lightning flashes
About the only thing that can reliably get me in a pure writing mood is a thunderstorm. Must be something about the constant reminders of the relative speeds of light and sound. Science always gets me raring to go like that.
It's occurred to me that I haven't written anything about Jacksonville, or what I did there. Sorry. I neglect this thing on a semi-regular basis, and once you get out of the habit it's hard to go back. This probably explains why I can't keep a gym schedule. Miss one night, and I'm screwed for the week. One of these days I'm turning my body into a bona-fide killing machine, but for now I'll have to be content with stealth flab and the constant threat of a potbelly.
Oh, yeah. Jacksonville.
The night before I went to the church in the swamp, there was a storm. This isn't unusual, because it rains once a day down there around June or so, but this one was pretty big, so I remember it well. I didn't know it yet, but I was going to be assigned that day to cover a burgeoning but minor local crisis. The Times-Union had received an e-mail from a woman who lived in Sanderson, a tiny town about forty-five minutes away from Jacksonville. Apparently, the municipality was partnering with a local developer to place a construction-waste dump right in some of their backyards, and the good people of Sanderson were organizing a meeting to voice and plan their opposition. I had been with the Metro desk for about a month at that point, and my editors seemed pretty trusting of what I could do, so they sent me to cover that meeting and see what I could make of it.
I got on some iteration of I-95 and headed out around six o'clock. After taking an obscure exit, the treeline around me started to get thicker, and the road narrower. I didn't notice until later that streetlights became scarce as well--at the time, it was still light out. The final direction that MapQuest gave me to the Sanderson United Revival Church was to take a right on a backwoods route and head that way for five miles.
I might have given an incorrect impression when I said backwoods. The road itself was well-maintained and clean, if a bit narrow (I learned this a little too well when I almost careened off the road and into a ditch when fishing for my cellphone. If there's one bad habit this profession has introduced me to, it's yapping while driving). The town of Sanderson pretty much consisted of that road, with short dirt lanes extending off to the side. Most people had lanes all to themselves; I soon learned that they even had a certain degree of naming rights. Mr. William Elledge lived on 1 Will Elledge Road, and Ms. Lovurn Rivers lived on 1 Lovurn Lane. Some had gotten creative; I saw the only instance of Hello Darlin' Road in my lifetime. Others chose to face up to a certain degree of reality, as whoever lived on Mud Lane had done. The land surrounding the houses was swampy and thick with vegetation.
For whatever reason, I completely missed the church the first time, so I had to double back around to find it. It's tough to measure five miles when the road twists so much. I pulled in behind a gleaming white pickup truck with extra tires in the rear, and parked in the midst of a rapidly growing clump of vehicles. The church itself was an elongated, one-story structure. The residents of Sanderson were gathered outside, talking in groups. I felt a few eyes on me, because I stood out quite a bit; I have a very northern look about me, and the hair, while no longer than most, wasn't in a typical fashion. Fortunately, the people were pretty friendly.
"Excuse me," I said, approaching an older gentleman. "Do you happen to know where Pastor Bridges is?"
"Oh, he's back inside right now. Let me take you to him."
Pastor Duwayne Bridges, of the Sanderson United Revival Center, was a big man with a friendly, sweaty face, and a mini-mullet--he had dark ringlets running down the back of his head instead of the usual straight fashion. We made small talk before the meeting started. He had offered his church--which, and this will become important later, was Pentecostal--as a meeting place for those concerned about the dump. I had talked to him earlier in the day regarding the idea, and he was pretty adamantly opposed to it. Something about the way they had been notified irked him. The county had sent letters to only three people, informing them about a proposed meeting about the dump. They had called their neighbors, and the ensuing storm had led people to this meeting.
When I was finished talking to the pastor, I decided to get some community reaction to the dump. A young man, probably in his mid-20s, shorter than me by a good three inches, had just finished up giving pastor Bridges something when we began talking. His name was Joe as well, and he had a vaguely creepy look in behind his glasses. He wore a shirt that said "Hello, my name is UNASHAMED". I immediately pegged him as someone who took his faith very seriously. We talked beneath a large banner that said, "WITH GOD, ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE."
"So, what do you think of the dump plan?" I asked him.
"Oh, it's not a good idea," he answered. "We really don't need that type of thing here."
"Yeah, it doesn't seem like anyone's for it. The community here seems pretty tight-knit."
That got his attention. "Yeah, you know, the church really brings everyone together. It's been really important to me." I'm pretty sure at this point he was eying the gold Italian cross I keep around my neck that pretty much brands me as a Roman Catholic. We talked for a bit more, and then everyone--probably about 250 people in a small, airy church--sat down and got to business. I looked for the passage in the Bible where God sends down bears to kill children who have made fun of a prophet, but couldn't find it in time.
