Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Editor's Note Review of Terrorist Review of God's Gym Review of Cherry Blossoms in Twilight Creative Nonfiction Ain't Is A Word By Marcie Hollowell & Kristen Munch Love Under the Big Top By Andy Martello Revival By Brenda G. Wooley Poetry Letting Go Wish By Antoinette Brim Pam Farwick By G. David Schwartz Confession While Dining By Mary Lou Taylor Homeschooling Adventures By Beth Happel Fiction Ike Experiences Vanity By Sidney Kidd What Keeps Me Alive By Paul Brittain Minor Damage By Jane Hammons How To Cook for Your In-Laws By Ricky Ginsburg About the Contributors © 2006, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Bill Mausteller Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Sen. Fiction Editor - Patti Kurtz Sen. Poetry Editor - Neeldhara Misra Sen. Creative Nonfiction Editor - Brenda Coxe Contributing Editor - Robert Dittman Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch.

Revival By Brenda G. Wooley I don’t remember the first time I went to New Hope Baptist Church; I just remember always being there on Sunday mornings with Grandmother Winslow, my paternal grandmother. We knew everyone there, and everyone knew us. My great-great grandfather donated land for the church and cemetery, and many Winslows and other relatives were charter members of the church, which was established in 1840. Most of my father’s ancestors worshipped there all their lives and now lie in the old cemetery beyond. I always felt at home in the cemetery, and even when I was very young I felt a certain peace there. It was not peaceful, however, during church services. As I grew up, I became accustomed to various pastors and evangelists shouting, stomping and prancing around the pulpit as they warned sinners about hell. They tried desperately to get people to accept Jesus Christ as their savior, repent of their sins, turn their lives around and live for Jesus. If anyone did this, they were “saved,” which meant they were saved from the lake of fire and brimstone and had earned the right to enter heaven. I watched many people “come forward,” at New Hope Baptist Church, where they cried, prayed and shouted for joy after they had accepted Jesus Christ as their savior. I loved the excitement, the tears of joy and the exuberance of the choir as they burst into blissful song, everyone hugging each other, shaking hands and praising the Lord. The sinners had dropped their heavy burdens; they had come forward. They were no longer lost; they had been found, and they were headed for heaven instead of hell. They were saved. For a long time, getting saved was something everyone else did while I watched first from Grandmother’s lap, and then from the pew next to her, my feet dangling just above the floor. As I got older, I sat with my friends in another part of the church, where we killed time by whispering, giggling and writing notes during the long and boring sermons. The summer I turned 13, that all changed. It was the first night of revival services, and I was preparing for another rollicking, emotion-packed service and looking forward to the feelings of excitement and impending danger, the kinds of feelings I always had when a summer storm suddenly swooped in. But when the evangelist began preaching that night, it wasn’t quite the same. A dark feeling of dread nudged at me as he pranced back and forth, pounding his fist on the pulpit and shaking his finger at the congregation. “If any of you turn your back on the Lord Jesus,” Brother Stair screamed as he whirled around, clapped his hands and stomped, “You ain’t nothing but a low-down, rotten sinner!” He stopped and gazed around the congregation. “And if you ain’t saved, you’re goin straight to hell, and that’s all there is to it!” My dread worsened as he continued describing in vivid detail how hot hell was, how miserable and hopeless everyone would be, and how everyone down there would be cut off forever from the love of God as they burned in agony forever. It shook me up, spun me around and smacked me in the face with the shocking realization that I was headed straight to the fiery pits of hell where I would burn for eternity. Until then, I had been enjoying my summer, playing with my brothers and sisters, helping care for my baby sister, and doing fun things. But when Brother Stair gave the invitation that night, the dark feeling of dread descended upon me in full force and blotted out everything except the eternal