box in the corner
by James Moody
“No sir, we don’t believe in that kind of stuff ‘round here. Most people I know don’t. That’s just a few nuts givin’ the rest of us a bad name. You’ll find that most people in the hills here don’t believe in handlin’ snakes in church. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I saw it! I’d prob’ly high-tale it outta here!”
The corpulent preacher who rattled off these words wiped the sweat from his brow as he chuckled at his own humor. The mid-summer sun glared down like a police examiner’s light as they stood outside the church building.
“So you don’t know any snake handlers yourself, Reverend Whitegraves?”
“Oh Lord no. That’s just the kind of stuff you see on TV, ain’t it? I never seen something like that in real life. Lord have mercy, I don’t even like snakes. Can’t stand the slimy things, really. Why I once come up on a black snake in my vegetable garden at home and nearly jumped outta my wits! No sir, those things give me the creeps! Now why don’t we go in the church, Mr. Finsbury, before the evenin’ service. This hot sun is just too much for me. I got a little more luggage to carry around than most people do.” Preacher Whitegraves put both hands on his belly and chuckled again. His interviewer agreed.
The sign on the outside of the church read: “Assembly of the God-Ordained-Holy-Bloodwashed-Righteous-Children-of-the-Most High: an Un-denominational Church. Reverend T.C. Whitegraves, Pastor.”
George P. Finsbury, the questioner, had arrived in America from London just a couple of days earlier. He wrote a column for The London Gazette called “Finny’s Skinny” in which he entertained his readers with stories of the unusual and uncommon aspects of American life. He was in the States searching the backroads for fresh sources of water to keep his revenue stream flowing. Airy Meadows, North Carolina, served as his first stop in the “fact-finding” mission of his trip. He had flown into the state’s Piedmont airport and had driven up to this small mountain town for the day.
It was Sunday afternoon. He had walked around town that day talking to people in the shops to get a feel for this pleasant Appalachian community. It almost reminded him of one of those fairy tale pictures—Main Street with its post office, barbershop, drugstore (with the old-time soda fountain counter), and the required war memorial. The tatoo parlor did seem slightly out of place, though, in this idyllic community. The church where he would be observing the religious life of the community sat about one mile from the centre of things.
“So, what exactly does your church believe, Reverend Whitegraves?” They both sat down on a back pew in the sanctuary. “Do you folks agree with this practice of snake handling?”
“No sir, not at all. I know the Bible talks about takin’ up serpents and all, but that’s just a kinda unusual thing there in the scriptures. That ain’t by no means a regular practice that Christians are s’pose to be doin’. It’s kinda symbolical, I believe. I mean, the Bible also says you ain’t suppose to tempt the Almighty, now don’t it! I don’t think I’d like to test that theory ‘bout not bein’ harmed by snakes.”
“Then what do you and your congregation hold as your basic doctrines,” Finsbury asked.
“Oh, ‘bout the same as most other churches, I guess. We’re pretty much mainstream here as far as it goes.”
“Could you give me an example of what that might be?”
“Well, of course we believe in helpin’ people. You know, that’s why we’re here. Just like the Good Book says, we teach people how to help themselves. That’s who God helps—you know, those who help themselves.”
(Mr. Finsbury recalled from his religious training in secondary school that the “Good Book,” as the Reverend had called it, said no such thing. He wasn’t about to interrupt such an entertaining display of ignorance, though.)
“And we also believe that people should do unto others just like what they want done to them. It’s called the Golden Rule ‘round here.”
“Yes, I have heard of it before,” Finsbury offered. “And how exactly do the people in your congregation show this kind of attitude in their everyday lives?”
Ignoring this request for clarification, or perhaps not having heard it at all, Preacher Whitegraves continued: “Well, I preach to ‘em every Sunday, and I says, ‘Beloved, Jesus says we got to go into the highways and the interstates and pull ‘em away from the depths of hell.’ I says to them, ‘We got to save ‘em while we can. You and me are called to love these people into the Kingdom.’”