Pastor Bridges opened with a prayer. Everyone held hands. Except me.
The woman next to me kept her hand suspended in mid-air, poised to catch mine if I offered it, but I never did. Apart from the fact that I barely go to Catholic mass anymore, the prayer was intended to offer support for the people of Sanderson, against the dump. I'm a journalist. I can't take sides.
When the prayer ended, I got the woman's attention.
"Ma'am, I'm so sorry, but I can't pray with you."
She smiled at me, thank God, or whoever. "That's OK, I understand."
A younger woman in the row in front of me looked at me over her husband's shoulder with wide, curious eyes. I returned the gaze for a second, then decided to actually do my job and pay attention. Heck, I already have a girlfriend, and I like her a lot, and I didn't have to fight off a guy who looks like a linebacker to go out with her, so there's that.
Pastor Bridges gave over his pulpit to a young man named Mike, a handsome guy with a wispy mustache that he might have done better without, but I almost have a mullet, so who am I to judge? Mike had done the lion's share of the organizing, and was probably the most useful guy there, in terms of facts, figures, and who to call. He had a list of potentially harmful effects of a dump, starting with the fact that the freaking thing would be about 200 yards away from their houses. Mike gave out the number of the man who had purchased the land and who was making it available for a dump--to the delight of the assembled crowd, who no doubt filled up his mailbox pretty quickly. Two men in particular were very vocal about the harmful effects of the dump; an elderly retired army engineer, and a construction worker from New York named Salvatore. I might talk about them later, but in this case, they're not too important.
The meeting lasted about two hours, but it went by quickly. I spent a few minutes talking to residents--including the aforementioned Mr. Will Elledge and Ms. Lovurn Rivers. Lovurn was kind enough to give me the letter that she had been sent, with strict instructions to send it back once I was done with it. I mailed it out the day I left Jacksonville, with an apology for my tardiness. I hope she got it.
I was wrapping up my mingling when Joe, he of the creepy stare and loud t-shirt, came over to me.
"Joe, do you mind if I talk to you for a second?" he said.
"Sure," I replied. At this point I thought he was going to give me his opinion on the dump, or at least expand on what he had said earlier.
We walked to the entrance. Joe turned to me and set his feet.
"Joe, when was the last time you went to church?"
Shit.
There were a number of issues I had to keep in mind while talking. First and foremost was that I was, figuratively speaking, in enemy territory. I didn't know anyone there, I was probably one of the only Catholics, and I honestly didn't feel like getting into a fight. Second, I was working, which meant to an extent I had to represent the Times-Union in a positive light. No swearing at the top of my lungs or calling into question another man's faith. Thirdly, who the fuck asks a long-haired, incredibly liberal, Italian Catholic college student journalist from Massachusetts if he's gone to church recently and expects to get anywhere?
I gave him a straight answer.
"Well, you know, not since probably Easter or so. I don't go often."
He had a hook. "I saw you looking at the banner in there. Those words aren't just for show."
WITH GOD, ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE
"With God, all things are possible?"
"Yes. They're meant for you to take to heart. You know, I've been where you once were before."
"Oh, really? Where's that?" I can still be snarky, you know.
"I think you're lost. You've got a haze in front of your eyes and your mind, and He can open them up for you."
"My mind works fine. It works even better unconverted."
Unflappable, this guy, I have to give him credit. If you look at it, if he really believed he was privy to the path to salvation, than not trying to convert me would have been cruel. I just found it a wee bit annoying. Anyhow. Two men approached me, and we started talking about the dump. Joe interjected.
"No matter how much you try to distract yourself from it, it's still there. With God, all things are possible. I think you're in a bad place, Joe."
Now he was starting to interrupt me when I was trying to do my job. That's not even remotely cool, or kosher, or whatever.
"I'm actually pretty happy where I am right now, Joe." I turned to shake his hand. "Look, I'm not interested. He and I have a personal relationship, and it works fine without any sort of doctrine. Have a good day, Joe."
He wouldn't let go of my hand, and quoted a verse which I don't remember. Finally, I worked my way free and turned to go.
Joe called after me, "Even the Devil can come in mysterious ways."
If I wasn't working, I might have used that to turn around and engage him in a theological debate, in which I would lay out all my basic problems with religon and ask him to come up with a solution. I would swear, blaspheme, bring up contradictions, ask him why he saw the devil in a simple statement of free will. I would have done all these things, but instead, I turned over my shoulder and said the first thing that came to my head.
"I could tell you things about the Devil."
Lame, I know. But it finally shut him up.
Later that night, I played Halo 2 online with some friends. I decided to try to convert my opponents to Pentacostalism. It almost worked a few times. Might be that it's good I didn't convert, because I'm much too good at the missionary business.