burning fires of hell that awaited me in the hereafter. As the invitation wore on, my friend and classmate, Regina Sue Rollins, rose and went forward, placing her hand in Brother Stair’s and admitting that she was lost and without hope. All of the men of the church knelt around her and prayed, and in no time at all Regina Sue jumped to her feet. “I see the Lord Jesus,” she shouted, “He’s here with me right now. I’m saved! I’m saved!” She hurled her body back and forth and stomped her feet, moaning and crying, “Jesus is here!” Church members rushed from all directions, shouting for joy and praising the Lord, pumping Regina Sue’s hand and hugging her. The church pianist, her back ramrod straight, head bent in deep concentration, pounded out the introductory notes of “There is a Fountain,” and everyone burst into joyous song. “What a happy, happy night this is,” Regina Sue’s mother shouted as everyone was leaving the church, “What a happy, happy night!” As Grandmother Winslow steered the Chevrolet carefully around the curves of the gravel road on our way home that night, I was in a state of confusion. I rolled the car window down, but the air was hot and stifling. All I heard was the loud and ominous chant of the Katydids. I rolled the window back up, suddenly feeling chilled. Even though the heavy summer air shrouded me in a thick blanket of humid heat, I shivered with the ice-cold realization that I would soon be in hell. It wouldn’t be cold down there; it would be a lava-hot lake of fire and brimstone, and I would burn for all eternity. After Regina Sue got saved, she never missed a chance to witness. “On August 16, I was saved,” she said in a loud voice to anyone who would listen, “and I know it without a shadow of a doubt, because I saw the Lord Jesus right up there in front of the mourners’ bench!” After that night, all I could think of was my lost soul and what would happen in the hereafter. I tried with all of my might to be saved. I prayed without ceasing in my bedroom at night while the electric fan beside my bed moved its vacant face from side to side, I prayed as I sat in the swing in the front yard, gazing into the heavens. I even prayed while I was playing, but I just couldn’t seem to get saved. As the days went by, I spent a lot of time imagining how hot hell would be. If grease splattered on me as I watched Mother frying chicken or pork chops, or if I burned my hand as I took biscuits out of the oven, I tried not to flinch. I knew I had better become accustomed to the heat because I would be spending eternity in the lake of fire. The next day Grandmother Winslow came over to tell Mother that Arnold Tidewater had suddenly passed away. Arnold was a humped little man who wore bib overalls and a red cap with “D-X” emblazoned on the front. He had worked at the D-X service station in Bardwell as far back as I could remember. Arnold Tidewater never went to church with his wife. “He was not saved,” Grandmother said to Mother in a low voice. They both shook their heads. I imagined Arnold Tidewater and myself together in hell for all eternity. “Sally is just having a fit; Dr. Smith had to give her something,” Grandmother said, “They say she said, ‘How will I live with myself now? I should’ve tried harder to lead him to the Lord.’” I wondered if poor Arnold Tidewater had tried to get saved and, like me, couldn’t. He was a nice little man; always smiling and helping people. He didn’t seem at all like a person headed for hell. “That don’t make any difference,” Regina Sue Rollins said, “You can do good things all day and all night, but if you ain’t been born again, all the good works in the world ain’t gonna get you to heaven!” Regina Sue carried her Bible everywhere now, and there was an intense, burning light in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “You better get right with God, Sarah,” she told me, “Today is the day of salvation!” If they weren’t already saved, most of the kids my age got saved during the first week of the revival. That is, except me and Billie Anna Dix. Since Billie Anna and I were the only ones who hadn’t come forward, we sat together for moral support at the revival each night. When the invitation was given and the choir began singing, “Why Not Tonight,” or “Softly and Tenderly,” Billie Anna and I sat like soldiers at attention, looking straight ahead, pretending we were just like all the saved people, and sang right along with them as though we didn’t have a care in the world and weren’t headed straight for hell. I had always enjoyed my Sunday School classes, but I was beginning to feel out of place there, because our teacher, Miss Lillie Dee Ellsworth, seemed to look directly at me when she spoke about being saved. “All you have to do,” she said, “Is believe on the name of the Lord Jesus, and, as the Bible says, ‘Ye shall be saved.’ Just give yourself to the Lord.” I tried to give myself to the Lord, but I couldn’t quite figure out how to do it. I also tried to figure out what I had done to warrant such punishment in the hereafter. I had never done anything really awful, with the exception of blaming my little sister for something I had done, or sneaking several packs of Juicy Fruit gum from my father’s bedroom drawer when he was trying to quit smoking. I had gotten a switching for that; was that not enough punishment? Would I burn forever for a few sticks of gum? “It doesn’t make any difference what your sins are; one sin is as bad as another!” Regina Sue spat, thumbing through her Bible, “A sin is a sin!” She stopped, shoved her Bible in my face, and pointed to a verse. “Listen to this,” she shouted her eyes feverish, “God is not mocked; be sure your sins will find you out!” I spent a lot of time that week searching through the Bible for answers to my dilemma, but more often than not, I ended up in Revelations, where I read about the Beast, the end of time and, worst of all, Judgment Day. One verse was particularly disturbing, Revelations 20:15: “And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.” That meant me. On Thursday night, just when I thought things could not get any worse, they did. Billie Anna was quiet that evening. We usually whispered and snickered during the invitation, to keep our minds off our lost souls, but that night she had nothing to say; she didn’t even answer when I asked her a question. She seemed to be in a daze. After the first stanza of “Why Not Tonight,” Brother Stair raised his hand, silencing the choir. “I want everbody to bow their heads,” he said, “And with every head bowed and every eye closed, I’m gonna ask everbody that realizes they’re lost and without hope to raise their hands.” I looked at Billie Anna, preparing to snicker as we usually did, but she didn’t look at me. She wasn’t looking at anyone; she just sat up straight and raised her hand. “I now ask that the choir softly hum the next stanza, and I would like that person who raised their hand to come forward and accept the gift of salvation,” Brother Stair said in a hoarse voice. My whole body became numb, and my mouth was as dry as cotton. I squeezed my eyes shut as I wondered what she would do. “Do not hesitate,” Brother Stair called in a loud quavering voice, “Tomorrow may be too late; an hour from now may be too late. Like the song the choir was just a-singing, ‘tomorrow’s sun may never shine,’ so do it now, my friend. Don’t let your heart git hardened, do it now!” He motioned the choir to continue as he bowed his head. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was moving. He pulled a large white handkerchief from his back pocket, lifting his baggy trousers several inches off the floor. He coughed and spat into the handkerchief, then rubbed it across his mouth several times before returning it to his pocket. The choir hummed on; then Miss Lillie Dee Ellsworth appeared at Billie Anna’s side. Tears streamed down her tiny wrinkled cheeks as she bent her blue-gray head close to Billie Anna’s ear. I couldn’t hear what Miss Lillie Dee said, but Billie Anna suddenly raised her head and nodded, and with a glazed look in her eyes, she let herself be led by Miss Lillie Dee out of the pew and down the aisle. Billie Anna was saved that night. In a flurry of hugs and tears, her parents joined her up front. The choir joyously sang, “There is a Fountain,” as the church members filed past to shake her hand. When Mr. Red Berger got to her, he shook her hand and hugged her as he shouted, “Praise the Lord…..Oooh, praise the Lord!” A host of elderly men, who always sat together, yelled in unison, “Oooh yes! Praise you, Lord,” others shouted, “Amen, Brother Red; amen!” I never felt so alone in my life. In the car going home that night, Grandmother Winslow talked about how wonderful it was that Billie Anna had been saved. Suddenly, she turned to me. “Do you feel like you ought to be saved, Sarah?” she asked. I didn’t know how to answer. I didn’t want to upset her by telling her I