The Capture

"Having done all to stand, stand therefore." Nana would say to me right before we got ready to walk in the front door of her church. And there I was, hair slicked back with her saliva, sporting a blue bow-tie and my tiny powder blue checkered vest, waiting for Sunday school to start. After Sunday school, would be the main service. The sweaty preacher waiving his Bible around, greasy hair flapping in his face, asking if there were any sinners that needed repenting. He was in my face now, on the first row, his eyes looking into mine - nose to nose. His breath smelled like the forest.

Rough hands grabbed me and forced me to my feet. His gray hair was dripping with sweat. Eyes piercing into mine with electric blue. He shook me by the collar and shoulders. He grabbed my bag away from me and threw me to the ground again where I fell with a splash. Were these the tears of the saints? There must have been a lot of repenting going on. I could hear the crashing and banging of many lost souls giving their lives to Jesus right then and there. It must have been Palm Sunday. Branches were everywhere.

Then there were five preachers, with five Bibles. They were lifting me up and tying my hands, moving me roughly. Carrying me out. Carrying me down the aisle to get some repenting. Their feet had no shoes on them and the mud came up from between their toes. Thunder rolled. Or was that the organ playing? "Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling… Calling for you and for me… BOOM… Thunder rolled again and the preachers laughed at me. They had yellow sharpened teeth and blue tattoos on their faces.

I was concussed.

Fuckin A.

These weren't preachers at all.