It's occurred to me that I haven't written anything about Jacksonville, or what I did there. Sorry. I neglect this thing on a semi-regular basis, and once you get out of the habit it's hard to go back. This probably explains why I can't keep a gym schedule. Miss one night, and I'm screwed for the week. One of these days I'm turning my body into a bona-fide killing machine, but for now I'll have to be content with stealth flab and the constant threat of a potbelly.
Oh, yeah. Jacksonville.
The night before I went to the church in the swamp, there was a storm. This isn't unusual, because it rains once a day down there around June or so, but this one was pretty big, so I remember it well. I didn't know it yet, but I was going to be assigned that day to cover a burgeoning but minor local crisis. The Times-Union had received an e-mail from a woman who lived in Sanderson, a tiny town about forty-five minutes away from Jacksonville. Apparently, the municipality was partnering with a local developer to place a construction-waste dump right in some of their backyards, and the good people of Sanderson were organizing a meeting to voice and plan their opposition. I had been with the Metro desk for about a month at that point, and my editors seemed pretty trusting of what I could do, so they sent me to cover that meeting and see what I could make of it.
I got on some iteration of I-95 and headed out around six o'clock. After taking an obscure exit, the treeline around me started to get thicker, and the road narrower. I didn't notice until later that streetlights became scarce as well--at the time, it was still light out. The final direction that MapQuest gave me to the Sanderson United Revival Church was to take a right on a backwoods route and head that way for five miles.
I might have given an incorrect impression when I said backwoods. The road itself was well-maintained and clean, if a bit narrow (I learned this a little too well when I almost careened off the road and into a ditch when fishing for my cellphone. If there's one bad habit this profession has introduced me to, it's yapping while driving). The town of Sanderson pretty much consisted of that road, with short dirt lanes extending off to the side. Most people had lanes all to themselves; I soon learned that they even had a certain degree of naming rights. Mr. William Elledge lived on 1 Will Elledge Road, and Ms. Lovurn Rivers lived on 1 Lovurn Lane. Some had gotten creative; I saw the only instance of Hello Darlin' Road in my lifetime. Others chose to face up to a certain degree of reality, as whoever lived on Mud Lane had done. The land surrounding the houses was swampy and thick with vegetation.
For whatever reason, I completely missed the church the first time, so I had to double back around to find it. It's tough to measure five miles when the road twists so much. I pulled in behind a gleaming white pickup truck with extra tires in the rear, and parked in the midst of a rapidly growing clump of vehicles. The church itself was an elongated, one-story structure. The residents of Sanderson were gathered outside, talking in groups. I felt a few eyes on me, because I stood out quite a bit; I have a very northern look about me, and the hair, while no longer than most, wasn't in a typical fashion. Fortunately, the people were pretty friendly.
"Excuse me," I said, approaching an older gentleman. "Do you happen to know where Pastor Bridges is?"
"Oh, he's back inside right now. Let me take you to him."
Pastor Duwayne Bridges, of the Sanderson United Revival Center, was a big man with a friendly, sweaty face, and a mini-mullet--he had dark ringlets running down the back of his head instead of the usual straight fashion. We made small talk before the meeting started. He had offered his church--which, and this will become important later, was Pentecostal--as a meeting place for those concerned about the dump. I had talked to him earlier in the day regarding the idea, and he was pretty adamantly opposed to it. Something about the way they had been notified irked him. The county had sent letters to only three people, informing them about a proposed meeting about the dump. They had called their neighbors, and the ensuing storm had led people to this meeting.
When I was finished talking to the pastor, I decided to get some community reaction to the dump. A young man, probably in his mid-20s, shorter than me by a good three inches, had just finished up giving pastor Bridges something when we began talking. His name was Joe as well, and he had a vaguely creepy look in behind his glasses. He wore a shirt that said "Hello, my name is UNASHAMED". I immediately pegged him as someone who took his faith very seriously. We talked beneath a large banner that said, "WITH GOD, ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE."
"So, what do you think of the dump plan?" I asked him.
"Oh, it's not a good idea," he answered. "We really don't need that type of thing here."
"Yeah, it doesn't seem like anyone's for it. The community here seems pretty tight-knit."
That got his attention. "Yeah, you know, the church really brings everyone together. It's been really important to me." I'm pretty sure at this point he was eying the gold Italian cross I keep around my neck that pretty much brands me as a Roman Catholic. We talked for a bit more, and then everyone--probably about 250 people in a small, airy church--sat down and got to business. I looked for the passage in the Bible where God sends down bears to kill children who have made fun of a prophet, but couldn't find it in time.
