The worn, stained suit jacket hung in the closet. Next to it hung a shabby white shirt. Both were sad relics of Mr. Crow’s past. With little desire to replace them, he wore them every Sunday when he walked the three blocks to the small white clapboard church on the corner of B and Fourth Streets.
Lucas Crow hadn’t missed a Sunday since his wife died thirteen years ago. When she was alive, every Sunday she prayed for him. Because she did, he felt no urgency to attend Sunday service. Since no one was praying for him now, the duty fell upon his shoulders. It wasn’t a burden, not really. It got him out of the house for a couple of hours every Sunday.
Inside the small church, he felt safe. The other worshipers stopped their quiet conversations and looked back at him when he entered the church. The prying eyes made him uneasy so he sat in the back of the church. He’d have rather sat up front to hear the sermon better. Mr. Crow wanted to hear that Jesus was his savior and benefactor. Now that Elizabeth was gone, he was comforted to know that someone was looking out for him.
Attending the Sunday service seemed to bring Elizabeth back. He liked to think that she was there beside him inside the small church. Smiling. She had always had a beautiful smile. It was her smile that he missed the most. Or maybe it was the way she had tolerated him.
Sundays were like every other day except that after he’d drank his coffee and eaten his toast, he went to the bedroom, took the white shirt from its hanger, and put it on. The red tie hung from a hook in the closet. The white shirt buttoned to his neck, he stepped in front of the small mirror in the bathroom to put on the red tie. His thick hands struggled with the knot, and when he pulled it tight, he pretended that it was a giant snake trying to choke the life out of him. “This is all for you, Elizabeth,” he’d say into the mirror. “I hope you know the sacrifices I make for your memory.”
Of course, it wasn’t for Elizabeth but for his own sanity that on Sundays he put on his white shirt, his red tie, and his worn suit jacket. He believed in the ritual of it. Since he found little pleasure in his job, he needed a diversion. Besides, he’d promised Elizabeth before she died that he would take over the care of his soul. She had told him how worried she was about his soul. How he needed salvation in his life. He never understood what this meant, but he’d promised her that he’d start attending church. He guessed that once he started, salvation would come to him.
The spring day was filled with sunlight and birdsong, and Mr. Crow, walking at a brisk pace, looked skyward, continually yanking at that damn snake that was trying to strangle the life out of him. During Elizabeth’s funeral service, the preacher said, “Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” What did it mean? Did Preacher Howliston mean that if he believed in Jesus, he’d live forever? Yet Elizabeth, who did believe in Jesus, was dead. Maybe this had something to do with his soul that Elizabeth had worried about. Maybe Elizabeth’s soul was still here. But where? He didn’t feel anything.
“If you’re there, I’d sure appreciate it if you’d let me know,” he said, looking up at the blue sky.
The small church needed painting, he noticed as he got closer. He knew of two of the members of the church who were painters. Why didn’t they volunteer to paint the church? If any of the bricks in the front steps ever needed replaced, or had come loose, he’d certainly volunteer to replace them. He knew all about bricks. And he’d told Preacher Howliston that. And the preacher had thanked Mr. Crow and told him that he’d keep this in mind.
After greeting Preacher Howliston on the front steps of the church, he opened the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside, having to pause for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the church. After he could see, he saw the faces of the other members turned toward him, and he quickly slipped into the pew at the back of the church. Every Sunday, he promised himself that he’d leave earlier in the morning so that he’d be the first one there, but no matter how early he left, the church was always full when he arrived. He couldn’t understand how he was always one of the last to get there. Did the other members sleep there overnight?
Once he had taken his seat, he could relax, except for that damn snake of a tie that tightened itself around his neck. He’d never get used to it. Never.
The heavy wooden doors opened and closed, and Mr. Crow turned around. The preacher was walking past on his way to the pulpit. Mr. Crow stirred in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Preacher Howliston stepped behind the lectern and cleared his throat.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It is good to see so many bright faces here this morning. And what a delightful day it is. A glory to God. Every day is a glory to God.”
Mr. Crow thought about this. Every day indeed was some kind of miracle. But so much of the beauty of each day had darkened after Elizabeth’s death. It was as if she held that power to make things look brighter. He had hoped that by coming to church and listening to Preacher Howliston preach the gospel, somehow that brightness would return. He did like to hear what the preacher had to say. He said it with such authority and assuredness that Mr. Crow believed it to be true. But the sad reality was that nothing changed. The days were drearier than they used to be when Elizabeth was alive.
“We have only to open up our hearts to receive the power and glory of God, and God will show us His infinite goodness and charity,” Preacher Howliston said. “Isn’t it a miracle? This charity? You might think that God is too busy to notice us. But that isn’t true. God sees us, each and every one of us. He hears our prayers and knows about our troubles and worries. He is always listening and looking down on us. And He cares. Believe me when I tell you that God is there for us in everything that we do. But He also knows when we have turned away from Him. And this infuriates Him. The one thing that God cannot abide is our unfaithfulness.”
