What has happened to us? Can I cry out like the prophet Jonah and ask God to guide my hand and direct me toward the proper remedy? Once, oh once, this beautiful, strong, defiant, glorious group could wrestle the world down, unshackle themselves, part seas, walk on water, rise on the winds. What happened? Why are we now sick and dying? All the sons and daughters groomed to lead seem to have fled . . . How, Lord? How? The war is not over. The enemy is encamped over the hill. With the morning they will come storming over the wall. They will pillage and plunder, rape our wives and children, destroy our crops, empty our storehouses, deface our holy temple. How, Lord? How? How can we defend ourselves and grow strong again? How can we regain the power to lift up our heads and sing? When will the Host of Hosts visit us with favor and strength?

Jonah. It seems so easy to hide, so easy to die. I see now that not only is life a struggle, it is a war. And it is not enough merely to fight the good fight.

Anne was diagnosed as having a malignant cancer of the pancreas. It was found in April; she went into the hospital for the last time in May; she died in the early part of June, not because of the cancer, ironically, but because of a problem with her lungs during the operation. She was thirty-seven. Strangely enough, it hit my grandmother the hardest. Perhaps she wanted to see grandchildren. Perhaps she had loved Anne more than I knew. Perhaps it was just the idea that Anne was seemingly so good, and so young.

Jonnie Mae herself died last year.

I have never lost my fear of the dead. No matter how many eulogies I preach, no matter how many funerals I attend, perhaps no matter how old I get, I will fear the dead. In my dreams the dead rise, and they wear armor and are armed with bows and arrows and swords and guns and knives. Perhaps the fight goes on. Perhaps the war will be won.

December 8, 1985 3:00 pm

December 8, 1985

3:00 pm

The waitress wore a button that read “Sue” on the left breast-pocket of her fine, white polyester uniform. Jimmy couldn’t help smiling in disbelief at the way she smacked her gum and threw her hips out like a floozie, wondering if she realized how much of a caricature of herself she appeared.

“So folks, what’s it going to be, huh?” Her impatient manner made Jimmy wince, the way she rolled her eyes and refused to look at them. She flipped a page on her little pad and stood there, poised with her pencil, smacking her gum, and staring out the window.

“What you gone get, Jimmy?” Zeke had to put on his glasses, a huge pair of hornrims, to read the catsup-stained menu.

“Well, the hamburger platter looks good to me.”