Silver Light
Jeremy Perkins
Religious Isolation
Rocky fields and giant boulders enclosed stolid buildings huddled together in the frost and snow. Only a few citizens scurried about the streets in the solitary expanse of nothingness that was the town. While Desolate supported grazing animals during the warmer months, nothing stirred outside now, giving the place the temporary illusion of being isolated from the rest of the world.
A few majestic Elm trees stood tall above the evenly dispersed rock, while tightly packed coniferous and deciduous trees lined the dark forest, bowing slightly with the weight of months of ice and snow. The Elms served sentinels from times passed, and icicles hung from road signs. Metaphors had never come easily to Reverend Jonathan Hebard, who had lived in Desolate for 50 years. He was born there, and his parents and grandparents had lived before him. Johnathan was a facts man. He believed in a right and a wrong. He loved the history and the brutality of living in such a harsh environment, and he knew in his heart that hard living created “good moral fiber,” if nothing else. Desolate’s constant effrontery on man and the savagery of its nature brought contemplating God’s love into a glaringly powerful sort of few. He thought about his family now and the first settlers of such a barren expense.
Settled in 1791, Desolate was made up mostly of Scottish immigrants making their way northward from Connecticut and Rhode Island. These settlers brought grazing animals (sheep and cattle) to help clear the land and feed the family. Although, at one point, the railroad had snaked its way from Boston, through town, and onto Montreal, now the tracks lay empty and quiet. During the railroad days, hotels, factories, and many stores popped up throughout town. Still, those buildings lay dormant, and farming and religion made up the only remaining commerce the dying town could muster.
Jonathan often thought about how well farming and religion went together. In a beautiful, simple way, agriculture and religion required nothing more of man than faith.
“Plant the corn seed in the ground, water it, fertilize it, and have faith that it will grow, just as God planted man, provided for him, and watched over him.” He sighed contentedly as he reminisced about his father’s stories, told by the black, pot-bellied wood stove in the meager unfinished kitchen of the white farmhouse where he grew up.
Jonathan’s father had farmed for practically all of his life. He worked his three-hundred acres religiously with an ignorance and cruelty that is now lost. But not cruelty, really, more like an unwillingness to fail. His hands were strong and gnarled, with swelled, oversized joints and black earth permanently embedded in the creases and under his fingernails. Yet, for all their roughness, there was, at the same time, a strange softness and patience that came from an understanding of nature that few have today.
“Life is life,” he used to say (as you would imagine a farmer from Desolate to say it). “Not all life survives, ya know. Those who fight are the only ones who make it out alive. I’ve seen what I thought was a dead newborn calf spring back to life at the last second just because she wanted it so bad; feisty girl, that one. Yup, some never make it, he paused, but some do. It has always been that way and will prolly always be.”
His conversations about nature and life had always gone that way. Each made demands of the other, traded blows, celebrated victories, and conceded losses. Ultimately, Nature would always win, as they both knew. She always did. But, every day, Jonathan’s father brutally tilled the soil, mended the fences, and took back what Nature took from him, if not fleetingly. And at the end of the day, chores weighing heavily on his bones and a good, thick stew in his stomach, he would sit in his rocker, smoke his pipe full of cherry tobacco, and think about his life and of God.
When he put his father in the ground, Jonathan refused to leave his side. He had refused to see his beloved father, who had lived his life so purely, as a puffy, purple lump of flesh, pumped full of embalming fluid. It seemed as if Life had won that round. Though perhaps they had sustained each other in their tug-o-war, it felt so unnatural to Johnathan that God had not reached down and plucked his grandfather out of the earth right then and there.
“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust...” he repeated slowly and finally turned to leave.
Johnathan smiled wryly to himself. How naive he had been to not realize that God’s plan always accounted for everything. Then, he felt the lightest whisper of a hand on his back, pulling him from his daze. He was being shaken awake by his brother. Ben was standing over him, wearing an insulated, thick blue blanket. His face was flushed from only a few seconds in the biting wind. He could see that Jason’s ears and nose were bright red and starting to develop little flecks of white at their tips.
“Why don’t you come inside, Jon? You’re freezing,” he said in a worried yet very careworn tone.
