hours made to spend with others

he's begun to worry what others will think; what they think now. "i couldn't get a job now if i wanted to! you think someone would hire a crazy old man who hasn't worked in 24 years, who's raised a bunch of girls, whose wife provides for him?" he says it as if he's started to worry himself, as if some days he wonders if he should read his fantasy novels on the front porch during the middle of the day, wondering what the neighbors must think. "a man sitting around all day waiting for his wife to provide. despicable!" but he's learned that he has to answer the call. if it comes at 3 in the morning, if it comes at 3 in the afternoon, he knows he has to get up, sit outside, and reflect and pray. he confesses to sometimes being half asleep, and how that doesn't matter, because he's still learning something. he tells me that everyone thinks he's crazy or irresponsible, but he knows this is what he's supposed to be doing. he's supposed to have free hours. he's supposed to open that front door to anyone that knocks--magazine salesmen, mormons, the woman down the street, the insurance woman. he's to hear their problems, hear nothing, hear everything. but that door must be answered, and he must listen.

he speaks of inspiration. his days on the circuit at the black church. the elders would approach him and say "ronnie, whatcha preaching on sunday?" "i don't know," he'd respond, "but i've been fasting and studying." he tells me that he would not know what he was to speak of as he approached the pulpit, but that in that very moment that words would spill out. and that's when he realized that he was to do that. much as it grieved him at times. "my uncle frank called me and told me I needed to be praying for an hour a day. AN HOUR A DAY?!, i thought! impossible." but he's done it, even when it was simulation, even when his daughters dreaded it, and he as much as they.

he stops me as I ride pass tonight. he asks me about rwanda and the paper i'm writing. wonders if i'd discovered the causes--were there outside forces? was the CIA involved? The nephulum comes up. the sky darkens. the mosquitos bite. he returns to the central theme of all these years, like always, about getting right with god now. and as always, i walk away believing him.