A Gift

Preacher Williams waited till dusk before he set off in his old Toyota because he didn’t want to be seen. He even drove the last mile without headlights fearing unreasonably that he might be followed. When the road ended, he parked and sat, rolling down the car window, begging for a breeze to ease his sweating brow. He said a few last prayers before finally opening the door and stepping into the rutted street.

“Garden of Whole Foods” the sign said, but a good portion of the town called it “Garden of Whole Fools.” Shoot, he’d even said it himself, he thought guiltily. He had no brook with their exotic diet, but rumor had it they espoused a kind of pantheistic religion of some kind. God manifesting as a chicken, and a chicken’s egg, and God as a cow, and as the cow’s milk. God in the pear blossoms, the dandelion fluff, acorns and oak trees. Maybe it was true—he didn’t know. He used to know, but now—well—he just didn’t know.

He went through the open gate and approached the house. He wasn’t sure what he would say. He didn’t know if they would recognize him. He didn’t know if they would turn him away, but he felt compelled to come.

He knocked on the door and a small woman with big hair answered. She reminded him of Dolly Parton, buxom and friendly looking, a face marked with laugh lines and happy little crow’s feet. “Welcome,” she said softly. “How can we help?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “But I didn’t know where else to come.”

She lifted her chin in curiosity, and he took a deep breath. He bowed his head as he unbuttoned his jacket. He slowly dropped it from his shoulders onto the ground. A majestic pair of wings spread out from the narrow curve of his back. They were regal wings, red and brown like a red shouldered hawk, rising up above his head and dipping down below his knees.

He did not lift his head, seemingly ashamed to expose this oddity, but as he snuck a peek at her face, he noted that she seemed unsurprised. “They’re magnificent,” she whispered in a matter of fact way.

He stood up straighter and stared down at her. “I am a Christian preacher. This is unnatural.”

Her mouth tightened. “When?”

“I woke up with them yesterday morning. I haven’t dared to leave the house till now.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why me?”

“I’ve heard,” he said, “I’ve heard you have—uh—some kind of power. I thought maybe you could fix me.”

She smiled, but not unkindly. “I have no special power. Only you can say why you have chosen this.”

“I didn’t choose—“ he started to say but she calmly raised her hand.

“It is always a choice. If I had to guess, I’d say you are craving freedom. Perhaps escape.”

“That’s nonsense,” he scoffed.

Again she interrupted him. “I’ve studied the Christian gospels,” she declared, her voice a beat louder. “Does your Jesus want to oppress and repress? My Jesus came to free us.”

He was silent now, humbled. She continued.

“Your God has given you a gift. Show a little gratitude and use it.” She stepped back inside her house. “Come back and tell me how you feel after a flight or two.”

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash