After Eli by Terry Kay

it. He lifted his face to the exact center of the ceiling and his lips parted and his throat quivered with the beginning of a word.
    “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want—” he recited in a voice that rose in a roar from his chest.
    “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—”
    His voice rumbled in a song cadence and the words were flung far across the small church, driving the sword of David into the breast of every listener.
    He ended the psalm with a breathless “Amen” and stood trembling, washed in the rush of the echo: “…dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” He stepped from the pulpit and walked unsteadily to the front of the coffin. He looked once into the frozen face of Mama Ada and gently whispered, “Ada.”
    He watched her for a long moment, as though expecting a reply, and then he turned to the congregation.
    “Ada,” he said again. “Ada liked singin’. Told me once to bury her with singin’, with a sermon about singin’. Said to make it soft and sweet, like precious Jesus. Said to make it loud and strong, like God laughin’. Said to tell people to go to her graveside with singin’ on their lips and in their souls.”
    He raised his deformed hands before him and locked them at the wrists. He stared at a pinspot of the ceiling, the space-map linking him to God, and his mouth opened and his voice flew from his throat like a wind.
    “Sing your songs, O people,” he said happily. “Sing of light, not darkness. Sing of joy, not sorrow. Sing in celebration, not in lamentation. Sing with spirits soarin’, not laggin’.”
    A voice from the congregation muttered, “ Amen, ” and the minister bowed his head and pulled his hands to his chest and smiled triumphantly.
    “Death’s not a draggin’-down angel to them that’s fearin’ God,” he began again, quietly, patiently. “Death’s not mean-faced to the lover of Jesus’ name.”
    “ Amen. In Jesus’ name. ”
    “Death’s a turnin’ loose of everythin’ that’s knotted up and tiresome. Death’s a heart filled with laughin’ to them that’s been hurt with burdens. Death’s a roomful of happy faces to them that’s been alone. Death’s a whirlwind trip over the whole universe to them that’s never traveled anywhere except in dreamin’.”
    “ Praise God. ”
    “Death’s a clean mountain mornin’ to God’s child. It’s the first snow of first winter. It’s spring’s bloom. It’s summer’s goodness. It’s autumn’s harvest.”
    “ Glory be to God. ”
    The old minister paused and his head lifted and his smile broadened and his arms spread in an embrace of the room. His voice became a whisper.
    “Death’s just God’s way of showin’ His believers what it’s like to be forever achin’ with happiness. O my people, happiness. Happiness in bein’ free of all this old world’s pain. Bein’ free of anger. Bein’ free of fear. Bein’ free of always wantin’ more.”
    “ Free, dear Jesus, free. ”
    “Death. Death. Old, old Death. Where is he, anyhow? Where’s his hidin’ place? Up in the mountain? Somewhere in town? Down by the river? Where’s his hidin’ place? What is old Death, anyhow?
    “Death’s not some ghost, sneakin’ in when it’s pitch-black night.
    “O my people, that’s not what old Death is.
    “Death’s God’s mercy comin’ on the quiet, swift wings of sweet, sweet angels. O yes, my people. That’s what Death is.”
    “ Sweet Jesus. ”
    The old minister stepped forward in the aisle. His eyes swept the congregation and he nodded happily. He turned to Floyd.
    “Sweet, sweet angels, brother Floyd. Picked by the Almighty God Jehovah, Himself. Gentle angels who hear God’s message and do God’s will with gladness. Gladness because they know, brother Floyd. O my people, they know.
    “They know what’s ahead for the good. The good like Sister Ada. They’ve been on the bosom of God, restin’ their weary heads against His great,