couldn’t be saved because my heart had already hardened, so I pretended to be asleep. After Grandmother dropped me off at home, I told Mother that Billie Anna had been saved. Mother lowered the book she was reading. “Billie Anna is a little young to be joining the church,” she said, “Sometimes I think some of the people in the church rush things.” “Grandmother asked me if I needed to be saved,” I said. Taking a deep breath, I went on, “What if a person can’t be?” “You don't need to worry about it now," she said, getting up and patting my shoulder, “If you don't want to go to the revival with your grandmother, you don't have to.” I didn't tell her I felt obligated to keep going and trying to get saved. I could suddenly die, like Arnold Tidewater, and then it would be too late. Mother came in after I went to bed, as she always did, to tuck me in and listen to my prayers. I said my prayers, but I didn’t feel that the Lord was listening. How could he? I was a sinner headed straight to hell, and there was nothing I or anyone else could do about it. Friday night was the last night of the revival, and the church was filled to capacity. Brother Stair’s sermon focused on the husband of a member of his former church. “Everyone loved Joe Dale Dobbs,” Brother Stair said, “and Joe Dale seemed to be a nice sort of fellow. He never mistreated his wife or his girls. Mrs. Dobbs was a kind, godly woman and a very faithful church member, but Joe Dale Dobbs never would come to church with her. Mrs. Dobbs prayed and prayed for her husband’s lost soul, and she tried her dead-level best to get him to give up his wicked ways.” He hesitated, dropping his head as he gripped the sides of the pulpit, then he suddenly looked up. “Because, my friends,” he shouted, “Joe Dale Dobbs was a drunkard! He went to the saloons and beer joints just outside of town every payday and dranked liquor!” He hesitated again, pulling his handkerchief from his back pocket and blowing his nose, wiping it until it was beet red. “One night,” he said, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, “Mrs. Dobbs finally talked him into coming to the revival. How she did it, I don’t know.” He stopped and gazed slowly around the congregation, “but she did.” He took another deep breath. “I knew the Lord was a-working on Joe Dale Dobbs that night; I could see it in his poor liquor-ravaged face, and when I gave the invitation I felt sure he would come forward.” His face became flushed as he choked back a sob. “It looked like poor Joe Dale Dobbs was a-giving in, but, in the end, he didn’t.” Brother Stair was sobbing openly now. “Friends,” he said, “that very night, Joe Dale Dobbs and his family was a-goin home, and a great big trailer truck veered across the center line, hit their car, and Joe Dale Dobbs was killed!” Everyone jumped as Brother Stair’s fist hit the top of the pulpit. Several dozing church members sat straight up, startled looks in their eyes. A couple of babies started crying, and Brother Stair waited until their mothers had taken them outside before continuing. “That was Joe Dale Dobbs’ last chance, friends, his last chance, and now it’s too late!” He began prancing back and forth, thumping his Bible, “Now, lost sinner, now is the day of salvation! Don’t join Joe Dale Dobbs in that fiery pit; don’t turn Him away! Jesus is a-waitin, His arms are open wide, so come on to Him, sinners, come on now!” He suddenly became silent. Every sound was magnified: a baby fussing, someone clearing his throat, and the thump, thump of night bugs against the screens of the open windows. The chorus of the Katydids got louder. They seemed to be chanting “going-to-hell; going-to-hell; going-to-hell.” “I beg you, lost sinner, don’t take that chance of being throwed in that lake of fire and brimstone where you’ll burn for eternity! That means forever, friends, and there’ll be no turning back!” When the choir began singing, “Softly and Tenderly,” a huge lump formed in my throat as I stood on numbed legs with the rest of the congregation. I tried to sing, but I was unable to make a sound. I saw Grandmother Winslow looking at me with concern, and, as if pulled by some unknown force, I moved out of the pew. I felt I was outside my body, watching myself in slow motion, as I walked down the aisle. I was startled when Brother Stair grabbed my hand, and I stood staring at him for a second or two before I finally croaked, “I’m lost.” As he led me to the mourners’ bench, there