Mr. Crow thought about this. Does God know when I question His existence? Does He care that I believe or don’t believe? If this is the case, why doesn’t He let me know? Why doesn’t he give me a signal? I don’t ask much, just a little tap on the shoulder and say, “Hey, how are you getting along?”
When Elizabeth was alive, she would always take the time to ask how he was doing. She seemed to worry about him constantly. Sometimes it annoyed him. But not now. Not since she died. He missed her pestering him about how he was doing. It wouldn’t upset him now, not in the least.
“God is not only your Saviour but your friend. He looks after you, even though you might not be aware of His existence. But if you just look at the beauty in nature, the trees and flowers and the sunlight. The birds that sing for you, these too are God’s creations. He wants you to feel the joy. He wants you to embrace the miracles of His creation. Can you imagine a world without the beauty of nature? What would that look like? It would be Hell. That’s what it would look like. A world of darkness and hellfire. So, my friends, rejoice in God’s glory. And be thankful. He truly loves you.”
Elizabeth believed in God’s love. She truly did. Mr. Crow wanted to believe, too. But something held him back. The world is indeed filled with much beauty, but there is also misery and ugliness. Maybe we need both, Mr. Crow thought. Suffering as well as joy. But how does it balance out? When the suffering becomes too much to bear, where is joy found?
Mr. Crow looked around. Everyone else seemed to get the message. He alone seemed to squirm in his seat. If Elizabeth were here right now, she would reach over and grab his hand. And smile. She would tug at his coat sleeve and straighten his tie. Things seemed brighter when she was alive. This is what he can’t explain to other people. The brightness isn’t as bright anymore.
The preacher went on, but Mr. Crow no longer followed what he was saying. He looked around the room, anxious to be out of there. He had become quite uncomfortable. His tie was choking him, and he had suddenly become aware of the shabbiness of his coat and shirt. Why hadn’t he noticed this before?
Mr. Crow looked over his shoulder. There was a clear path from where he sat to the heavy front doors. The only problem was the howl the door would give out and the rush of fresh air that would swoop in once he opened them. The turned faces would stare a hole right through his suit jacket, through the shabby white shirt, through his back, and into his soul. If he left now, he could never come back.
He loosened his tie, the beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead slid into his eyes and blurred his vision. There was an echo inside the church. Preacher Howliston’s words banged against the walls and fell to the floor. Mr. Crow peered down the long aisle. Broken sentences were scattered along the carpet. More words fell as Preacher Howliston continued his sermon. Mr. Crow stared hard at the preacher, but the words fell to the floor before they reached his ears.
Mr. Crow couldn’t understand what was happening. He looked around for Elizabeth. She could translate the preacher’s words for him. She would reach over and take hold of his hand to assure him that everything was going to be all right. But she wasn’t there. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. If he thought of something else, maybe the nightmare would end. But the noise inside his head prevented him from thinking.
Over and over, he chanted Elizabeth’s name. He rocked back and forth, running his hands along his thighs. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth. He rocked faster and faster, wanting the noise to stop. When the noise reached its highest pitch, he opened his eyes. Preacher Howliston had stopped his sermon and the faces were turned toward him. He looked away from the staring faces toward the heavy wooden doors. Elizabeth had opened them and was motioning to him to follow her. Without hesitation, he stood up and hurried to the doors. She was already outside, walking briskly down the sidewalk that led away from the church. He tried to catch up to her but she was too fast. When she reached the street, she crossed over and turned down B Street. She would be waiting for him when he got home, he was sure of it.
When he arrived home, he hurried up the narrow path to the house. Under the covered front porch it was cool. He paused at the front door, looking over at the porch swing swaying in the breeze. It was as if someone had just stepped out of it and left it swinging. He and Elizabeth had spent many afternoons there, gently swinging, looking out onto B Street. Sunday afternoons were always the most pleasant because there were always people walking by.
Inside the house, it was quiet. He went to the kitchen, but it was empty. He paused and then walked quickly to the bedroom. It was just as he had left it. Nothing had changed. She wasn’t here.
Confused, he stepped outside and walked to the porch swing. He grabbed one of the chains to stop the swing. He must be going crazy, he thought. There was no other explanation.
He sat down in the swing and looked out onto B Street. The street was empty. It was still too early in the day for passersby. After church let out, they would begin.
Mr. Crow stared out into the empty street. Through the afternoon, as the sun set behind the row of Cottonwood trees across the street, and as the frogs began their mournful reverie, he sat in the porch swing staring out into the empty street. Toward dusk, he watched Preacher Howliston coming up the sidewalk. As he approached, he called out to Mr. Crow, “Good evening, Lucas. Do you mind if I join you?”
Mr. Crow didn’t mind and nodded toward the empty seat next to him in the porch swing.