At the same moment that the Reverend stressed the word “love” with his deep, preacherly voice, the front door of the church opened. A poorly dressed, but clean-shaven man walked in the door. His jeans were faded and well-used, and his sneakers had seen better days while fulfilling their role in the task of human transportation. Preacher Whitegraves immediately stood up from the pew and excused himself.
“I’ll be right back, Mr. Finsbury. I just need to speak a word at Joseph for one minute. You just have a look around if you like.”
The columnist decided to do that. He strolled up to the front of the hall and noticed nothing in particular. It was an ordinary looking sanctuary. There was nothing ornamental about the inner sanctum. He sneaked a look behind the pulpit for any unusual items that might be used during the services. Alas, he found none. The only thing sitting to one side under the holy desk was a large, common-looking box. After meandering around the building for a couple more minutes, Finsbury made his way down the hall toward the pastor’s office. He heard the voice of Preacher Whitegraves behind its closed door.
“I tell you, we just can’t have this, Joe! I told you last week that reporter fella’ was comin’ here to talk to me today, and I needed this place to look good! You should’ve had this place spotless by last night.”
The reporter could just imagine seeing those beads of perspiration on the Reverend’s brow again.
“But Preacher, I just couldn’t get here until now. I was coming yesterday morning, but my old truck broke down on me again and I couldn’t get it fixed until just a hour ago. I’ve been meanin’ to get here as soon as I can.”
“And that’s another thing, Joe. If you’re going to work at this church, I expect you to be at the services on Sunday mornings. There’s no excuse for it now. I know things are tight with you and Mary and your new baby, but you’ll have to pull yourself up by the bootstraps like the rest of us.” Joe’s hole-infested sneakers with their tattered shoestrings shifted uneasily as he listened to the Reverend. The Preacher continued with his diatribe: “I just can’t have people gettin’ a bad impression of me and this church, Joe, just because you forgot to come clean the place up.”
“I’ll get here on time next week, Preacher, I promise you.”
“You better, Joe, or I’m gonna have to find somebody who can do the job right.”
“Yes sir.”
“Now, I got to go back to an important interview. You get on with your cleanin’ and try to stay out of sight.”
“Yes sir. I’ll get right to it. Could I first ask you just one more thing, Preacher?” Joe urgently pleaded. “You remember you said something in your sermon last week about helpin’ out with food and stuff for people who might just need a little extra?”
“I don’t have time for that now, Joe. I told you I’ve got an important person waiting on me.”
“Yes sir, it’s just that my new baby Josh is havin’ an awful hard time with...”
“Later, Joseph. I’ve got to go and you’ve got to clean. Now, let’s get to it.”
The Preacher opened his office door and ushered Joseph into the hallway. Mr. Finsbury had moved back to his seat on the pew. Whitegraves walked back to the pew and plopped down next to the reporter.
“Now, where were we?” the over-sized minister said. “Oh yes...”
The Preacher had come near the end of his sermon. He was summing up his message: “Jesus says to ‘Love those who hurt you, brothers and sisters; to pray for them who persevere you.’ Let us all do so this week as we go into the world and take a light of righteousness wherever we go.”
After a short, obligatory closing prayer, the Preacher walked decidedly to the back of the hall, looking around at his congregation as he did so. The people sitting in the pews roused themselves and chattered to one another as they headed out the door. Finsbury walked to the back of the hall to stand behind the Preacher as he shook hands and gave each church-goer a final goodbye for the week.
“That was a good sermon, Reverend. Those were good words you spoke.” The flattering remark came from an elderly widow woman dressed cleanly and modestly but not expensively. Her eyes glowed with a hope that the Preacher would take a few minutes to speak with her. She had spent many lonely days in her home since her husband died a year since.
