"Thanks for the information and the water sample, Mrs. Franklin. I've got to get along to my next stop."
"You're welcome, Doc," replied the elderly woman. "Are you going back to A'nt Gertie's next?" She pointed toward the back of her house as she spoke. She was on her front porch. I was in the yard.
"I don't remember the name of the people at my next stop." I flipped to the map on my clipboard. "Let's see, here's your house. . . . Hmmm. . .this map doesn't show a house behind yours. Where's A'nt Gertie's?"
"Well, you said you had to test every well in this area, and she has one. She lives a ways down that road beside my house."
"If she lives alone," I thought aloud, "perhaps you'd better call her and let her know who I am. I don't want to frighten her."
Mrs. Franklin chuckled at my suggestion, "You won't frighten her. Besides, she don't have no phone. Go see her. You'll be glad you did. Ever'body loves A'nt Gertie."
Wondering about that parting cryptic remark, I thanked her again, then left my pickup and started walking down the dusty trail she'd called a "road."
Spring had been in the process of turning the Mississippi countryside green, but it was a little cool today. I noticed the road was growing up with weeds. Not much traffic. This wasn't a road, it was a private driveway ending at a house. As I approached the house, two small dogs started yapping and circled me at a safe distance. Did I say house? It was an old log cabin. The logs were not cut round, but angular, and the spaces between the logs were filled with some kind of mortar. Two stone chimneys with crumbling mortar graced each gable. I'd never seen a genuine cabin this old with somebody living in it.
"Hello!" I shouted over the din of the dogs. "Is anyone here?" I stopped a respectful distance from the front porch, the whole time studying the architecture of this cabin.
"Who are you? What do you want?" came the reply from a woman who now stood on the porch. "Come closer so's I can get a good look at you, boy."
I held a picture I.D. out for her inspection as I approached her. "I'm B.J. Marshall, m'am. Shell Oil Company hired me to test all the water in the area. Do you have a well? Or are you on community water?" By this time she had my picture and switched her gaze between it and my face a couple of times.
Her face defied age-estimation. She could have been in her late 50s, but more likely in her 60s, or maybe even 70s. Her skin was only slightly wrinkled, but her eyes were as clear as a teenager's and she wore no glasses. Her brown hair was pulled behind her head and showed only a trace of grey. She wore no makeup and her dress was recognizably old fashioned.
"Says here you're Doctor Marshall. What kin'a doctor are ya?"
"I'm a chemist, an environmental chemist," I replied, regretting the use of "environmental" as soon as I'd said it.
"Ya don't say. . . . Well c'm'on in where hit's a little warmer."
We went through a breezeway, they call it a dogtrot, that divided the house into two sides, and entered a room on the right. A rectangular quilt frame hung from the ceiling and almost filled the room. A small fire was burning in the stone fireplace. Two framed sepia portraits hung high on the walls. A single bare bulb hung from a cord overhead. There was no TV, but a small radio was beside her stool. She turned the radio off.
"Ever hear of J. Vernon Magee?" she asked. I shook my head as she said, "I listen to him and one other radio-preacher ever' day."
I decided to get down to business, "Your name's not on my list and your. . ." I paused, "house is not on my map. May I ask your name?"
"Ever'body 'round these parts just calls me A'nt Gertie," she answered, "but I reckon you need to write my name down, huh?"
"Yes m'am."
"Well, write down 'Gertrude Jackson.'"
"Are you related to Mrs. Franklin in the green house down by the highway?" I asked.
"She's my baby sister. I'm the oldest. She's the youngest."
During our discussion I continued taking in the scene around me: the small part of the room that wasn't filled with the quilt-frame held a four-poster bed. The quilt frame was suspended at table-height and held a very old, black family Bible. The quilt looked finished to me.
"Have you noticed any problems with your water lately?" I asked.
"Nope. Why?"
"Shell Oil was drilling a natural gas well nearby and had problems. So they're checking all the water in the area. Can I take a sample of your water to test?"
"Well's on the porch. He'p yourself." She followed me down the dogtrot to the porch and watched as I recorded the pH of the sample and collected a jar of water to take with me.
"Dr. Marshall. . ." she began.
"Please call me BJ or Doc, Mrs. Jackson," I interrupted.
"OK. But you hafta call me A'nt Gertie."
"It's a deal."
"BJ, where're you from?"
