The Devil Made Me Do It

I was eight years old at the time and had made my annual summer pilgrimage to Mama Bea’s.  The farm, of course, belonged to Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman but everyone called it Mama Bea’s, because, well, it was.  She was the matriarch of the clan in every sense of the word and when Mama Bea spoke, we all listened.  I was the proud owner of a Daisy BB gun that Santa had gotten from the Sears Roebuck catalogue.  Mama Bea had rules that governed the use of BB guns.  Don’t shoot at the house, don’t shoot the dogs and chickens, and don’t even think about shooting the Purple Martins.  Cows, snakes, turtles and other birds were all acceptable targets, especially the snakes and turtles.  The purple martins though, those were off limits.  Daddy Freeman had built a multi-tiered bird house years earlier and the Purple Martins had made a permanent summer home of it.  Martins were known to return each year to the same bird house and their return became a much anticipated event.  I think that the birds’ return had become part of the farm’s rhythm, just like the planting and the hatching of chicks, so when the Martins showed up, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, knowing that all was well with the world. 

One day, my older brother and I were outside with my BB gun.  James Freeman was my hero. He was ten years my senior and had been named after Daddy Freeman.  He was already out of high school and I trusted and believed he could do anything.  I loved him dearly.  He and I were watching the Purple Martins flying above us at what seemed to be a hundred miles an hour.  They were zigging and zagging as they searched and caught insects in mid air.  Then my big brother, my hero, said it.  “I bet you can’t shoot one.”  The words, “Don’t shoot the purple martins” were quickly pushed out of my head, through my ears and they fell to ground with a thud while the words, “shoot one” seemingly grew and grew until they occupied every square inch of my being.  Overwhelmed with a sudden sense of urgency, I raised that Daisy BB gun to my shoulder, took aim and pulled the trigger.  Then horror struck.  I actually hit one.  One of Mamma Bea’s purple martins fell to the ground.  We both ran over to it and James Freeman bent over and picked up the limp bird.  It was motionless and so was I.  My big brother, my hero, held the bird up close to my face and with a grin that stretched from ear to ear he said, “Mama Bea is going to get you.”  He was right.  She would get me.  What would I ever say to her?  I don’t really remember what I thought at that moment but I imagine, being the precocious eight year old that I was, I probably thought that quoting one of the great theologians would do the trick for Mama Bea.  Something from the infamous Geraldine who said many times, “The devil made me do it.”  seemed most appropriate because whatever excuse I was conjuring up, one thing was certain to me.  The person who stood there with that giant grin wasn’t just my big brother but seemingly … the devil himself. 

So there we stood, my brother and I, staring at this motionless bird cupped in his large hands.  We both stood there for what seemed an eternity as I was envisioning my Daisy BB gun being placed on the top shelf of the freezer room, there to remain until the pigs out by the barn sprouted wings and flew.  Then, a miracle occurred.  I thought I saw it, but maybe not.  No, it did it again.  The bird’s eye blinked and then as quickly as it had plummeted to the earth, it took flight leaving my brother and me standing there with our mouths agape.  I watched as the bird mingled with the others in what must have been a home coming of sorts or an “aviarian” Lazarus experience. 

Then, I looked down at my brother’s hands.  They were still cupped as if holding the bird.  They were empty and it was as if it had never happened. 

There it is!  It is God’s lavish grace.  Whatever our sin, whatever our misdeed, God’s grace comes to us, forgiveness beyond measure, and it is as if it had never happened.  As far as the east is from the west; though our sins are like scarlet, we will become pure as snow; if we go to the deepest crevice or the highest pinnacle, we cannot escape the loving gracious presence of our Lord.  The Scripture says:  In Christ we are adopted according to His will, in Christ we have redemption; in Christ there is forgiveness; in Christ the lavish grace of God is poured out and it is as if it had never happened.  We are God’s good creation.  We have been clothed with righteousness.  You are free to choose … you are free to choose life, life in Christ. My brothers and sisters … you … are … forgiven. 

Snakes and Gardens

My grandmother, Mama Bea, had a garden.  It was always Mama Bea’s garden even though my grandfather, Daddy Freeman, did as much work in it as she did.  I remember Mama Bea making Daddy Freeman get up out of his chair one day to go till the garden.  He didn’t like it one bit and when the tiller wouldn’t start, he took a hammer and started pounding on it.  Better the tiller than Mama Bea I thought because I was quite certain Mama Bea could take him.

Anyway, they had a garden that to any 8 year old looked as if the entire world’s population could be fed from it.  Its rows yielded corn, tomatoes, eggplants, okra, squash, watermelons, onions, potatoes, and most everything else that could be planted, grown and eaten, canned, or frozen.  The garden also had a huge section that was the strawberry patch.  I can still see Mama Bea stooped over in the strawberry patch, sweat dripping from her face as she would pull weeds and later as she searched for the big, red berries.  Daddy Freeman would be off in another part tilling, or hammering, whatever was appropriate for that particular day and the demeanor of the tiller. 

