God is Sending You This Message

By Burney C. Marsh

1977—Rural Bulloch County, Georgia

“Joe Frank,” Mama says, turning from the rolling heat wave. “Come lift this cornbread out of the oven for me.”

I take kitchen towels from her hands. She steps back, her Sunday high heels catching on the kitchen mat.

I wrap the towels around the handle of the iron pan.

“No,” she says as I start to place it on the stovetop. “Over here on the counter, on this trivet.”

Foundry heat passes from the cast iron through the damp cloth to my palm. My flesh is burning.

“Jesus!” I yell, wobbling, trying not to drop the pan.

“Over here!” she says. “Over here!”

I switch hands, dipping almost to the floor, but the towels slip and my palm clamps onto the naked handle. I holler, lifting the pan to the edge of the counter.

I hop around the kitchen, waving my burning hands. Mama catches my wrists and pulls me to the sink and holds my hands under cold running water. She rubs ice cubes over my palms. I rest my forehead on the edge of the sink.

“Jesus Christ! Hurts like hell.”

“Don’t swear Joe Frank,” she says, rubbing too hard. “Never say the Lord’s name when you’re angry.”

“But Mama,” I say, lifting my head. “I’m not angry. I’m hurting.”

“It’s blasphemous,” she says. A long red nail snags a burn blister. I flinch. “Sorry. It’s blaspheming to use the Lord’s name in any way except in prayer or reverence.”

I watch her perfect white hands holding mine. The modest diamond of her wedding ring catches the sunlight through running water. As if fire has passed from the sun through her hands to mine, I jerk my hands free.

“Mother,” I say. “Those towels you gave me were wet.”

___

I rest my hands, palms upward, on the edge of the family pew. The lotion Mama insisted rubbing on them before church has relit the fire in my flesh.

“Daddy,” I whisper, leaning across Mama’s lap. “Can I drive the truck home, and ya’ll ride back with Granddaddy? I’m hurtin’ real bad.”

“No!” Mama answers. “That lotion will start workin’ in a minute. Just concentrate on the preacher’s message.”

The messenger speaks in the dark, conjuring a vision of horsemen, a trumpeter, cracked open empty graves, twelve pearlescent gates opening for the risen, slamming shut on the infidels, all lit in the dark by a black light.

He calls for light. We blink and squint, watching God’s messenger begin a new drawing with his iridescent chalk that glows in the dark. On a large easel at the altar he creates the deepest, hottest pit of Hell where he says the sodomites will burn for eternity.

I close my eyes on his finished canvas when the church sanctuary goes dark again. I open them when I hear God’s messenger pace the altar.

“God almighty!” he shouts, wiping sweat from his bald red head. “Almighty God has laid this message on my heart. God, I say GAWD, wants you to KNOW Satan walks among us, works through the sodomites, yes brothers and sisters in Christ; God has sent me from Florida to witness, to tell you that Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the DEVIL himself has broke loose in Dade County, working through his spawn, the ho-mo-secshuls, to claim our children for his own. Be not deceived folks, if the sodomites are allowed to teach in our schools, they will recruit our children for Satan’s legions in HELL!”

“Amen,” says our Pastor, taking the messenger’s hand. “Amen and glory be to God. Bring up the lights. We want to thank Brother Sharpe for coming all the way from Florida to bring God’s message. As we sing Victory in Jesus, Mizz Anita Bryant’s banner hymn for this fight, Page 82 in your hymnals, I’ve asked the ushers to distribute envelopes that you’ll return next Sunday. Now, this is in addition to the love offering earlier. I want you to pray and dig deep, pray harder and dig deeper into your pockets to help fight the sodomites, the Devil’s Lieutenants in Dade County. Praise Jesus. Say Hallelujah-Hallelujah AMEN, Victory in Jesus—Page 82—I heard an old, old story, how a savior came from glory . . .”

The old scarecrows that have walked the aisles all my sixteen years with offering plates and unleavened bread and grape juice now bring what might as well be communion hemlock.

The envelope bundle passes through my grandparent’s hands to Dad’s to Mama’s hands. I hold my palms up and shrug, but Mama nods, forcing me to feel the pain of the wide bundle of envelopes. I pass the envelopes on to my Aunt next to me. My family and all around me hold orange and white envelopes. My burned hands are empty.

___

My bed, in the dark, is sanctuary. My palms throbbing, this night I’m sleeping more in a dream of sleep. I’m aware of my black room, and of God’s messenger standing in the corner by my chest of drawers. Now and again he flashes his chalk Hell out over my bed. I smell Mama’s night face and hand cream. I’m pulling my hands under the quilt, away from the envelope bundle in Mama’s hand punching through the dark, out of the dresser mirror.

I reach for the buzzing alarm clock on the nightstand and realize my hands are sore and stiff, but pain free. There beside the clock is an orange and white envelope. My hands throb and burn again.

I am dressed for school, looking down at the envelope. I pick it up and cut it in half. The scissor handle pops a blister. I look down at my palm in relief.

I place the two halves of the envelope on the breakfast table where Mama has her morning coffee.

___

That afternoon, home from school, I place my books on my dresser and see the envelope on my nightstand, taped back together.

I turn on a stove burner and hold the orange and white envelope over the blue flame. The corner ignites and I hold the envelope over the sink. Black ash curls and falls on the white enamel. I let go when the flame nears my fingertips.

I look down at the burned flesh of my hands and know I will scar.