone limp. She began to rock back and forth from side to side, shifting her weight from one foot to the next. Hank did not understand the words that came from her mouth. Things had gotten very odd and very quickly for Hank.

He was surrounded by a small group of people, all caught up in the spirit. And there he stood, solid as a stone, unfeeling, not understanding what was going on.

The Preacher would randomly pick a person from the group and put his hand on their shoulders, sometimes his forehead against theirs, as he spoke to them. Some were sobbing as he talked with them. The Preacher would raise his right hand upward and bring it down softly onto their forehead. The men that had walked forward when the Preacher stepped from the stage would catch them as they fell backward or collapsed and ease them to the carpeted floor. And when one would fall, the Preacher would speak into the microphone and say, “Praise Jee-sus! Alleluia!!”

It was quite the show and there Hank stood among a group of spirit-filled people, some standing and observing, some with eyes closed and arms in the air, others laid out on the floor, jabbering something that he could not understand. As he watched the spiritual chaos around him, Hank remembered back to a friend of his that had studied to be a pastor.

The friend told of when he was in seminary and he and his other soon-to-be pastor friends had gone to a Pentecostal church. When they got there, they stood with their eyes closed, one hand in the air. They would act as if they were speaking in tongues, saying things like “Went-and-bought-a-Mazda…, Should’a-bought-a-Honda”, saying the phrases quicker and quicker and over and over. Hank had laughed when he was told the story, but at this moment, it didn’t seem so funny.

The Preacher walked up to Hank and placed his hands on Hank’s shoulders. The Preacher looked into Hank's eyes and said, “Miz Irma tells me your wife is ill. That you have heavy burdens.”

Hank looked perplexed at the Preacher. Any sense of humor that might have existed was gone.

The Preacher's hand rose, and he said, “May God give you strength”, and his hand lowered, and the palm of his hand touched Hank’s forehead. “Alleluia!! Alleluia!!”

Hank stared at the Preacher. A confused and cold stare. The Preacher removed his hand and raised it back into the air as if he had to re-c**k his arm. He lowered his arm and again the palm of his hand touched Hank’s forehead. And then the Preacher said, “Alleluia!! Alleluia!!”, and as he did, he gave Hank a bit of a push.

Hank reached up and grabbed the Preacher's wrist and looked him in the eye. He said in a low, firm voice, “Don’t push me.”

The music played as there was silence between the two men. A moment of understanding and then Hank released his grip. A few of the observers had seen the exchange but most were wrapped up in the spirit. The Preacher moved to Irma and when his palm touched Irma’s forehead, she collapsed at the knees, caught by the two men who eased her to the floor.

Hank looked around himself. What was he missing? What did he not have or not understand? Was it all a show? He didn’t know. He didn’t think he’d ever know. Within the veneer-paneled walls of the Pentecostal sanctuary, Hank lowered to his knees and bowed his head. 

Author's Note

This story is not meant to be offensive toward any religious denomination.