you think the whole family could visit? It would be a chance for the twins to see the ocean for the first time."
Mama lifted a huge pot of water for the noodles onto the stove. "Goodness. That would be a big undertaking. You know how busy summer is around here."
THE JOB IN SAVANNAH was the major topic of conversation at the supper table. My role in the decision didn't come out, but I saw Kyle and Bobby give each other a knowing look. It made me wonder what secret dreams they held about the future. A wave of fear washed over me that they might not be seeking God's will. It would crush me if a member of our family became a prodigal.
"I've sought the mind of the Lord about this," I said as a quick lesson to my siblings. "It's not an act of selfish independence or rebellion. Daddy and Mama are going to give me their blessing."
"And I'll be blessed if I can take your spot at the plant," Bobby added with a hopeful glance at Daddy.
"I'll mention it to Mr. Waldrup," Daddy said. "But are you sure you want to work inside on the line? I could try to find a place for you as a catcher."
The catchers went into the chicken houses, grabbed the birds, and crammed them into cages for transport to the processing plant. It was hot, nasty, physical labor.
"Did working on the line bother you?" Bobby asked me.
The days standing in the chill of the plant with razor-sharp scissors in one hand and chicken guts in the other were a numbing blur.
"The language of some of the women is bad," I replied. "But the chickens don't have much to say, and the smell is better than what you'd face as a catcher."
"What do the women say?" Emma asked.
Mama shook her head, and Emma plunged her fork into her spaghetti.
SUNDAY MORNING, OF COURSE, WE WENT TO CHURCH. I PUT MY hair in a tight bun and helped the twins get ready in their long dresses that reached to their ankles. Everyone in our van had assigned seats. I occupied the referee position between Ellie and Emma. It was about three miles to the church. The sanctuary was a large redbrick building with opaque white windows. Families similar to our own streamed into the parking lot. It was the one day during the week when normal looked like us. We took our usual seats about a third of the way from the front on the left side of the sanctuary.
Pastor Vick, a large man with a bald head and a booming voice, spoke with an eloquence that made my advocacy professor at the law school look like an oratorical amateur. This morning, he preached from Ezekiel 47. Daddy read the Bible with tender love; Pastor Vick could make the meekest verse echo with the thunder of Sinai. His text came from Ezekiel's vision of the river flowing from the temple in Jerusalem.
He measured a thousand cubits, and he brought me through the waters; the waters were to the ankles. Again he measured a thousand, and brought me through the waters; the waters were to the knees. Again he measured a thousand,- and brought me through; the waters were to the loins. Afterward he measured a thousand, and it was a river that I could not pass over: for the waters were risen, water to swim in, a river that could not be passed over.
Pastor Vick then described the apostate condition of the Israelites in a way that left no doubt as to the parallel for the present. That part of his sermon was always easy to hear. But then he turned his attention to the people sitting in the pews. Rhetorical questions were his most deadly bullets.
"That was their abominable condition, but what about you? Are you satisfied with dipping your toe into the river of God's glory and pretending you've sold out to Jesus? Is knee-deep water enough for you to play in and call yourself committed to the gospel? Do you believe you're righteous because the water laps around your waist?" Pastor Vick let his eyes scan the entire congregation. "Are any of you willing to cast yourself into the river of God where only Jesus can hold you up? Who will go into deeper water?"
My stomach
Mama lifted a huge pot of water for the noodles onto the stove. "Goodness. That would be a big undertaking. You know how busy summer is around here."
THE JOB IN SAVANNAH was the major topic of conversation at the supper table. My role in the decision didn't come out, but I saw Kyle and Bobby give each other a knowing look. It made me wonder what secret dreams they held about the future. A wave of fear washed over me that they might not be seeking God's will. It would crush me if a member of our family became a prodigal.
"I've sought the mind of the Lord about this," I said as a quick lesson to my siblings. "It's not an act of selfish independence or rebellion. Daddy and Mama are going to give me their blessing."
"And I'll be blessed if I can take your spot at the plant," Bobby added with a hopeful glance at Daddy.
"I'll mention it to Mr. Waldrup," Daddy said. "But are you sure you want to work inside on the line? I could try to find a place for you as a catcher."
The catchers went into the chicken houses, grabbed the birds, and crammed them into cages for transport to the processing plant. It was hot, nasty, physical labor.
"Did working on the line bother you?" Bobby asked me.
The days standing in the chill of the plant with razor-sharp scissors in one hand and chicken guts in the other were a numbing blur.
"The language of some of the women is bad," I replied. "But the chickens don't have much to say, and the smell is better than what you'd face as a catcher."
"What do the women say?" Emma asked.
Mama shook her head, and Emma plunged her fork into her spaghetti.
SUNDAY MORNING, OF COURSE, WE WENT TO CHURCH. I PUT MY hair in a tight bun and helped the twins get ready in their long dresses that reached to their ankles. Everyone in our van had assigned seats. I occupied the referee position between Ellie and Emma. It was about three miles to the church. The sanctuary was a large redbrick building with opaque white windows. Families similar to our own streamed into the parking lot. It was the one day during the week when normal looked like us. We took our usual seats about a third of the way from the front on the left side of the sanctuary.
Pastor Vick, a large man with a bald head and a booming voice, spoke with an eloquence that made my advocacy professor at the law school look like an oratorical amateur. This morning, he preached from Ezekiel 47. Daddy read the Bible with tender love; Pastor Vick could make the meekest verse echo with the thunder of Sinai. His text came from Ezekiel's vision of the river flowing from the temple in Jerusalem.
He measured a thousand cubits, and he brought me through the waters; the waters were to the ankles. Again he measured a thousand, and brought me through the waters; the waters were to the knees. Again he measured a thousand,- and brought me through; the waters were to the loins. Afterward he measured a thousand, and it was a river that I could not pass over: for the waters were risen, water to swim in, a river that could not be passed over.
Pastor Vick then described the apostate condition of the Israelites in a way that left no doubt as to the parallel for the present. That part of his sermon was always easy to hear. But then he turned his attention to the people sitting in the pews. Rhetorical questions were his most deadly bullets.
"That was their abominable condition, but what about you? Are you satisfied with dipping your toe into the river of God's glory and pretending you've sold out to Jesus? Is knee-deep water enough for you to play in and call yourself committed to the gospel? Do you believe you're righteous because the water laps around your waist?" Pastor Vick let his eyes scan the entire congregation. "Are any of you willing to cast yourself into the river of God where only Jesus can hold you up? Who will go into deeper water?"
My stomach
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