“Beautiful evening,” the preacher said. “I meant to get by earlier, but I just couldn’t get away. After Sunday school, we had a baptism. John and Lisa Bromide’s little girl, Sarah. It was a sweet ceremony.”
Lucas Crow nodded as if he’d been there when in reality he didn’t even know the Bromides.
“You’d left in such a hurry that I thought there might have been some kind of an emergency,” the preacher said. “Is everything all right?”
Mr. Crow looked over at Preacher Howliston but remained quiet.
The preacher stood up and walked to the edge of the porch. “It sure is a beautiful evening,” he said. Mr. Crow stared into the growing darkness. The slice of moon hung on the horizon, orange in the fading light.
“Is everything all right?” Preacher Howliston asked again.
“I woke up this morning at 4:44, which means nothing,” Mr. Crow said. “Or it could mean everything. That’s the puzzlement about things, the way things happen. Is it all random or is there something behind it?”
The preacher turned to look at Mr. Crow.
“I don’t know what you mean?” he asked.
“It was Elizabeth,” Mr. Crow said. “When I left church this morning, I was trying to catch up to Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth?” the preacher asked. “What do you mean?”
“When the doors to the church opened up, I turned and saw Elizabeth. She had opened the doors to leave. I hurried to catch up to her. But I lost her.”
“You saw Elizabeth?”
“Yes, but only briefly as she opened the doors. I hurried after her but couldn’t catch up to her. She had crossed the street and was walking hurriedly down B Street toward our house. But when I got here, she wasn’t here. She was nowhere to be found.”
“Again, I must apologize, but I don’t understand,” the preacher said.
Mr. Crow looked over at the preacher. “It’s all right, I don’t understand either.”
“Elizabeth has been dead for…,” the preacher paused.
“Thirteen years,” Mr. Crow said. “It has been thirteen years.”
The preacher turned back toward the street.
“I’m not crazy,” Mr. Crow said. “You might think I’m crazy, but I’m not. I know what I saw. And I saw Elizabeth. But what I can’t figure out is why she didn’t wait for me. I should have been the one to die, not her. I could never come to terms with her dying before me. I couldn’t ever imagine a life without her. I didn’t want a life without her. It would be cold and empty and filled with nothing but despair.”
The preacher walked back to the porch swing and sat down next to Lucas. “I can’t begin to imagine the pain you felt when you lost Elizabeth.”
“That was nothing compared with the pain I feel now,” Lucas said. “It gets worse every day.”
“You know that you didn’t see her, don’t you?” the preacher asked.
Lucas Crow looked over at the preacher. “No, I don’t know that at all. I did see her.”
“Maybe your mind played a trick on you. Maybe you saw an apparition. Her spirit perhaps. Maybe she is trying to tell you something.”
“She is trying to tell me that she is still here. That her death was an apparition. She never died at all. That is what she is trying to tell me.”
“But you can’t really believe that,” the preacher said.
“And why not?” asked Mr. Crow.
“Because it is totally beyond any believability.”
“What do you know about what is believable? You deal in the supernatural. That is your game. You rely on people believing what is unbelievable.”
“I don’t think the belief in God is unbelievable. The evidence of His existence is everywhere. Just look at nature. Do you not believe that God had a hand in creating such perfect beauty?”
“I can’t begin to explain the beauty in nature. Perhaps it is just how we perceive things that exist outside of ourselves. Perhaps, if we could see microbes, we would believe them to be even more beautiful than a maple tree. Or if our dreams became visible to us, we would be in a constant state of ecstasy.”
“But our dreams are visible to us,” the preacher said.
“Only in fleeting glimpses. They whisk through our lives like a breath of air. And then they are gone. And we are left wholly in disbelief. We want to go back so that we can interpret and begin to understand what our dreams are trying to tell us. But we are too blind. We are limited in what we see and what we understand.”
“This is precisely why we need to believe in God. Only He can give us comfort.”
“I don’t feel any comfort. Quite the opposite is true. I feel only misery. And a deep sense of sadness.”
“You need to shift your beliefs, you need to open up to the beauty of God,” the preacher said.
“I need to find Elizabeth,” Mr. Crow said.
“I can sense that you are in a great deal of pain, and my suggestion to you is that you need to turn more to God. In our worst times, He will comfort us. You must trust in His divine wisdom and power to heal.”
Mr. Crow stood up and walked to the edge of the porch, looking out into the darkness. The preacher joined him at the edge of the porch and put his hand on Mr. Crow’s shoulder.
“If you trust in God, you will find everything you need,” Preacher Howliston said. “I must beg your indulgence, but I have other calls to make tonight so I must be going. Please come and see me in my office anytime.”
Mr. Crow looked over at the preacher and nodded. He means well, Mr. Crow thought. They shook hands. Mr. Crow watched him walk down the walkway and turn down B Street, and he continued to watch him until he disappeared into the darkness. Mr. Crow stood on the porch listening to the distant litany of frogs, which somehow comforted him. After a while, he turned and went inside the empty house.
