The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect the…uh, innocent.
Many years ago, Dad was pastoring a Baptist church in Kentucky…I was about 13 or 14. In other words, Faith Baptist in Quincy. There were two elderly gentlemen in our little church…we’ll call them Brother Smith and Brother Jones.
One day, I was sitting outside and looking at the creek (see my blog “They Tore It Down”) when Brother Smith pulled up to our house in his battleship of a car and rolled down the window.
“Boy,” he bellowed in his gravelly voice. “Boy, c’mere an’ talk to me fer a minute!”
Is there a male human being alive who likes being called “boy”?
I walked over to the car to see what Brother Smith wanted.
“Boy, I need somebody to cut my grass. I got the mower and the gas, just can’t do’er like I useta.”
“I’d be glad to help you, Brother…” I said, thinking that this would be one of those things that the lowly preacher’s kid would have to do to keep the tithers happy. Plus, I didn’t want the old timer hurting himself.
“Five dollars! All I can afford! Does that suit ya?”
Five dollars? Here I was expecting nothing and it turns out that I was going to have a regular source of comic book and baseball card money!
“Well, Brother Smith, I wasn’t expecting you to pay…”
“Boy, the Bible says not to muzzle the ass! ‘Course I’ll pay ya! Have your daddy to bring you by on Saturday!”
Having called me a “boy” and a donkey as well as not allowing me to finish a sentence, Brother Smith drove off in a cloud of dust and gas fumes.
The job wasn’t bad. The yard wasn’t very big at all and there weren’t a lot of rocks or trees. Dad would drop me off, go visit somebody for church, and tell me that he would be there waiting for me when I got finished. But most times, he wouldn’t get back right on time. I always hated those times…..
“Boy!” Brother Smith would yell at me, “c’mere, I got a question fer ya!”
So, I’d climb onto the front porch of the Smith house and take a seat beside Brother Smith. The question was ALWAYS the same.
“Boy,” Brother Smith would say in that gruff voice of his, “I pay my tithes ever week. What I wanna know is this: Old Man Jones, does he pay his tithes?”
Now, I had no idea who tithed and didn’t. I put in my 50 cents and that’s all I knew. I’d tell Brother Smith that, but he wasn’t convinced and he certainly wasn’t satisfied.
“One of these days, I’m gonna find out!” he’d say every time. “I don’t think it’s right if’n I’m a payin’ my tithes and he ain’t!”
I really was uncomfortable with this. I’d mow as slowly as possible, trying to finish right as Dad got there. It almost never happened, though.
One Saturday, I finished cutting and, sure enough, Dad wasn’t there. And ol’ Brother Smith was on the porch, waiting…
“Boy!” he yelled. “C’mere!”
So, I climbed on the porch and took my seat. I waited for the question….but the old man was silent. He looked over the newly mowed lawn and seemed to be in deep thought. Then he grabbed my wrist and put my hand on his abdomen. I could feel hard knots under his skin. Involuntarily, I pulled away in horror.
“That’s cancer you’re feelin’, boy! I’m eat up with it!”
Suddenly, I missed being asked about Brother Jones’ tithing record!
Brother Smith never asked me about what Brother Jones was putting in the plate after that. Brother Smith and Brother Jones are long gone. They passed away many years ago. I guess Brother Smith died with his question unanswered.
The other night, I dreamed I went to Heaven. As I entered the gates of that city, I heard a familiar voice:
“BOY! C’MERE!”
There stood Brother Smith and Brother Jones, robed in white and looking years younger than I ever saw them on earth.
“Boy,” Brother Smith yelled, “it turns out that this old man here was payin’ his tithes all along, just like I was!”
Glad to hear it, brother.