Glory Be to Those Who Choose The Light
Nathan Leslie
When Mildred Fennester Smith passed, we knew we would be on uncertain ground. Ms. Mildred had been our sign lady for as long as anybody could remember, and our memory trickled back to the edge of time. Ms. Mildred was ninety three, at least (some say she was older and she couldn’t herself pin it exactly), and she even wrote a sign the week she passed. As the parish assistant, I was slated to handle the manual manipulation of the sign proper, but that was the easy part. The Reverend called me God’s own assistant, but the sign was my pleasure—it was just maneuvering letters around is all. Ms. Mildred heard the spirit and provided the transcription.
Thankfully Ms. Mildred passed in her sleep. They say that’s the best way to go, and if anyone deserves a best way it was Ms. Mildred. What with her handmade potholders (mine in the shape and resemblance of an acorn squash), her visits to sickly children and benevolence to the poor in our parish. She truly was a blessing upon us.
***
“The Clothes on your Back are More than You Need”
We carried forth much discussion in the parish at large, and amongst the Reverend and volunteers who assisted him in some capacity: who would replace the utterly irreplaceable? Who could inscribe an inspired sign? Who had the ear? We pondered possibilities for weeks, while the Reverend recycled Ms. Mildred’s recent chestnuts to fill the void: Jesus is our life boat! The cross is not mere wall decoration! God’s house is never for sale!
The parish did not mind a reprise but after several weeks of mourning they were hungry for the new and unseen breath from above. They wanted inspiration. The sign had become a community guiding light and many among the parish considered themselves followers of the sign, and as such it bore almost as much meaning to them as the weekly sermon. Some felt it was the beacon.
Jim Nettles was thought by some among the parish to be a natural replacement for Ms. Mildred, but he was acrimonious in personality and political and some thought he would abuse his given powers. Mary Rison was also considered, but some among the parish fretted over her steadfastness or lack thereof (and Ms. Mary had health problems herself). Finally it was decided to hold a contest: the best sign would result in the position. We decided to leave it open to pure inspiration and go from there.
Over one hundred and seven entries were received (from our blessed town of nine hundred and eighty seven). The judges consisted of the Reverend, Bill Bullis, Pam Voller, Lisa Seethan, and Michael Balken. I assisted. I have been around a long time and didn’t have much else to focus upon since my husband passed several years ago.
After eliminating the nonsensical and prosaic, we decided on the author of “The Clothes on Your Back…” This struck the judges as witty, poignant, relatable and mysterious (but not too mysterious) enough for the layperson.
The author, shockingly, was Nettie Heslin.
***
“I am Lost, Forgotten, and Without the Wings of Youth.”
“Nettie Heslin,” Ms. Voller said. “That old oddity. She cannot in any means or ways be our sign lady. She’s nuts. She talks to the air and eats beetles for breakfast.”
“Fair is fair, is it not?” The Reverend said. “We cannot go back on our word, not this church.”
“She may be a pagan even,” Ms. Voller continued.
The Reverend shrugged his shoulders stoically. “God speaks through her pen, clearly. Perhaps He ignores the vessel. That is enough for us.”
And so it began.
***
“You are only Voiceless if You Fail to Listen.”
Our town of Midgeville is a pleasant enough place, but nobody ever ever leaves—which gave us, for many years, a rather parochial reputation. Most likely we were deserving of such standing. The residents of Midgeville were often born, bred and died within the confines of the town without scarcely seeing so much as the state capitol. Some residents are afraid to cross the town line and rarely, if ever, do so. I have visited Lincoln County (twice) and Wilson County (three times). I am, as a result, considered worldly.
Nettie Heslin was one such homebody, though. However, she took it to a rare extreme which made others in the parish queasy. Only five or six (little Timmy Croslin is questionable) members of the parish had even seen Ms. Nettie in the flesh, since she doesn’t leave her property. Nettie had a young lady—one Jillian Wilton, who did her shopping. Sadly, Nettie had no family to speak of. She only saw the light of day in the backyard and cultivated a weakness for gardening, by legend. However, she kept her hedges high and somewhat unruly—that was known.