The Reverend thanked her and turned to speak to the next woman in the line while the widow’s hand was still in his. She slipped it out and told herself that he really was a busy man anyway. She passed into the darkening shadows of the night without notice.
“That was a lovely sermon, Preacher Whitegraves. I really like that poem you read in the middle of your sermon. It really has brightened up my week.” The woman who spoke was younger and also a widow, but she had continued to wear the large diamond on her finger months after her husband’s death. Whitegraves took the alluring diamond-speckled hand in both of his and looked as sincerely as he could into her eyes while speaking.
“If there is anything I can do for you, Deborah, you just call me up and I’ll be right there. Don’t you let yourself sit around in your house by yourself without nobody to talk to. I know this is a grievin’ time for you and all, but you need to be around friends at a time like this.”
“Well, thank you, Reverend. I’ll remember your offer. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye. You have a good week now, and just remember when you’re feelin’ sad, that Jesus loves you and so do we! So pick up the phone and call us, okay?”
After a few short greetings, the church was nearly empty. The Preacher and the writer from London were alone in the church.
“Well, thank you for your time, Reverend Whitegraves. It certainly has been a most informative day. I’ve gained some valuable information for my piece, and I’ll let you know if I decide to use any of it.”
“I’ll be glad to help you any way I can, Mr. Finsbury. You just call me up anytime, and I’ll give you anything you’d like to know. We’re a fine group of folk up here in Airy Meadows.”
“Yes sir, I’ll remember that. Well, cheerio, and all the best!”
“Goodbye, and you come back and see us, you hear? Good luck!”
As Finsbury sat inside his hired car, he took out a stenographer’s pad and crossed off the name of Airy Meadows from his list. “Oh well, nothing special here,” he said disappointingly. “Just the same old, same old.” He put the notepad on the seat, started his car, and drove out of the car park onto the main road.
Joe, who had been taking out the rubbish at the back of the building, stepped into his rusted and undependable pickup truck to head home. The engine wouldn’t start right away so he had to get out and have a look under the bonnet. After he jangled a few wires the dilapidated vehicle started up. With a cloud of smoke billowing from the exhaust pipe he drove out of the car park onto the main road to get home to his wife and newborn baby as soon as he could. As he turned onto the road he noticed in his headlights a car sitting by the side of the road that had nearly fallen into the ditch. An elderly man stood beside the car, hands on his head, looking down at a flat tire.
Joe wrestled his old truck to the side of the road and opened his door to get out.
“You need a hand there, mister?”
“I...I don’t know. I...I think it’s a flat, but I’m not sure. I don’t see real good in the dark, and I’m not real good at...”
“Don’t you worry, mister. I’ll fix it right up for you.” Joe’s calming voice put the man at ease.
“That would be mighty kind of you, son,” he said slowly and appreciatively. “I’m not real sure how this happened, and I really need to get home. What road is this, by the way?”
Joe retrieved a jack and lugnut wrench from his truck and started to change the tire as he gave the gentle old man some directions to his home.
Preacher Whitegraves peered through the windows to make sure everyone had left the church car park. He listened closely to hear any sounds of movement within the building. After a brief pause he turned off all the lights except one, and quietly slid into the sanctuary. A single, dim light shone down upon the pulpit. All else in the auditorium was hidden in darkness. It was well into evening now, and the hot sun had gone down. Nothing but starlight and moonlight shone in the sky, yet their pale glow could not penetrate the stained glass windows. There was no view into this inner room from the outside world.
With a belabored effort and with no small exertion put upon his weak heart, the preacher crouched upon the floor next to the pulpit and lifted up the box that sat silently in its corner. He unlocked the padlock and pulled out another, more ornamental box that sat inside. Carefully and intentionally he opened the lid on the beautiful black and gold-colored treasure chest.
“Hello, my precious,” he whispered eagerly. “And how are you tonight? Have you missed me? I certainly have missed you. I’ve been waiting all day to see you, and now we can spend some time together.”
