The Preacher Comes to Town

The Preacher Comes To Town

By Bob Liddil

One of the favorite evening rituals my grandparents enjoyed when I was growing up was that of sitting and rocking. My grandfather, would arrival home from his job in the late afternoon and retire to our front screen front porch, where he would chew tobacco, rock, and listen to details of whatever devilment I'd gotten into over the course of the day. My grandmother would shuck green beans, rock and paint a grim picture of this or that mischief, all the while noting that I would surely be the death of her, with my hell raising ways.

As for me, I would sit on the floor, just inside the screen door, within earshot, but unobtrusively out of sight. I would listen, often gleaning a preview of a future punishment for some misdeed or another.

My Grandfather didn't ask much. He wanted simply for me to be a good boy, mind my manners and destroy the smallest number of things possible during the course of a day. To me, knowing as I did, every back alley, climbing tree, discarded bathtub, unlocked basement door, makeshift fort and rowdy kid in the neighborhood, that was actually a pretty tall order.

One exasperating week, shortly before my tenth birthday, my grandmother decided that I must be possessed of a demon. She reached this conclusion after having been informed by a neighbor that I had "broken her son's back." The report referred to a bruised collarbone on a schoolyard ruffian, who had jumped me from behind, only to be flipped and subsequently body slammed into a pile of anthracite coal. All parties were sorely vexed.

That night, my grandfather silently rocked and chewed to a passionate presentation concerning the shortcomings of his obviously demon possessed grandson. Grandmother was adamant. Something would have to be done. Some serious prayer on this subject was called for. Inside the house she went without another word, allowing the screen door to slam for emphasis.

My eyes were welling up with tears as I climbed into the abandoned rocker. "It wasn't my fault," I began, intending to explain, but he waved me quiet. He spit a glob of tobacco juice into the Maxwell house can he kept for that purpose. I saw softness in his eyes at that moment and I knew he understood. Together, we sat, listening to the syncopated time of the crickets chirping. I fell asleep counting fireflies.

Those days before television and rock concerts lent powerful celebrity to traveling tent preachers. Their ministries popped up for a very short time, then vanished leaving only flattened grass behind. My Grandmother was elated to hear that the famous Reverend Jacob Jones Jr. had announced on the radio that he was coming to our neighborhood.

We lived in an area of our city called "Milltown," which owed its life to a giant cotton mill towering, five or six stories into the air just to the other side of the Seaboard Coast Line railroad tracks. Beside Pacific Mills plant # 3, outside the fence, was a huge park, nothing but grass and some swings. What better place for the Lord's servant to bring a revival, and on a Thursday evening, as well?

My grandmother, unable to move past the idea that I was demon possessed, upon hearing that the revival would be less than a block away from our house, decided that this must be a sign from God. Surely, her prayers had been answered. On the appointed day, I was trapped, scrubbed, groomed, fitted with Sunday clothes and led by the hand down Whaley Street, across the tracks to where the tent had been erected for the gathering of the flock. To be fair, most of my friends were in roughly in the same fix. The Revival promised to be a well-attended event.

My grandfather, tagged along, dutifully, despite his being a Methodist, as a show of support for me, as he knew from experience not to oppose my Pentecostal grandmother on matters of the spirit.

The Reverend Jacob performed many miracles that night. Elderly Mrs. McElveen stood up out of her wheelchair and took more than twenty steps after being laid hands upon. Our neighbor Mr. Olson swore off the bottle and cried like a baby after he was blessed. Many, many sins were confessed.

When the final call came, my grandmother stood me up and marched me down to the altar. When asked after my affliction, She declared, loud enough for all to hear, "This child has been possessed by a demon." A collective gasp from the congregation brought the tent to silence.

The Preacher was a serious man, with a stern look on his face. He placed a very large right hand over my forehead, his fingers spread, leaving room for me to peek through. "This child has a very bad temper," the Preacher said loudly, " and he is possessed by the demon of bad behavior. He is a good child in his heart, though."

I felt his grip tighten and his whole body went rigid before me. He shouted, "I command you, demon, to be gone from this child and to never return!" Then, he gave me a shove.

While all this was going on, outside the tent, warm moist and cold dry air had gone to war. A hard wind came up suddenly, and the rain let go, tattooing the canvas with huge drops. At the exact instant Reverend Jacob shoved my head, a hundred year bolt of lightning struck the highest gable on the mill in three flashes, which lit up the tent in incandescent translucence. Instantly afterward came a peal of thunder that shook the very earth itself.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

My grandmother didn't have much cause to complain about me after that. I joined the Methodist Church and became the perfect boy, at least for a while.

Some miracles work.