By Gale Acuff,
In Sunday School Miss Hooker tells us that
we’re all going to die one day, who knows
when, exactly, except for Jesus and
God and probably the Holy Ghost. Now
I’m scared because I walk to church and back
again, of course, and have to cross the road
once coming and one more time heading back
and even though I’m careful and look both
ways you never know what might happen if
God decides to call me home, home being
Heaven and not our house, on the corner
of Limestone and General Lee. But God
is God and He knows best, I guess, when He
yanks the plug on me and that’s what makes Him
God, I think. So I’ll have to try harder
not to sin and to be sure every night
when I say my prayers that I don’t slip
up and forget to ask Him to forgive
me so I don’t go to Hell right after
He calls me Home and then maybe casts me in
the Lake of Fire, where I’ll be alive
but Heaven must be a darned sight cooler,
not like an icebox but like the cool air
of our downtown movie theater or
the Five & Dime where I sinned last month when
I stole some candy cars and got caught, not
that getting caught was the sin exactly
but it didn’t help when they phoned my folks
and Father came to get me and then I
had to apologize to the druggist
and then we went home and, boy, I caught it,
right on my bottom and it was naked
when Father swatted it three times so I
bore the brunt by thinking, Father, Son, and
Holy Ghost, one for each swat, and when he
put me on my feet and I pulled up my
jeans I didn’t cry but I wanted to
not so much because it hurt on my bare
skin but because if I’m going to go
to Heaven I made one Hell of a start
and lost all my future allowance
until the damn candy is paid for and
even then I didn’t get to keep it,
which isn’t fair but crime does not pay if
you’re caught, and even if you’re not Jesus
catches you so you just can’t win and when
I die and go to be judged He’ll bring up
that little matter of my shoplifting
and I won’t deny it, I did it and
not very well at that though I guess that’s
not the point but it’s still a sore spot with
me, a thing I’m not proud of in a thing
I’m not proud of. No wonder people pray
not just to know what’s right but have the sense
to do it. I’m only nine years old and
Miss Hooker’s 25, I’d guess, too old
for me to marry if I could but if
I could I would–she’d keep me straight and when
she dies and goes to Heaven then maybe
I would, too, if I don’t sin after she’s
gone but if I did sin after she’s gone it
would be because my heart is broken and
I don’t care to live a good life without
her and don’t even care to live at all.
So I’d pray to God to help me hang on
and keep me from stealing candy again
or gum or baseball cards or comic books,
which I can slip up my shirt when no one’s
looking and twelve cents doesn’t grow on trees
nor a penny for Georgia tax, neither.
But I guess it’s just plain wrong to take what
doesn’t belong to you, like suicide
if you belong to God and not yourself,
because when you wake up dead and Jesus
is standing over you something tells me
that He won’t be happy and you’re off to
Hell before you can say Judas H. Priest,
not that I’d say that, I’d be too scared, but
Father does, usually when he pays
the bills at the end of the month and I
guess I’d have to say something, if I still
have a mouth, when it comes to me I’m dead
and not just dreaming, so I’d better think
about that a while before God takes me
before I’m ready–I should be ready
now but knowing I’ve got to go away
makes me pretty sad, I’d miss Sunday School
next week, and Miss Hooker, and doughtnuts and
orange juice and the Lord’s Prayer and Amen
when I most feel that I’m on God’s good side
and would never help crucify Jesus
but I guess I already have and I
don’t know what to do but be more like Him
or else I’m killing Him some more and He
keeps rising from the dead no matter what
I do, and that’s good, that’s bad but it’s good.