"Hattiesburg. I graduated from the university there." I really needed to wind this conversation up and move on—this was only my second stop of the afternoon, and I was getting paid on the basis of the number of interviews and samples. More talk, less money. But this cabin had a powerful attraction. "How old is this cabin?"
She indicated she needed to sit down and motioned me back into her quilting room. I left my samples, clipboard, and equipment on the porch and followed her inside.
"My daddy's daddy built this cabin in 1871. My daddy was borned in this here room, and I was borned in that there room," she said as she pointed across the dogtrot. One of the portraits that I thought was ancient looked like a picture of her. Now it was my turn to switch my head back and forth between her face and a picture.
She noticed. "That was my daddy's mother. Folks always said I favored her. The other one is my daddy. Glad I didn't favor him instead," her laughter disarmed me.
She pointed to her Bible laying on the almost finished quilt, "BJ, I seen you lookin' outa the corner of your eye at my Bible. Are you one of them scientists 'at thinks the Bible is fulla nonsense?"
I didn't want to offend her, so I lied. "Oh, no m'am. I've read the Good Book, too. Would I offend you if I asked how old you are, A'nt Gertie?"
She laughed as she answered, "My goodness, boy! How could that offend anybody? How old do you think I am?"
"That's why I asked. I don't have any idea."
"Well I wasn't borned in this century. This house was 25 year old when I was borned. I'll be 84 if'n I live till the end of next month. An' I ain't never been to a doctor in my life. I got all o' my own teeth, and I can still thread a needle without no trouble."
Good manners prevented me from asking her all the questions that came to my mind, but such did not restrain her. "BJ, are you one of them folks 'at believes in 'evil-lution'?"
The last thing I wanted to do was threaten the beliefs of this kind woman, but this time I decided not to lie. "I'm not totally convinced, but, yes, I think evolution," slowly I pronounced it correctly for her, "is probably the best explanation we have of our origins."
"Didn't nobody ever take you to church when you was a kid?" she countered.
"As a matter of fact, my family was in church every Sunday. But I quit going sometime during college. That may help some folks, but I found I didn't really need it."
"You're an atheist?" she asked, making it sound ugly, like a cuss-word.
"No, m'am. I'm an agnostic." I responded, then quickly defined that for her. "I'm not sure if there is a God, and I'm not sure if anyone can know if there is."
I was so thankful that she changed the subject. "Son, do you know anything about making quilts?" I shook my head and she continued, "come look close at this quilt I'm sewing. It's all hand-cut and hand-stitched. Takes me six to eight weeks to make a quilt—longer if'n hits big-sized. Ever' one of my nephews and nieces and cousins' kids gets one of my quilts when they finish high school.
"This is what I tell 'em: 'with every stitch sewed in this quilt, I called your name to the Lord Jesus and asked Him to save and protect and bless you, child. Count 'em an' see how much your A'nt Gertie loves you.'"
As I turned to leave she said, "Don't go yet, BJ. C'm're. I wanna show you sumpin'." She led me into the next room, opened a trunk and took out another quilt. "My Ma taught me quilting. She was better'n I'll ever be. This was the best quilt she ever made. And hits the only one I have 'at she made. Look at it."
She spread the most beautifully colorful and intricate quilt I had ever seen across the bed. I had to look hard to see the stitches, they were almost invisible. "You ain't never gonna see better sewing 'an that," she said. "And. . ." she paused for effect, "my ma made hit all by herself. Cut and sewed ever' piece. . .even though she'd been blind for twenty years."
"No! That's unbelievable! Surely you're kidding!" I responded, a little too loudly.
After a short silence, she said, "I was kiddin' BJ. My ma weren't blind. But why do you think that's unbelievable, when you believe all the plants and animals, the sun, moon, and stars, the sky and ocean, the mountains and valleys, and the very body that you're a'livin' in—all more complicated and beautiful than this little quilt—came to be by evil-lution? Without the Creator making it all happen?
"You probably don't really believe the Bible, but in one place it says that 'cause God revealed Hisself in what He's made, people ain't got no excuse for not knowin' Him." Her eyebrows arched as she finished, "I guess that'll leave you scientists—who've studied so mucha what He made—high 'n' dry on Judgment Day. Huh?" Her tone was not combative, but sincere, earnest.
I smiled and decided not to debate her—this unschooled country woman could never understand modern scientific theories anyway. "I really need to get back to work now, A'nt Gertie."
