Serving The Right Master

Shortly after we tractor drivers finished cultivating Dad’s cotton fields, which spread across a remote corner of the Mississippi Delta, a long, steady, soaking rain set in — just what the cotton plants needed to finish filling bolls with fiber. As we waited for our paychecks and watched the thirsty earth drink its fill, we knew it wasn’t just a “sharrain” (Dad’s way of saying “shower of rain”) or a mere dust settler, but what he called a “sho-nuff chunk floater.”

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‘Jaybird, on your last day, instead of serving Me, you served Satan instead. So, I’m sending you to the Master you chose.’”

“Yonder comes Boss with the checks,” my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird said. In addition to paying us, he brought several large buckets of fried catfish, hush puppies, and slaw. With a grateful nod toward the pouring rain, he said, “Y’all enjoy yourselves — I’m headed for a long afternoon nap.” As we feasted on Southern fried delicacies, I gazed at the rain’s slate grayness and commented, “When my last day comes, I hope it’s one just like this” — a comment that struck up an interesting conversation; all of us had different ideas on the best way to depart this earth. Willy said he wanted to be asleep in his comfortable bed when the Lord sent for him. Bumpy agreed, but said he not only wanted to be in bed, but also wrapped in the arms of the woman he loved. Munching a crispy hush puppy, Moon mused, “When the Grim Reaper comes knockin’, I want my wife and children gathered around me.” Sport said he wanted to be doing what he loved most, fishing, when a lightning bolt from a sudden thunderstorm dispatched him. “Getting fried instantly is probably not a painful way to face the Lord.” When I asked Jaybird how he would like to leave this earth, he said, “I want to die prayin’, because if I die prayin’, I won’t die sinnin’.” We knew he’d explain. “Supposin’ I tell my wife I’m going to the men’s weekly prayer meeting, but when Satan reminded me that beer was half-price at Jesse’s Juke Joint on Wednesday nights, I drove right past the House of the Lord and headed to Jesse’s. When I got there, I’d swill a few cold brews. Then supposin’ my eyes fell on a lovely lady who gave me that come-on-big-boy smile, and we danced slow and close. Suddenly, Levi Jones, the meanest man in town, taps me on the shoulder and growls, “That’s my woman.” “Not now she ain’t, I shot back at him, the beer talkin’ for me. He went for his knife, I went for mine, and before I hit the floor, Levi had cut everything but the soles of my feet. The next words I heard were the Lord’s: ‘Jaybird, on your last day, instead of serving Me, you served Satan instead. So, I’m sending you to the Master you chose.’” I’ve never forgotten Jaybird’s story. Whether it’s raining or not when my last day comes, I hope to be doing what he hoped to be doing: serving the right master.

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