I wasn’t there the day that it happened.   My memories of the encounter rely on the memories and stories of my mother and others.  Mama Bea was meticulously going through the strawberry patch when she felt a sting on her hand.  Now, I don’t know if it happened this way or not, but what I picture is Mama Bea straightening up and holding her hand out at arm’s length and there being a water moccasin with fangs still imbedded in her hand.  How it happened, I don’t know but one thing was for certain, two were in the garden and only one was going to leave alive.  Mama Bea hated snakes and was a fierce opponent when her hoe was nearby.  I’m certain that snake figured out pretty quickly that it had bitten off more than it could chew. 

The next several days Mama Bea’s life hung in the balance.  She had been transported to Houston, MS for medical treatment.  There was no anti-venom but this Southern woman was strong as an ox.  She overcame the poison that had violated her body just as she had dispatched that snake.  I don’t remember if there was a strawberry patch the following year.

Snakes and gardens just don’t seem to go together, do they?  Eve discovered that, as did Adam.  We want to enjoy God’s good creation and somehow it gets mucked up on occasion by snake-like critters.  Some might call it temptation, maybe even sin.  It just gets in the way and can sting, even resulting  in the loss of life, spiritual or physical.  If we only had a champion, someone who could wield a spiritual hoe as Mama Bea had and dispatch sin and temptation before its sting.  If only there was someone who could go ahead of us, searching and destroying, as it were.  If only there was someone . . .

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law.  But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.  I Cor. 15

Come In the House

My grandparents, Mamma Bea and Daddy Freeman lived in Shake Rag, MS.  Shake Rag was about 10 miles from Okolona, MS.  Okolona was about 20 miles from Tupelo, MS.  You may not know where Shake Rag is but everyone, in Mississippi at least, knows where Tupelo is.  It's where the king was born, you know, as in the King of Rock and Roll.  Yep, it's the birthplace of Elvis Presley. 

Shake Rag was a grouping of good folks along a couple of roads out in the county that used to be gravel but had been black topped by the time I came along.  Most of those good folks were related to me in some fashion or another.  Their mail was delivered into mailboxes out on that black top.  The closest post office was in Egypt, just down the road.  One of my uncles was the post master there and my momma graduated from school in Egypt.

The long gravel driveway that came off the main road down to my grandmother’s house in Shake Rag gave ample opportunity to get ready to greet visitors.  The windows and doors were always open in the summer because, even though they had a window air conditioner, they never turned it on except when As The World Turns came on around midday.  Through those open doors you could hear the rumble of the pickup truck and see the plume of dust trailing so you always knew when company was coming.  Sometimes on Sundays Mama Bea would pray before issuing the invitation.  She would look out, see the familiar truck and say, “Lord, here comes Billy Brown!” with just a bit of disgust in her voice.  Then came the bang of the screen door as it was flung open and the same hearty greeting from Mama Bea that everyone received, “Come in the house.” 

Billy was a TV repair man with one arm who was strong enough to lift TV’s that normally required two grown men.  He was born and reared in Shake Rag.  He always had the same coveralls on and always smelled musty.  Billy had a loud voice with a bit of a rasp that carried easily through the four room cinder block house.  It was well known in our family that Billy was smitten with my older sister who was 20 years his junior.  That little bit of information was great fodder for this younger brother’s teasings.  Such thoughts seem strange by today’s standards but I guess 35 years ago in Mississippi it wasn’t that uncommon.  I need to add that my sister never returned his affections.

Billy would visit for most of the afternoon, lingering until the Wonderful World of Disney came on and it was time for supper.  Then the cloth that covered the table and Sunday dinner came off to reveal the remains of roast beef, fried chicken, an occasional rabbit or squirrel, green beans, boiled okra, squash, corn bread, butter beans, peas, chocolate pie and coconut cake, not to mention the potato salad with mayonnaise that we thought was as fresh as it had been five hours earlier.  After the unveiling, we all got a little quiet except for the rattling of silverware and ice tea glasses.  The second feast was always as good as the first.  Then, Billy Brown would leave with a big smile, a full stomach and a thank you.  “Better get on home Bera,” he would say as he clamored into his truck.  Mama Bea would stand on the porch and watch until the plume of dust had settled on the cotton plants and then she came in.  There was no doubt that Billy Brown was a little different from most, even a bit strange and unsettling but, except for that hushed prayer, you would never know it by the way he was treated at Mama Bea’s.  As soon as Billy Brown crossed over that threshold, he was received and accepted as he was.  There were no expectations for change.  He was Billy Brown, a guest.  That was enough.

Billy Brown is buried in the back right corner of Boone’s Chapel Cemetery there in Shake Rag.  It’s a good place as cemetery plots go.  Just a few over are Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman and a host of other relatives.  I wouldn’t mind being buried there myself.  It feels like home.  One day there will be a door flung open wide and our Lord will welcome us all home.  There will be no distinction and the table cloth will be pulled back to reveal a banquet of plenty.  We’ll all be treated as what we are:  sons and daughters, brothers and sisters. 

That will be enough.