I was instructed to make her acquaintance, as I would be the go-between. The parish was only asking for one single sentence from her a week, yet the prestige of the position warranted at least a courtesy face-to-face.
***
“Imagine a Field of Poppies. With Fangs.”
I knocked on the door expecting strange shuffling behavior and avoidance, but instead the door snapped open. Before me stood Ms. Nettie in a brilliant blue robe adorned with orange birds (was it silk?). Her hair snaked around her neck in an odd pattern, which covered the entirety of her neck and coalesced in front of her in a wide horse brush array. It looked quite uncomfortable. She gesticulated wildly as she spoke, guiding me to the divan then clicked a heavily lidded lamp, blowing dust from the bulb self-consciously.
“I don’t often receive visitors, as you may observe.” Her hands continued their desolate movements. I thought she may have been simultaneously translating into sign language for an invisible audience of her own making—her fingers were that vigorous.
“I have heard this,” I said. “I just came to discover the source of your beautiful words.”
She pointed upwards with both index fingers.
“I am just a mere go-between. I listen and let my pen capture what the Lord distributes.”
She talked non-stop about her routines, her gardening, the books she was perusing, the villanelles she composed in her mind, the photography she took with only the assistance of her eyelids. I expected to find a grouch and hermit, instead I found a woman with immense and seemingly boundless creative energy. Then she showed me her paintings—wild effervescent swirling patterns of orange and blue and black and purple, like airplane contrails though a morning sunrise.
“Sometimes He speaks to me with words,” she said. “Sometimes He speaks to me without words. I have to be ready.”
***
“The Spirit Within is the Spirit Without Within.”
The parishioners were, at first, entranced. “When she says ‘without’ she means Jesus before Gethsemane—that is clear,” Mr. Robert said.
“I think it refers to Job,” Ms. Rebecca said.
“I think it is all of us—the common sinner,” Ms. Voller said.
“What about ‘you are only voiceless’,” Mr. Robert asked.
“Who is voiceless and who should they listen to?” Ms. Voller asked.
“God Himself, who else?” Ms. Rebecca replied.
“It’s a riddle,” Ms. Voller said. “A twisted little riddle.” We couldn’t tell if this was a compliment or not. The way her voice hung on “little” made it sound demonic somehow, or perhaps this was my false and contorted impression.
They found her signs mysterious. But perhaps a shade too mysterious. Perhaps too odd, not what they expected. They wanted the sign to offer them something from which they could learn. Some grumbled, complaining that Ms. Mildred’s signs were for everyone. Ms. Nettie’s signs seemed for the close reader—more obtuse and far afield.
***
“The Cancer that Lies Dormant in your Heart can be Deferred.”
“By what? By whom? Help us out,” the Reverend said. “Main Street Baptist gained twenty last Sunday. We lost a few.”
Main Street Baptist was the interloper—having started just twenty years ago and stolen countless budding parishioners with their fire and brimstone. We suspected a corporation behind their signs—Holy Land, Inc. It was no accident: they ran and operated the vast majority of churches in our state, including Main Street Baptist (though they kept the author of their signage in the dark). It was direct and plain, a counterpoint to Ms. Nettie’s vagaries.
The Reverend enjoyed the artistry of Ms. Nettie’s messages, but he simply hoped the cryptic messages would not drive more parishioners into the arms of Holy Land, Inc.
“Give us something we can use,” he said.
“I have enough on my plate at this juncture.”
“Sustenance is the world’s temptation.”
I mentioned this to Ms. Nettie but her eyes stared holes through me.
“I can’t steer these messages,” she said. “They steer me.”
I liked her. My mother was lost to me at a young age and I had a weakness for the wisdom of older ladies. Plus, Ms. Nettie was authentic—odd but true.
I respected the Reverend also, but his motivation was often directed outward toward strategy and the best interests of the community.
I also suspected he had eyes to move on—I witnessed him several times glancing through the classified section with interest.