Johnathan put his hands to his ears, realizing for the first time the danger of frostbite. As if in a trance, he answered, “Yes, OK. Let’s go in. " After a moment, he arose from his chair and started pacing the room.
“Brother, why do you worry so much? Why do you daydream all of the time? Jeremy is lost. Your son is not coming back. You are not going to find him by staring out into the blizzard,” he pleaded in that desperate way people plead when they don’t know what else to do.
“That is not it. It’s OK. It’s nothing, really.” Jonathan turned to go to the bedroom with an audible sigh, and Ben sat silently and prayed.
Ben had started staying with his brother a few months after Old Doc Richardson found the Reverend roaming about in his fields in the snow and sleet. It was dusk, and Richardson had seen something shadowy milling about outside. He was quick to get his rifle, as he was sure the coy dogs were back again. But what he found, to his surprise, was a very agitated and deranged man in full church regalia trying to lift a giant field boulder, screaming, “Jeremy, I’ve found you. Hold on, son!”
The site would have been quite ridiculous if it had not been so sad. The doctor paused for the slightest moment to consider the strangeness of the situation before rushing out to the aid of the Reverend. The doctor, his wife, and his two teenage sons dragged Jonathan back into the house. They wrapped him in blankets and sat him in front of the fire, for he was shaking miserably and was white as a ghost as he mumbled incoherently to himself. Jonathan seemed to have recovered fully the following day but could not explain what he was doing in the field. So, finally, the doctor just called Ben to come and get him.
Johnathan had inherited his father’s muscular build, stolid countenance, and brutal view of the world. He had also inherited his father’s silvery black hair, which was now thinning at the top. He had even the same ice-blue eyes, which made his sermons seem more intense as if he were looking right at you and probing deep into your soul. But he had not inherited his father’s relationship with nature nor the ability to understand it. And he could not hide his ire at God for his little boy being stillborn last winter. He modeled his life philosophically after his father, and he thanked God daily for all His gifts. He led a good, strong life by example and following the Lord in great stride, just as he imagined his father had. And that was all the fulfillment he needed.
Metaphors never came easily to Jonathan, and there was never a moment he did not think about the death of his son. He fell into a void of guilt and self-doubt and blamed himself for what happened to Jeremy. He even closed the church, no longer held sermons, and cried every day. He soon became obsessed with the idea that he could find his son if he searched hard enough. He did not sleep for many days, and those many days turned into many weeks. He soon fell ill and would not come out of his room. He grew pale, developed a fever, and waisted away day by day.
Then, a year after Jonathan had first withdrawn into himself, in the spring, a revelation came to him in a dream. He dreamed that God began to communicate with him. Waves of warmth and ghosts of memories floated before his eyes. He saw a young version of himself with strength and vision. He saw a leader and a young boy with a vision. He saw someone he admired without self-doubt, shame, or guilt, and he wondered what had happened to that boy. Again and again waves and visions washed over him. He felt blanketed in the warmth and nourishment of these memories. Suddenly, he was aware of something warm growing inside of him. At first, he thought that God was touching him, and many ideas that did not align with what he knew to be the Lord began to coagulate in his head. He became scared. “Let God be big in your heart, and something young will be born inside you.” He ran his hands slowly over his stomach and wondered. Was God growing inside of him? Who? Was it Jeremy?
“How can this be,“ he called out.
“The secret is inside of you. The life is inside of you. God be with you,” the voice inside of his head continued. Jonathan felt his stomach again. It was warm to the touch and radiated a strange silver light, which he considered divine. Jonathan laughed joyously at what was happening. He felt the young thing inside of him taking control, like a paladin in a chain mail of faith, like a champion of God’s Word. His stomach felt like somebody had poked millions of tiny needles into it.
Jonathan was nothing more than a skeleton when he finally emerged from his room, and when Ben tried to communicate with him, he only wept. But this time, he did not weep for his son or himself. Instead, he wept for his followers, the flock he had left alone during his insecurity and sorrow. The reverend had developed the idea that he would surely go to Hell for leaving his people alone, and memories of his son ate at him like cancer. Yet, somehow, he could brush the weight of this memory off with the knowledge that he carried something wonderful inside of him.
