“Oh, Death done reached out and grabbed me,” he thought to himself. 

 He was aware of more than he thought he would be under such pitiful circumstances.  He could still feel the ground, hard and damp under his lifeless body and the pain, especially in his head, was much greater than what he was told it should be in death – “there will be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor pain”- he remembered the words of his father, often spoken in efforts to convert his boy from his too frequent wicked choices.  

“Ain’t got to that part yet,” he thought as he reasoned why he still felt the awful sensation or why he wasn’t floating or seeing angels or faces he might know.  

“Where are you, Daddy?”  Years of attending church services, protracted meetings, revivals, and working in the fields or sitting on the porch with the man had led him to believe his father would be greeting him in Heaven:  Just like our Father who watches over all we do, and longs for us to come be with him in Heaven, I want my boys and girls to live such a way as do I so that, when their time comes, I may be afforded the opportunity to greet them at Heaven’s door.  

There was no Daddy.  There was no Heaven’s door, no angels or harps or light or anything of the sort.  There was just the damp, hard ground and the pain.  And there was the sound of the car’s engine, the old Model A, banged up when he bought the thing and most likely tore all to pieces now, scattered all over the highway.  And there were voices, alarmed and drawing near to him.  As his eyes struggled to open, he saw dim light.  

Within seconds, they were around him.  They were not the angels he expected but rather people, regular sorts in dress shirts and ties and Sunday-best dresses, men and women with hats adorning their heads.  

“Is he still alive?” he heard one shout as another retorted, “He ain’t alive.  He hit that ditch a flyin’ and flipped that car of his five or ten times.  I seen it and counted every roll.” 

Through half-opened, blood-soaked eyes, he saw the first one to reach him.  A dirty, grizzled, unshaven face, still covered with much of the grime collected from a day of hard labors, but clothed in a body covered with a crisp white shirt and a faded tie.  He felt the man’s touch as he placed his hand on his face and lay his head on his chest. 

“He ain’t dead!  He’s still alive!” the man shouted as he turned back to the others.  

“Praise Jesus!” he heard a woman shout, joined by the flock as they, too, heaped accolades on the unseen force that delivered this young man to them in such an unexpected way.  

“Get him to the altar!” he heard another man shout and he suddenly felt the arms of several strong men reach under him and lift him into the air.  

“Whoa!” he heard another man bellow.  “His back might be broken and you could paralyze him!” 

His original savior responded, “It ain’t gonna matter ‘bout that.  He’s a dyin’ and he aint’ found Jesus yet! He’s drenched in hootch!  I aint’ worried ‘bout his back.  We gotta keep him outta Hell!” 

As he was being unceremoniously carried across the grassy expanse, he heard the voice of a lady identify him.  “Why that’s Argil Coleman!  Reverend Coleman’s son!  Why, his dear momma would…”. 

“That is Argil,” another man opined, adding, “He’s as wild as a coon with rabies!  We best get him up there quick.  That’s the way his folks would want it!” 

“Oh, God!” Argil thought. “I ain’t dead.”

He opened his mouth, and through blood-spattered, swollen lips pleaded, “Get me to the altar.  I’m a dyin’.”  

“Boy, you’re lucky you ain’t already dead,” offered an old man walking alongside the caregivers.  An unlit cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he spoke, he continued, “I see’d your lights as you was coming down the road yonder.  You was a flyin’ all over that road and I knowed you was on the hootch.  I was young once and I know what that stuff’ll do to ya.  Worse than what a woman’ll cause you to…” The old man suddenly stopped and shifted his eyes to some of the older ladies in the crowd, fearful that his impromptu testimony might reveal more than it should.  “Git him to the altar!” he finished.

“Yes.  Clear away!” said another voice, heard by Argil for the first time and different from the others.  Though the glare from the car lights shining into the large tent somewhat blinded him, Argil recognized the tone of the voice as being that of a person used to being in charge.  As his eyes continued to adjust to the light, they fell upon the man. 

He was tall and solid-built, immaculately dressed in a dark, double-breasted suit and matching tie.  His spectacles made him appear older than he probably was and the diamond in his lapel pin hinted of a wealth the others most likely only dreamt of.  His receding hairline was exceedingly harsh owing to a generous amount of Groom and Clean applied just like the movie stars did.  

Though still reeling from the pain coursing through his body, addled as he was, Argil instantly recognized the stolid figure.  