“Sustenance is the world’s temptation.” I watched the reverend read it, ticking each word one by one, savoring the resonance. He stared at the sign, at the gladiolas in front of it. He shook his head.
“I should go and make the acquaintance of this woman.”
***
“The Path to Righteousness is Littered with Broken-Hearted Sinners.”
I took him there. Ms. Nettie was in especially rare form—arms and hands flailing and whipping about as she spoke. She served iced tea and orange wedges and little oatmeal cookies. The Reverend averted his eyes from her paintings.
“Can you do me a personal favor?” The Reverend kept his hands clasped down on his lap as if he were containing wild rodents. Every hair on his head was perfectly arranged, a wax statue of himself.
“I can certainly try.”
“Can you just include the words ‘Jesus’ or ‘Heaven’ in your phrasings more often? It does not have to be all the time—just on occasion. We need efficiency and we need to make sure we bring it all back home, if you catch my drift.”
Ms. Nettie sunk into her flailing explanation about being the translator of God’s statements, offering that the words come directly from Him untranslated. After ten minutes of this, sensing an opportunity, I stated: “Perhaps we could just add that in an afterwards. It’s implicit anyway.”
“What does ‘implicit’ mean?” the Reverend asked. “What do you mean ‘afterwards’? This isn’t that difficult.”
“It’s already in there.”
“What is? We just tack God onto the message board? It’s about Him.”
“It’s from Him,” Ms. Nettie said. “This comes direct.”
I nodded and Ms. Nettie did a kind of half-gesticulation, half shrug and looked off into the wall. That was good enough for the Reverend perhaps.
“The spirit within Jesus is the spirit without within,” he said, as we were walking back to the car. “What does that mean? I’m not sure, but it sounds better with Jesus in it.”
He shook his head twice. I knew what that meant.
***
“Heaven is a Place on Earth.”
I couldn’t bear to tell Ms. Nettie that she had been replaced. She still sent her messages from God, but we didn’t post them. We had a computer for that. Attendance was still down and “trending down” the Reverend said. “We need holy behinds in the pews.”
The ones who hadn’t died or moved on. I missed Henry so. We lived a good, simple life and he would have had the right advice for the situation. I had to return to our photographs for consolation.
Ms. Nettie’s surreal compositions with Jesus tacked on (the ones we didn’t run) seemed even stranger than her original compositions. “We of the people, are within the people and the spirit sings. And Jesus.” “It is a lonely man who dances with others. Says God.” “The highway of thieves and gamblers glistens with the spirit underneath and because of the corruption. Says God.”
I continued to drive over every Monday morning to pick up her latest composition (as she refrained from using the phone or a computer). We chatted and I went on my way. I was forced to tell her that we weren’t using them.
“I was swimming in the corn on Friday and it was as if He was inside the stalks. It is difficult to describe. He was sprinkled everywhere, speaking to me.”
How was I supposed to just walk away?
For a year and two months I visited her every Monday. She rarely asked about the Reverend, the parish, or anything else. She just handed me one or two sentences.
“I usually fall asleep in church,” she told me once.
But I moved. I decided that in the time I had left I needed a larger scope. I heard from Ms. Crystal that Ms. Nettie passed in the cornfield about nine months later. Stroke or brain hemorrhage, she suspected, not sure which. According to Ms. Crystal, Ms. Nettie became lost in the stalks and began grasping them for a way out. Yet the field was large and, as a result of her struggles, Ms. Nettie lost her way and stumbled. She had a smile on her face, one brimming with inspiration, I had no doubt.
The Reverend bought an updated computer program to automatically churn out weekly sayings as needed. He kept the computer in the basement, by the secondary freezer and beverage fridge. The fridge was always stocked with Pepsi, Sprite and Coke. All ice cold.
Nathan Leslie won the 2019 Washington Writers' Publishing House prize for his collection of stories Hurry Up and Relax, his tenth book of fiction. He is currently the series editor for Best Small Fictions, he runs a reading series in Northern Virginia and he is the publisher/editor of Maryland Literary Review.