were bumps and rustling sounds as deacons and other men from all over the church rose, came forward, and knelt around me in a semi-circle. “Father,” Joe Billy Daniels, the Sunday School Superintendent began, “this young girl has came, admitting she is lost and without hope. Please, Father, give her relief.” After Joe Billy finished, Mr. Odell Joiner took over, “Our heavenly father, we bow in thy presence and ask that you save this here young girl. She has come to you, asking for forgiveness for her sins.” Brother Stair was kneeling with his eyes closed, his mouth moving in silent prayer. He suddenly stood and asked me if my heavy burden had been lifted. “No,” I mumbled, quickly bowing my head. I didn’t want to look at him or anyone else. I was too ashamed. He returned to his knees and resumed praying. Many others prayed as the night wore on. “Oh Lord Jesus,” Mr. Red Berger uttered, “take this burden from this girl’s little shoulder.” Deep sobs wracked his body and his florid face became even more red than usual. I felt guilty for causing Mr. Red Berger such anguish, especially since I didn’t even feel the urge to cry. I felt as though my whole body had turned to stone. Miss Lillie Dee Ellsworth materialized. “Just give yourself over to the Lord,” she said, “and pretty soon you’ll feel that burden roll away.” The scent of talcum powder drifted up and wafted around me as Miss Lillie Dee draped one thin little arm around my shoulders and placed her hand on my sweaty ones. Since I didn’t feel anything at all, I forced myself to begin praying. I had just realized that I hadn’t even been praying for my own soul, when all of these people were crying and praying for me. I stared down at the backs of Miss Lillie Dee Ellsworth’s blue-veined hands and tried my best to pray, but my head felt like an empty vacuum, unable to comprehend anything except the heavy scent of talcum powder. “Just ask the Lord to forgive you for your sins, and that burden will just roll clear away,” Miss Lillie Dee said, “and you’ll feel happiness like you never felt before.” I began praying frantically, “Please-save-me-Jesus, please-save-me-Jesus, please, please,” but I felt no burden or anything else roll away. The men continued praying, their voices fading in and out like the faulty reception of the Grand Ole Opry show, which we listened to every Saturday night on the radio at home. As their voices faded, the chant of the Katydids came in loud and clear: “Going-to-hell; going-to-hell; going-to-hell.” Brother Stair backed away from me, rolled up his sleeves, and blew his nose with a loud honk. “Oh Lord Jesus, we beseech you to save this little girl who has come forward tonight,” his voice breaking as he began sobbing. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “She is laden with sin and her burden is heavy,” he said in a loud voice, “Oh Lord, we beg of you,” he cried. “Sarah, are you saved?” Grandmother asked. I had not noticed that she was sitting next to me. I shook my head just as Regina Sue Rollins moved in. She had her Bible open and pointed to a verse “See that?” she asked. I pretended to read it, but my head was spinning and my numbed-out brain didn’t seem to be absorbing the words. “Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved,” she said, “If you do that, then you’ll be headed straight to heaven!” “Have you accepted the Lord Jesus in your heart?” Brother Stair interrupted. I looked at the praying people; all was quiet as they paused, some still on their knees, waiting for my answer. “You’ll feel so lighthearted and happy that your heart will sing with joy!” Brother Stair said, “Just believe in Jesus!” I did believe in Jesus, but I certainly didn’t feel happy, so I figured there was no way I was saved yet. I looked up at Brother Stair and shook my head. “Lord, help this here little girl,” Willie Huffstutler began, “Soften her heart and take that burden away!” Tears rolled down his cheeks. It was so hot in the church that my legs were sticking to the lacquered seat of the mourners’ bench. Most of the men had rolled up their shirt sleeves, exposing rings of perspiration stains under their arms, but they kept praying diligently. I heard fresh voices as more men joined us, and when I opened my eyes all I saw was a sea of bowed heads in various colors. I suddenly had the urge to laugh hysterically, but I knew if I did they would think I was laughing at them and maybe the Lord Jesus as well. With all the self control I