He reached into the box and pulled out the object of his desire. He ran his fingers gently and lovingly over the sinuous body while a hushed but distinct hiss filled the silent sanctuary.
The corpulent preacher who rattled off these words wiped the sweat from his brow as he chuckled at his own humor. The mid-summer sun glared down like a police examiner’s light as they stood outside the church building.
“So you don’t know any snake handlers yourself, Reverend Whitegraves?”
“Oh Lord no. That’s just the kind of stuff you see on TV, ain’t it? I never seen something like that in real life. Lord have mercy, I don’t even like snakes. Can’t stand the slimy things, really. Why I once come up on a black snake in my vegetable garden at home and nearly jumped outta my wits! No sir, those things give me the creeps! Now why don’t we go in the church, Mr. Finsbury, before the evenin’ service. This hot sun is just too much for me. I got a little more luggage to carry around than most people do.” Preacher Whitegraves put both hands on his belly and chuckled again. His interviewer agreed.
The sign on the outside of the church read: “Assembly of the God-Ordained-Holy-Bloodwashed-Righteous-Children-of-the-Most High: an Un-denominational Church. Reverend T.C. Whitegraves, Pastor.”
George P. Finsbury, the questioner, had arrived in America from London just a couple of days earlier. He wrote a column for The London Gazette called “Finny’s Skinny” in which he entertained his readers with stories of the unusual and uncommon aspects of American life. He was in the States searching the backroads for fresh sources of water to keep his revenue stream flowing. Airy Meadows, North Carolina, served as his first stop in the “fact-finding” mission of his trip. He had flown into the state’s Piedmont airport and had driven up to this small mountain town for the day.
It was Sunday afternoon. He had walked around town that day talking to people in the shops to get a feel for this pleasant Appalachian community. It almost reminded him of one of those fairy tale pictures—Main Street with its post office, barbershop, drugstore (with the old-time soda fountain counter), and the required war memorial. The tatoo parlor did seem slightly out of place, though, in this idyllic community. The church where he would be observing the religious life of the community sat about one mile from the centre of things.
“So, what exactly does your church believe, Reverend Whitegraves?” They both sat down on a back pew in the sanctuary. “Do you folks agree with this practice of snake handling?”
“No sir, not at all. I know the Bible talks about takin’ up serpents and all, but that’s just a kinda unusual thing there in the scriptures. That ain’t by no means a regular practice that Christians are s’pose to be doin’. It’s kinda symbolical, I believe. I mean, the Bible also says you ain’t suppose to tempt the Almighty, now don’t it! I don’t think I’d like to test that theory ‘bout not bein’ harmed by snakes.”
“Then what do you and your congregation hold as your basic doctrines,” Finsbury asked.
“Oh, ‘bout the same as most other churches, I guess. We’re pretty much mainstream here as far as it goes.”
“Could you give me an example of what that might be?”
“Well, of course we believe in helpin’ people. You know, that’s why we’re here. Just like the Good Book says, we teach people how to help themselves. That’s who God helps—you know, those who help themselves.”
(Mr. Finsbury recalled from his religious training in secondary school that the “Good Book,” as the Reverend had called it, said no such thing. He wasn’t about to interrupt such an entertaining display of ignorance, though.)
“And we also believe that people should do unto others just like what they want done to them. It’s called the Golden Rule ‘round here.”
“Yes, I have heard of it before,” Finsbury offered. “And how exactly do the people in your congregation show this kind of attitude in their everyday lives?”
Ignoring this request for clarification, or perhaps not having heard it at all, Preacher Whitegraves continued: “Well, I preach to ‘em every Sunday, and I says, ‘Beloved, Jesus says we got to go into the highways and the interstates and pull ‘em away from the depths of hell.’ I says to them, ‘We got to save ‘em while we can. You and me are called to love these people into the Kingdom.’”
