Prayers of Agnes Sparrow by Joyce Magnin Page A

blessed. I sat with Hezekiah and Vidalia, when she wasn’t running all around catering to the needs of the congregation.
    “Such is the duty of the potluck committee,” she said after Janeen complained that the second macaroni and cheese hadn’t been brought from the kitchen.
    Ruth and Cora sat with the Speedwells, and the two women never glowed as brightly as they chewed their roast beef and potatoes.
    “I can see why folks would never want to leave Bright's Pond,” Hezekiah said.
    “You stay as long as you like,” Vidalia said. “I got no plans for your room.”
    Hezekiah smiled and loosened his tie. “I wasn’t certain how to dress for a church potluck. But seeing how Jesus showed up and all, I’m glad I bought this suit.”
    “You look very nice,” I said. And he did. That evening Hezekiah was a far cry from the bedraggled man I found rooting through our trash. His color was better, and he had put on some weight that was especially evident in his face. He looked more like a man and less like an outcast.
    After dessert was served and the tables cleared, Pastor Speedwell stood up.
    “I was going to tell you people the story of Daniel in the lion's den, but after what happened in this room tonight I feel it just ain’t the right story.”
    Cora and Ruth both beamed when Pastor put his hands on their shoulders.
    “We got Agnes to thank,” he said. “Let us rejoice and thank God Almighty for the prayers of Agnes Sparrow.”
    Five minutes later people were on their feet singing and rejoicing as Pastor told how Jesus had seen fit to enter our midst that evening.
    “It is a sign—a sign, brothers and sisters—that Jesus has found favor with Bright's Pond: favor through Sister Agnes, favor through Cora and Zeb and Ruth.”
    He balled his hand into a fist and pounded the table, causing the dishes and glasses to rattle. “If God is for us, who,I say who, can be against us? Or better yet, I say … what? What can be against us? Not cancer.”
    “Hallelujah,” shouted Janeen Sturgis.
    “Amen,” said Studebaker.
    Pastor smiled and looked around the room. “Not heart trouble or ulcers. Not even a hangnail is lost from the healing touch of God Almighty through the praying lips of Sister Agnes Sparrow.”
    Another round of applause rose up, and people shouted their hallelujahs. Cora cried as Ruth held her hand. Pastor went on like that for the better part of an hour until the folks with little children dribbled out and the older folks started to fall asleep.
    He claimed every miracle, every lost object, every saved marriage, every soothed bunion and arthritic hip in town. Finally, by 9:30 he wrapped it up, and Janeen shouted one final hallelujah with her hands raised over her head as she danced a little jig.
    The pie, by the way, sat in the church refrigerator for the better part of two weeks until Jack Cooper finally had enough of it. I was on my way home from food shopping when I saw him sitting on the church steps with the pie on his knees.
    “Watcha doing?” I hollered across the street.
    “I just don’t know what to do with it.” He stood up and stretched the pie toward me. “You wanna care for this Jesus pie?”
    “It's not Jesus pie, Jack. It's lemon meringue.”
    “But this sure does look like his face, Griselda. I can’t see tossing it in the trash … and even Pastor said he saw him.”
    Crows chattered and squawked in the trees above the church. “How about if you feed it to the birds.”
    Jack looked up into the branches and then gently sat the pie on the snowy, church lawn.
    “Maybe the birds will fly it back to Jesus,” Jack said.
    Within seconds a flock of crows gathered around the pie like chubby women at a basement bargain bin, each taking a bite and flying toward heaven until all that was left was the silver pie tin glinting in the afternoon sun.
    Agnes wasn’t so impressed about the Jesus pie, although she didn’t entirely dismiss it. I wasn’t even going to tell her but I