Pastor Bridges opened with a prayer. Everyone held hands. Except me.
The woman next to me kept her hand suspended in mid-air, poised to catch mine if I offered it, but I never did. Apart from the fact that I barely go to Catholic mass anymore, the prayer was intended to offer support for the people of Sanderson, against the dump. I'm a journalist. I can't take sides.
When the prayer ended, I got the woman's attention.
"Ma'am, I'm so sorry, but I can't pray with you."
She smiled at me, thank God, or whoever. "That's OK, I understand."
A younger woman in the row in front of me looked at me over her husband's shoulder with wide, curious eyes. I returned the gaze for a second, then decided to actually do my job and pay attention. Heck, I already have a girlfriend, and I like her a lot, and I didn't have to fight off a guy who looks like a linebacker to go out with her, so there's that.
Pastor Bridges gave over his pulpit to a young man named Mike, a handsome guy with a wispy mustache that he might have done better without, but I almost have a mullet, so who am I to judge? Mike had done the lion's share of the organizing, and was probably the most useful guy there, in terms of facts, figures, and who to call. He had a list of potentially harmful effects of a dump, starting with the fact that the freaking thing would be about 200 yards away from their houses. Mike gave out the number of the man who had purchased the land and who was making it available for a dump--to the delight of the assembled crowd, who no doubt filled up his mailbox pretty quickly. Two men in particular were very vocal about the harmful effects of the dump; an elderly retired army engineer, and a construction worker from New York named Salvatore. I might talk about them later, but in this case, they're not too important.
The meeting lasted about two hours, but it went by quickly. I spent a few minutes talking to residents--including the aforementioned Mr. Will Elledge and Ms. Lovurn Rivers. Lovurn was kind enough to give me the letter that she had been sent, with strict instructions to send it back once I was done with it. I mailed it out the day I left Jacksonville, with an apology for my tardiness. I hope she got it.
I was wrapping up my mingling when Joe, he of the creepy stare and loud t-shirt, came over to me.
"Joe, do you mind if I talk to you for a second?" he said.
"Sure," I replied. At this point I thought he was going to give me his opinion on the dump, or at least expand on what he had said earlier.
We walked to the entrance. Joe turned to me and set his feet.
"Joe, when was the last time you went to church?"
Shit.
There were a number of issues I had to keep in mind while talking. First and foremost was that I was, figuratively speaking, in enemy territory. I didn't know anyone there, I was probably one of the only Catholics, and I honestly didn't feel like getting into a fight. Second, I was working, which meant to an extent I had to represent the Times-Union in a positive light. No swearing at the top of my lungs or calling into question another man's faith. Thirdly, who the fuck asks a long-haired, incredibly liberal, Italian Catholic college student journalist from Massachusetts if he's gone to church recently and expects to get anywhere?
I gave him a straight answer.
"Well, you know, not since probably Easter or so. I don't go often."
He had a hook. "I saw you looking at the banner in there. Those words aren't just for show."
WITH GOD, ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE
"With God, all things are possible?"
"Yes. They're meant for you to take to heart. You know, I've been where you once were before."
"Oh, really? Where's that?" I can still be snarky, you know.
"I think you're lost. You've got a haze in front of your eyes and your mind, and He can open them up for you."
"My mind works fine. It works even better unconverted."
Unflappable, this guy, I have to give him credit. If you look at it, if he really believed he was privy to the path to salvation, than not trying to convert me would have been cruel. I just found it a wee bit annoying. Anyhow. Two men approached me, and we started talking about the dump. Joe interjected.
"No matter how much you try to distract yourself from it, it's still there. With God, all things are possible. I think you're in a bad place, Joe."
Now he was starting to interrupt me when I was trying to do my job. That's not even remotely cool, or kosher, or whatever.
"I'm actually pretty happy where I am right now, Joe." I turned to shake his hand. "Look, I'm not interested. He and I have a personal relationship, and it works fine without any sort of doctrine. Have a good day, Joe."
He wouldn't let go of my hand, and quoted a verse which I don't remember. Finally, I worked my way free and turned to go.
Joe called after me, "Even the Devil can come in mysterious ways."
If I wasn't working, I might have used that to turn around and engage him in a theological debate, in which I would lay out all my basic problems with religon and ask him to come up with a solution. I would swear, blaspheme, bring up contradictions, ask him why he saw the devil in a simple statement of free will. I would have done all these things, but instead, I turned over my shoulder and said the first thing that came to my head.
"I could tell you things about the Devil."
Lame, I know. But it finally shut him up.
Later that night, I played Halo 2 online with some friends. I decided to try to convert my opponents to Pentacostalism. It almost worked a few times. Might be that it's good I didn't convert, because I'm much too good at the missionary business.