Each one of the testimony-giving men had been the worst drunkard or the biggest liar or most lowdown cheater or gambler or some combination of all those things, that is, of course, until he got saved. Their stories were well-rehearsed from repeated tellings, and most of us pretty well knew what came next.
Some of the men never felt called to testify. Maybe it was because they didn’t want to disappoint the folks who’d expect them to confess to the same awful sins the drunkards owned up to, puffing their chests as they got to the worst parts. The men who didn’t testify looked hangdog to me, like they were ashamed they didn’t have sins bad enough to brag about.
Grandma said some in the church believed Roby had no business testifying because he wasn’t saved.
I asked why everybody called him by his first name.
“Same reason. It’s because he hasn’t got saved and joined the church family. If he was older, we’d call him Mister Stover, but he’s hardly more than a boy and folks have known him all his life, so we’d have trouble with the Mister. I expect he would too. Irregardless, we’re glad Roby and Roberta are worshiping with us regular. All are welcome and equal here, saints and sinners alike.”
I didn’t know much about saints, but I did know that Roby was a big sinner. Maybe the biggest one I’d heard testify.
Grandma wondered if Roby might be getting a mite too fond of standing up and repeating the same old story over and over.
Grandpa said it wasn’t for him to chastise anyone for speaking out in the house of the Lord.
As he sometimes did when he got up to testify, Roby added on a sin we hadn’t heard before, something about doing his saint-of-a-wife wrong. I didn’t know what he had done, but I could tell it was bad from the sheepish look on his face. He said he couldn’t say more because the innocent children and womenfolk there didn’t need to hear such talk, but surely everybody knew what he meant.
I didn’t.
Whatever it was that Roby confessed to caused heads to wag and whispers to hiss up and down the scarred wooden pews.
When I asked Grandma, she said I didn’t need to be worrying myself about Roby Stover’s sins, just to worry about my own.
She stood there looking at me until I remembered.
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
I was a little anxious about that look. I hoped she didn’t know about the times Sissy and I played gin rummy all night. That was the only sin I could think of that might send me straight to Hell. I wondered if Sissy would go to Hell too but decided she wouldn’t. She was a Methodist, and they didn’t care one way or the other if you gambled all night. No matter how I ran it around in my head, I couldn’t make it come out fair that I’d go to Hell and she wouldn’t for the very same sin. It came to me then that some things never would be fair. I’d decided to be a Methodist when I grew up. So I hoped God would remember that and take it into account.
Grandpa preached a whole flock of angels down from Heaven that night. Despite his best efforts, it looked like nobody was coming forward to get saved.
But Grandpa wasn’t one to give up easy.
“Let’s sing the first and last verse one more time,” he said for the third time. “The Lord is reaching out to you tonight, ready to cleanse you of your sins for all eternity. If you are tired, He’ll be your resting place. If you are disappointed, He’ll be your hope for tomorrow. If you are lonely, He’ll be your faithful companion. He’s calling for you to come home.”
The congregation, heads bowed, sang, “Come home, come home, ye who are weary come home . . .”
Roby lurched up from his seat and began to shout, “Praise the Lord!” and “Hallelujah!” with tears flying off his face and splotching his blue chambray work shirt. Grandpa continued with the invitation and others sang, while still others started praying and speaking in tongues. Grandma went down on her knees and began to utter words I couldn’t make sense of. Every line and wrinkle dissolved from her face. Lit from within, her gaze transfixed by sights unseen by me, she repeated the words again and again, her voice soft and urgent.
Next thing I knew, Roby was on his knees, head held in his hands, praying like his life depended on it. Even though he was a sinner, Roby Stover was one of the best we had at praying. Grandpa went back and knelt by his side, his right arm around Roby’s shoulder, beseeching him to come forward and give his life to the Lord.
As the last of the chorus was sung and nobody answered the call, Grandpa strode to the front and lifted his arms to give the benediction.
Afterwards, the men and women broke into separate clusters in the churchyard. Grandma huddled with Sister Wood and some others from the Home Missionary Society. I waited nearby, straining to hear every word the women said.
“Must have taken her better than a week to make that dress.”
“Outlandish for a married woman, if you want my opinion.”
“Beaver’s Grocery is carrying notions. But land’s sake, they’ll put you in the poor house.”
“I heard tell Jayboy, he’s her youngest, is home on furlough from the Navy.”
“You don’t reckon he’ll go sniffing around that Jones girl again?”
“He won’t if her daddy catches wind of it.”
Roby’s name wasn’t even mentioned. The women had witnessed his tearful confessions before and were sure to again. Besides, they had newer things to gossip about.
As Roby put Roberta in the neighbor’s car, he gave her a quick pat on the behind.
Sister Wood’s eyebrows shot up. Before she could sputter a single word