Floyd Jennings had been a local celebrity for many years.  Sneaking off and enlisting at the age of sixteen, he had returned from Europe and World War I, with stories of heroics while dodging enemy bullets, even surviving being gassed.  He completed studies at Cumberland University, securing his law degree and quickly establishing a thriving practice where he often sparred with his brothers, lawyers as well, both in the county’s courthouse and in the local park where court was held on hot summer days beneath the spreading branches of giant oaks.  Large crowds would often gather there, amused by the witty legal banter of the Jennings brothers.  Floyd had once successfully represented Argil’s family in a contractual case against the family of a prominent local doctor, arguing against a younger Jennings brother who represented the defendants.  The younger brother smarted to such an extent the loss to Floyd that the two returned home and picked up their boxing gloves whereupon the elder brother again whipped the younger, the match put to an end by an exasperated mother.

Floyd had moved on to Nashville and then to Memphis to work with Boss Crump, where, in a strangeness that only added to his local legend, he disappeared from his practice, leaving behind his clothes and identification on the DeSoto Bridge, giving the impression he had abandoned life for the murky depths of the Mississippi River.  

His widow was inconsolable but skeptical: Floyd’s vivacious, attractive and quite single secretary had resigned her post just a few days prior and had departed Memphis for parts unknown.  

Months would pass before the widow received a large envelope postmarked “Hollywood, California”.  The Bill of Divorcement announced the gig was up: Floyd was very much alive, had charged himself with abandonment and wanted his widowed wife to no longer suffer the indignities he had inflicted upon her.

Floyd’s new life in Hollywood included a vivacious, attractive lady whose secretarial skills had been much appreciated back in Memphis.  The two were soon married and, in a gradual but escalating act of penance, Floyd abandoned the practice of law to become a traveling evangelist and it was in this capacity that Floyd now stood over the near lifeless body of Argil Coleman laying at the altar of the tent revival.  

Floyd did not recognize the man but did remember the name.  “Dear God in Heaven,” he enjoined, lifting up his arms as though to better capture whatever blessings might fall their way, “we beg you to shower down upon this wayward soul your blessings of forgiveness so that he might recognize the error of his ways before it is everlastingly too late. “

“Amen!” shouted the crowd amid eruptions of “Praise Jesus!” as well. 

“We’ve all fallen from the straight and narrow path at times in our wicked lives and it’s been your deep and abiding love and the generous blessed grace that has pulled us from the murky depths of our self-inflicted despair so that we have the opportunity to wash clean our sin-soaked bodies!” the evangelist intoned.  Casting his spectacled gaze directly at Argil, he pointed in his direction.  “You’ve delivered one to us now, soaked in whiskey and the despair drowned in its tempting taste, covered in his own blood – blood given to him by a saintly mother and father – a prodigal son covered in the filth and smell of the manure heaped upon him by his own riotous living.  He stinks to us like the vile vermin he is, wicked in his atrocities committed, lewd in his wanton, licentious behavior, dismantling whatever good character his parents had instilled within to become this swine of debauched, disreputable character instead.”  

 Argil had been tongue-lashed before, but never to such an extent as this and he found this verbal whipping, and the circumstances in which he lay, affecting him profoundly.  “Save me before I die!”, he pleaded.  “I want to see my Daddy in heaven!  I don’t wanna go to Hell!”, he muttered through tear-soaked words.  

“Amen!”, the crowd cried as many drew closer to aid in the process and to possibly witness a dramatic death and resurrection right before their eyes.  

“None of us here tonight can do that, young man,” said Evangelist Jennings.  “I can intercede on your behalf with the Lord.  I can beg for his mercy for you, but it will be you who will have to call out to him.  If you earnestly do that – call upon his name – he will take your infested body and if it’s indeed your time, and I have to tell you, it looks like it is, you will fly to heaven on the wings of angels before this night is over.  But you cannot waver nor tarry for the time draweth near for us but most especially, for you, young man.  Martha Ann, play the sweet sounds of “Just As I Am” for Argil and anyone else here tonight who might be contemplating crawling from the filth and manure of their lives to the cleanliness and sweet perfume offered by the Lord.  Contrast that with the eternal effects and damnation of Hell and make your choice before it’s too late!”  

As Argil heard the small organ begin the strains of “Just As I Am”, he pleaded for God to hear his cries of desperation.  If tonight was the night, he wanted to go to Heaven.  Though often warned of the flames of Hell, they had seemed distant and remote, but tonight, he swore he could feel the heat rising toward him.  The flock gathered around him, lay their hands upon him, and prayed for him.  Tears fell aplenty and before he knew it, a feeling of peace swept over him and he felt the flames of Hell abate.  His fellow believers helped wash away his sins and the blood and grime from the wreck, the lingering effects of which would turn out to be a bad concussion and a few broken ribs.  

Argil Coleman would return home that night offering to his wife and family a new man, somewhat broken in body – and without a car – but renewed in a spirit that guided the rest of his long, simple life.