Meanwhile, Jonathan’s followers continually asked around town when their beloved reverend would return to them, and soon, the news of the clamor reached Ben. Ben tried to mitigate the situation by carefully picking bits and pieces of overheard conversations and leaking them to his brother for motivation. He could not know that Jonathan was already planning his return.
Then, that Saturday evening, the reverend arose from his bed, dressed in his best church regalia, threw on his heaviest coat, and snuck out the door before Ben knew he was gone. Barely a skeleton, he thrust open the church doors like Samson. As word spread, all were jubilant to see that their beloved leader was still alive, but they also wondered how the once tall, proud, and strong man they once knew had now become so weak, gray, and hunched over. Despite his diminished appearance, the reverend seemed to glide to the front of the church with little effort; his stomach was still warm and prickly, and he was excited to have returned. He felt rejuvenated, as if a powerful trance told him what to do and say.
Townsfolk began trickling into the church like ants, and Jonathan opened his sermon with one word.
“Welcome,” and smiled warmly.
“You may all have wondered where I have been for the last year. “Well,” he paused, “I have been finding the answers; I have been finding myself, as you all should. I look weak, I know, but I am strong! I have found the strength of ten men. I have talked with God, and He has told me this one truth.” He paused to be sure everyone was in good attention. Satisfied, he continued in his best orator’s voice, “Let God be big in your heart, and something big will be born inside of you!”
The group did not know what to say. A thick shroud of murmurs formed up like a cloud as folks shifted nervously in their seats. This talk was nothing like what they had heard from the steely, brutal reverend they knew, and they began to doubt that he had fully returned to them. Then someone spoke. It was Neatty, the town harlot.
“I missed you,” she said. “I was lost without you not here. I have searched myself for God many times, but He did not answer me. I waited for you to come back to answer my questions, and you did not come. Now you claim that you are back, but how can I be sure?”
“Neatty,” Jonathan’s voice finally came after bowing his head in reflection of internal struggle. “You must continue to look inside of yourself. When you find God, you will know it. Something warm and young and wonderful will be born inside of you, too. I am sorry that I left. I had lost myself for a time. I had lost my God. You continued your search without me, and I am glad. Also, you all - he looked around at his flock - came together in my absence, and it gives me strength to know you have found each other. It seems to me, in that, you have found God.
Neatty was confused. She did not understand what was being born inside her or the reverend’s words, so she nodded and became silent.
“Will you leave us again?” asked Deak Furguson, Fire Chief.
“No. I will always be with you. But do not depend too heavily on me. Realize that God is inside of you. The Lord is everywhere,” answered Jonathan.
Then something very bizarre happened to the Reverend. The young thing within his stomach kicked him and became quite warm. He immediately stopped talking, turned white, and looked as if he would faint. He spoke a final phrase - “lift a rock and you will find Me; turn a log, and I am there” - and then he fainted.
The group gasped, and many surged forward to help him. Those who reached him first helped him up to a sitting position and hugged him. His eyes suddenly popped open, and he smiled a warm smile that is still said to have melted the snow outside the church.
“Thank you. Thank you. I love you all. Love each other. Go now and spread that love,” he said, not making eye contact with anyone, talking as if he was having a dream.
Then, the entire group left Jonathan’s side and seemed to forget about him entirely, rushing toward the door. They all smiled and hugged one another, chattering excitedly as they stampeded out of the church. Back in the church, Jonathan slumped to the floor, physically not well and suffering from exhaustion and malnutrition. His stamina - a miracle it had lasted this long - had finally run out. He closed his eyes and rubbed his stomach, soaking up the warmth. He was cold, and his body was giving out on him. He lay helplessly on the floor and closed his eyes, listening to his rhythmically diminishing breathing, holding himself.
Ben, who had been watching from the back of the church, slowly approached and leaned close enough to hear the Reverend mouth the words, “Don’t worry, you’re safe with me now,” a tear rolling down his cheek and staining the alter floor dark, like ink. Ben then kissed his brother on the forehead as his breathing slowly stopped. He would never be entirely sure whether Jonathan was talking to his father or his son, though Ben suspected they had been one-in-the-same at that moment.