At the same moment that the Reverend stressed the word “love” with his deep, preacherly voice, the front door of the church opened. A poorly dressed, but clean-shaven man walked in the door. His jeans were faded and well-used, and his sneakers had seen better days while fulfilling their role in the task of human transportation. Preacher Whitegraves immediately stood up from the pew and excused himself.
“I’ll be right back, Mr. Finsbury. I just need to speak a word at Joseph for one minute. You just have a look around if you like.”
The columnist decided to do that. He strolled up to the front of the hall and noticed nothing in particular. It was an ordinary looking sanctuary. There was nothing ornamental about the inner sanctum. He sneaked a look behind the pulpit for any unusual items that might be used during the services. Alas, he found none. The only thing sitting to one side under the holy desk was a large, common-looking box. After meandering around the building for a couple more minutes, Finsbury made his way down the hall toward the pastor’s office. He heard the voice of Preacher Whitegraves behind its closed door.
“I tell you, we just can’t have this, Joe! I told you last week that reporter fella’ was comin’ here to talk to me today, and I needed this place to look good! You should’ve had this place spotless by last night.”
The reporter could just imagine seeing those beads of perspiration on the Reverend’s brow again.
“But Preacher, I just couldn’t get here until now. I was coming yesterday morning, but my old truck broke down on me again and I couldn’t get it fixed until just a hour ago. I’ve been meanin’ to get here as soon as I can.”
“And that’s another thing, Joe. If you’re going to work at this church, I expect you to be at the services on Sunday mornings. There’s no excuse for it now. I know things are tight with you and Mary and your new baby, but you’ll have to pull yourself up by the bootstraps like the rest of us.” Joe’s hole-infested sneakers with their tattered shoestrings shifted uneasily as he listened to the Reverend. The Preacher continued with his diatribe: “I just can’t have people gettin’ a bad impression of me and this church, Joe, just because you forgot to come clean the place up.”
“I’ll get here on time next week, Preacher, I promise you.”
“You better, Joe, or I’m gonna have to find somebody who can do the job right.”
“Yes sir.”
“Now, I got to go back to an important interview. You get on with your cleanin’ and try to stay out of sight.”
“Yes sir. I’ll get right to it. Could I first ask you just one more thing, Preacher?” Joe urgently pleaded. “You remember you said something in your sermon last week about helpin’ out with food and stuff for people who might just need a little extra?”
“I don’t have time for that now, Joe. I told you I’ve got an important person waiting on me.”
“Yes sir, it’s just that my new baby Josh is havin’ an awful hard time with...”
“Later, Joseph. I’ve got to go and you’ve got to clean. Now, let’s get to it.”
The Preacher opened his office door and ushered Joseph into the hallway. Mr. Finsbury had moved back to his seat on the pew. Whitegraves walked back to the pew and plopped down next to the reporter.
“Now, where were we?” the over-sized minister said. “Oh yes...”
The Preacher had come near the end of his sermon. He was summing up his message: “Jesus says to ‘Love those who hurt you, brothers and sisters; to pray for them who persevere you.’ Let us all do so this week as we go into the world and take a light of righteousness wherever we go.”
After a short, obligatory closing prayer, the Preacher walked decidedly to the back of the hall, looking around at his congregation as he did so. The people sitting in the pews roused themselves and chattered to one another as they headed out the door. Finsbury walked to the back of the hall to stand behind the Preacher as he shook hands and gave each church-goer a final goodbye for the week.
“That was a good sermon, Reverend. Those were good words you spoke.” The flattering remark came from an elderly widow woman dressed cleanly and modestly but not expensively. Her eyes glowed with a hope that the Preacher would take a few minutes to speak with her. She had spent many lonely days in her home since her husband died a year since.
The Reverend thanked her and turned to speak to the next woman in the line while the widow’s hand was still in his. She slipped it out and told herself that he really was a busy man anyway. She passed into the darkening shadows of the night without notice.