could muster, I tried to stifle my nervous laughter. I put one hand over my mouth and held my nose with the other as a giggle began in the pit of my stomach and worked its way upward. The pressure was too much; my ears began popping and I let out a loud snort. The women swooped in, patting my shoulders, taking my sweaty hands in theirs and murmuring words of encouragement. Someone handed me a handkerchief. I rubbed it back and forth over my nose as Brother Stair had done and handed it back to Miss Sissy Johnson. I was so tired that I felt if I let go I might slide right off the slick bench and down to the floor like warm syrup, so I clasped my wet hands, “Please-save-me; please-save-me; please-save-me.” Brother Stair suddenly stood. A lock of his oil-slicked hair had escaped and was dangling between his bushy eyebrows. “I’m gonna dismiss this service now,” he said, “We’re gonna stay right here and pray with this young girl, ever how long it takes, until she’s saved, and anybody who wants to can stay and pray for this young girl’s soul.” I heard the church doors open, shuffling footsteps, and murmuring voices as people left the church. I wanted to get up and run out with them. I considered telling them I was saved, even though I wasn’t, just to get it all over with, but I was afraid the Lord would strike me dead for lying, so I sat there as the men again turns praying. Miss Lillie Dee Ellsworth read several Bible verses to me and she, Grandmother and Brother Stair explained them to me, then they all prayed again as I sat like a deaf mute. Just about everyone except me was crying. I still felt as though I wasn’t really there; that I was standing off to the side, observing the knot of people clustered around the humped-shouldered sinner. Miss Lillie Dee Ellsworth suddenly got up. “You can be saved anywhere, Sarah,” she said, “even at home.” I didn’t tell her I had already tried that and it hadn’t worked, but by that time I didn’t really care. I just wanted to go home. With a sigh, Miss Lillie Dee picked up her purse and Bible, patted my shoulder and departed, her talcum powder scent lingering. I closed my eyes, bowed my head again, “Please-save-me, please-save-me, please-save-me.” As the men prayed, though my eyes were squeezed shut, I recognized the voices: Doc Winslow, my great-uncle, prayed; Darwin and Pewee Hammonds prayed, Radford Jenkins prayed and little Alfred Ashby prayed. The song leader, Louie Paul Poindexter prayed, followed by voices I didn’t recognize. I felt displaced, disoriented, and paralyzed. I was tired and my heart was hardened. My prayers didn’t seem to be going up to heaven; they didn’t even seem to be going anywhere. I knew I had better face it; I would be spending eternity in the pits of hell along with Arnold Tidewater and Joe Dale Dobbs. I again heard footsteps, hushed voices and the big church doors opening and closing as more people departed. Outside, car doors opened and closed, engines revved up, and tires slowly crunched over the gravel of the parking lot as they drove away. Suddenly, no one was praying and everything was quiet. I opened my eyes and saw that Brother Stair, Grandmother and I were the only ones left. They stood over to the side, talking quietly, and then Grandmother gently took my hand and led me out of the church. I had been sitting so long that my legs were stiff and one of my feet had gone to sleep, like my head seemed to be, but I was glad to be leaving. The night air felt fresh and pure as we stepped outside. The Katydids’ chant had stopped, and the trees rustled as a soft breeze swept across the church yard. It reminded me of home, where I went to sleep each night listening to the flutter of the Cottonwoods just outside my window. At times like those I always felt God’s presence and I knew that He knew I believed in Him and He would never throw me into the lake of fire and brimstone. I couldn’t wait to get home to my bed where Mother would tuck me in and listen to my prayers. Maybe I could pray in my bedroom, where I felt near God, and maybe, just maybe, He would save me tonight. It was worth a try. I took a deep breath and laid my head back against the soft, familiar car seat. The lights in the church went out one by one, and as Grandmother started up the Chevrolet, Brother Stair came out, locking the door behind him. He got into his Buick, and as we drove away I could see his headlights through the rear-view mirror as he followed us out of the parking lot.