FIRE IN THE HOUSE
FIRE IN THE HOUSE
By John Tuft
Gertie lives on the streets of a North Carolina city. She is slender with dark skin, and keeps her head close shaved to keep away the pesky lice. Dumpster diving and collecting glass bottles and empty cans has its own risks to health and appearance. The wrinkles on her face are a map of pain. Some is the pain of her own life’s losses and indignities, some pain is foisted upon her by those who decide that they know the reason she is on the streets. And the proper path for her to follow to change her situation. Each Sunday, Gertie goes to the First Presbyterian Church for the 11:00am worship service. She takes a seat in the second pew from the front and settles her things around her. The backpack bulging with clothes and toiletries goes to her left. To her right, the current plastic garbage bag with the morning’s haul so far of bottles and cans.
She takes the hymnal out of the rack and holds it close to her chest, as though it’s a shield against the stares and whispers of God’s chosen perishables. When one is seen as a sideshow spectacle, and a sad one at that, the slings and arrows of the righteous tipped with the poison of ‘thank God I’m better than that’ can be quite brutal. Gertie is used to suffering the follies of this fate, and as worship begins she pays rapt attention. When it comes time for the prayer of confession, Gertie gets up from the pew and comes and lies prostrate on the steps leading to the platform. Nervous titters and groans accompany her, but Gertie is oblivious to all but her felt need for forgiveness and acknowledging her own tresspasses, past and present. On the streets or in the heart.
As she prostrates herself, Gertie says very loudy, “Fire in the house! Fire in the house of the Lord!” The Reverend Preacher is a bit nonplussed, but doesn’t want to cause a scene, God forbid. Reverend Preacher takes a tentative step toward the figure stretched out beneath the gilded cross that hangs from the ceiling of the nave. Some strange wind stirs in the holy sanctuary and the cross begins to oscillate, high above the worship taking place below. Back and forth, round and round, as though stirring some unseen pot of extreme unction below. Gertie rises after the assurance of forgiveness and dips a hand in the baptismal font and splashes her face in refreshment. She glances up at the giant cross in motion high overhead and smiles. “I got you, Big Guy. I got you.”
What worship can proceed as usual after this? Presbyterian worship, that’s who. The Reverend Preacher’s assistant ministrator calls the children to the front for their special little sermon. Gertie claps her hands and comes forward to sit among them. She touches each child on top of their heads, excitedly proclaiming, “Fire in the house. Fire in the house of the Lord.” Parents cringe and the Reverend Preacher is already imagining the calls he’s about to get. Angry calls. How dare you calls. Why is she allowed in here, calls. Think of the children calls. During the story time, Gertie goes to fetch her backpack. She goes from child to child, handing them each a gift. A toothbrush. A comb. A bottle of baby shampoo. An unrecognizable rag. Some socks. When the children are dismissed she accompanies them to the door, murmuring to each one, “Fire in the house. Fire in the house.”
During the sermon by the Reverend Preacher, the sound of loud snoring issues from the second pew from the front. Gertie is stretched out using her backpack as a pillow, resting in the balm of Gilead, covered by the grace of the oscillating cross. When it’s time for the offering, she is instantly awake and there is loud clanging and clinking as she digs through her bag of recyclables. When the offering plates are too shallow for her gifts, she lugs the entire contents of the bag upfront during the singing of the doxology. At the loud Amen, she gleefully empties the contents over the communion table, crying “Fire in the house. Fire in the house of the Lord.”
At the benediction, Gertie is in tears. Great drops like blood staining the carpet below where she stands. The sanctuary quickly empties out behind her. You would need to stand very close to her to hear what she said. “Thank you. Thank you for this home.” She murmurs it over and over. For she is the true fire in the house…fire in the house of the Lord.
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