“That was a lovely sermon, Preacher Whitegraves. I really like that poem you read in the middle of your sermon. It really has brightened up my week.” The woman who spoke was younger and also a widow, but she had continued to wear the large diamond on her finger months after her husband’s death. Whitegraves took the alluring diamond-speckled hand in both of his and looked as sincerely as he could into her eyes while speaking.
“If there is anything I can do for you, Deborah, you just call me up and I’ll be right there. Don’t you let yourself sit around in your house by yourself without nobody to talk to. I know this is a grievin’ time for you and all, but you need to be around friends at a time like this.”
“Well, thank you, Reverend. I’ll remember your offer. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye. You have a good week now, and just remember when you’re feelin’ sad, that Jesus loves you and so do we! So pick up the phone and call us, okay?”
After a few short greetings, the church was nearly empty. The Preacher and the writer from London were alone in the church.
“Well, thank you for your time, Reverend Whitegraves. It certainly has been a most informative day. I’ve gained some valuable information for my piece, and I’ll let you know if I decide to use any of it.”
“I’ll be glad to help you any way I can, Mr. Finsbury. You just call me up anytime, and I’ll give you anything you’d like to know. We’re a fine group of folk up here in Airy Meadows.”
“Yes sir, I’ll remember that. Well, cheerio, and all the best!”
“Goodbye, and you come back and see us, you hear? Good luck!”
As Finsbury sat inside his hired car, he took out a stenographer’s pad and crossed off the name of Airy Meadows from his list. “Oh well, nothing special here,” he said disappointingly. “Just the same old, same old.” He put the notepad on the seat, started his car, and drove out of the car park onto the main road.
Joe, who had been taking out the rubbish at the back of the building, stepped into his rusted and undependable pickup truck to head home. The engine wouldn’t start right away so he had to get out and have a look under the bonnet. After he jangled a few wires the dilapidated vehicle started up. With a cloud of smoke billowing from the exhaust pipe he drove out of the car park onto the main road to get home to his wife and newborn baby as soon as he could. As he turned onto the road he noticed in his headlights a car sitting by the side of the road that had nearly fallen into the ditch. An elderly man stood beside the car, hands on his head, looking down at a flat tire.
Joe wrestled his old truck to the side of the road and opened his door to get out.
“You need a hand there, mister?”
“I...I don’t know. I...I think it’s a flat, but I’m not sure. I don’t see real good in the dark, and I’m not real good at...”
“Don’t you worry, mister. I’ll fix it right up for you.” Joe’s calming voice put the man at ease.
“That would be mighty kind of you, son,” he said slowly and appreciatively. “I’m not real sure how this happened, and I really need to get home. What road is this, by the way?”
Joe retrieved a jack and lugnut wrench from his truck and started to change the tire as he gave the gentle old man some directions to his home.
Preacher Whitegraves peered through the windows to make sure everyone had left the church car park. He listened closely to hear any sounds of movement within the building. After a brief pause he turned off all the lights except one, and quietly slid into the sanctuary. A single, dim light shone down upon the pulpit. All else in the auditorium was hidden in darkness. It was well into evening now, and the hot sun had gone down. Nothing but starlight and moonlight shone in the sky, yet their pale glow could not penetrate the stained glass windows. There was no view into this inner room from the outside world.
With a belabored effort and with no small exertion put upon his weak heart, the preacher crouched upon the floor next to the pulpit and lifted up the box that sat silently in its corner. He unlocked the padlock and pulled out another, more ornamental box that sat inside. Carefully and intentionally he opened the lid on the beautiful black and gold-colored treasure chest.
“Hello, my precious,” he whispered eagerly. “And how are you tonight? Have you missed me? I certainly have missed you. I’ve been waiting all day to see you, and now we can spend some time together.”
He reached into the box and pulled out the object of his desire. He ran his fingers gently and lovingly over the sinuous body while a hushed but distinct hiss filled the silent sanctuary.