What she whispered next was so unbelieveable that I didn't fully appreciate what she said for a moment. "BJ, I'd like to give you my ma's quilt."
Her offer was like a thunderbolt! This quilt was her most precious reminder of her mother, certainly the most precious possession of her impoverished life. But her eyes said that she meant it. Why would she give it to me?
"I couldn't take that from you, m'am." But my eyes refused to continue looking at her's.
"Who stole your faith in God, BJ? You trusted Him as a child, didn't you?"
I fought to keep the tears in my eyes from flowing. Why should I pour my soul out to this old backwoods woman?
I spoke quietly, very controlled, "A'nt Gertie, you've lived a good, simple life. My life's had a lot of pain. I finally concluded that so much evil in this world pretty much proves there is no good, all-powerful God. In many ways I wish I could have your faith in God, but I don't."
She smiled kindly as she softly said, "Let me tell you a little about my 'good, simple life.'
"My mother died in childbirth when I was jus' 13. My father and his mother raised me. I had to grow up fast. I didn't have no time to get no schoolin'. I he'p'd raise my seven brothers and sisters. Washin', ironin', cookin', cleanin', an' gettin' them kids to school. I worked in the garden and in the house.
"I buried my pa and grandma when I was 18. I married the next year. I buried my only child when he was three. Buried my husband that same winter. Fever killed 'em both.
"Though I'm the firstborn, I've buried all of my kin except my baby sister. BJ, I ain't no stranger to suffering."
"Then please tell me how you can believe in the God described in the Bible!" I interjected.
"If I tol' you 'bout my friend Phyllis Mosby, an' you laughed an' said there weren't no Phyllis Mosby, I wouldn't start wonderin' if you was right. When I tell you 'bout my closest friend Jesus, an' you tell me you doubt He is, I don't start wonderin' if you're right. I don't know about Him, BJ. I know Him.
"BJ, you might be mad at Him, but the Lord Jesus still loves you." The way she talked about Jesus the same way I'd talk about my wife—personally and concretely—annoyed me. "God ain't our problem, BJ. We are. Once Adam and Eve" (here I smirked visibly) "did what God tol' 'em not to, we've had trouble doin' right ever since.
"You ask how can I believe in God. BJ, how could I've gone through this life if I hadn't a let Him he'p me? I don't know."
I kept trying to leave, but some invisible force had a grip on me, and I couldn't move. I broke eye contact because tears threatened to erupt at any moment.
"Can I pray for you, BJ?" Another thunderbolt! I didn't answer, but in a moment she started praying. I don't remember anything she said, but some of the words were love, grace, mercy, forgive, and peace. She also said something about healing, but I didn't understand any of it. A long awkward silence followed her "Amen."
"I'm awfully late, A'nt Gertie. I really must leave," I tried to sound urgent as I walked toward the door and freedom. "I'll call you sometime," I said, then remembered she had no phone. "Well, maybe I'll stop by again one day." I had the door open now and was on the dogtrot.
She knew I would be working the area for weeks. "BJ, stop by at noon any day and eat lunch with me. I'd be proud to fix you lunch anytime."
"I 'spect I'll do just that one day, A'nt Gertie. I 'spect I will." I picked up my samples and equipment and walked into the yard.
"Tomorrow I'm gonna start making you a quilt, BJ," she called after me. I turned and stood still for several moments looking silently at her, considering all that that announcement indicated.
"I think I'd really like that a lot, A'nt Gertie."
I walked quickly until I was out of sight of the house, then I slowed to a leisurely pace and finally stopped walking altogether. I'd been crying for a while before I realized it, and then it was too late to stop. Why was I weeping?
As I walked to the truck I had this surreal feeling that I was not alone. Things I had been taught as a child were coming to my mind uninvited. What was happening to me? God was somehow making Himself real to me. Not an abstract force, not a high-blown philosophy, not an ethic—but a real Person. I knew I could never again claim to be an agnostic. I now believed!
I lost all track of time, but some time later I finished the journey to the truck. I hardly had time to make any more visits today. Besides, I wanted to be alone for a while longer—I had a lot of things to think through.
I turned and looked back in the direction I had come and very quietly affirmed, "I'll see you at lunch tomorrow, m'am. Put lots of red in my quilt, A'nt Gertie. And make it real slow."
The whole world looked brand new to me as I drove slowly toward home.
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