The Visit

By Devin Carroll

A young man named Seth is confronted with miracles he doesn't really want to believe in, presented by earnest Christians he would really like to be friends with, especially the beautiful Ruth. The title refers to an extra visit to Earth by Jesus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257606290

Book preview

The Visit

The Visit

Devin Carroll

Copyright © 2009 by Devin Carroll

Second Edition 2020

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Madeline Carroll

Available at www.lulu.com

ISBN 978-1-257-60629-0

Published in the United States of America

For all of my Christian and Humanist friends.

chapter one :: Sunday 

My memory must be unreliable, because I vividly remember impossible events, in other words, miracles. This baffles me, because I am firmly convinced that miracles never happen.

Of course, my mind is not the only one playing tricks. On the contrary, fictitious memory is a universal human trait. Psychological researchers have proven many times that people remember what they wish, what is useful to their lives, or what fits into their prior beliefs, but only approximately what was real. Yet we are always convinced our memory is correct. 

We perceive events through our senses, but we filter what we sense through our preconceived notions of what we expect from reality. A woman who believes in ghosts will see one out of the corner of her eye. Her friend will see only the leaves blowing and make nothing of it. Yet try to persuade the first that she saw only leaves, and she will laugh. She emphatically remembers a ghost!

As for my own memories of miracles, I suspect microseizures in the temporal lobes of my brain. These can be brought on by some forms of epilepsy, but scientists have induced mystical experiences, even in atheists, by forcing such micro-seizures with magnetic fields. I hypothesize that mine were induced by stress. There may also have been faulty connections to my amygdala, the almond-sized coordinator of emotion in the brain. Disorders of the amygdala can lead the sufferer to see cosmic significance in everyday events.

I must admit, grudgingly, that even these phenomena only partly explain these memories. The most reasonable conclusion from the evidence, taken in isolation, is that these events actually occurred as I remember. It is only in the context of everything else I know and believe, that I cannot accept their reality. I have pondered long and hard on this conundrum, without formulating a satisfying theory. A scientist must learn to be comfortable with temporary ignorance, while searching for answers.

Ruth says that reality changed. She says that these events only became impossible after they occurred. I admit that I, too, remember it that way. But it just cannot be true.

Okay, enough of this, you say. Let’s hear this fantastic story. Very well, I will tell it. But remember, I don’t believe it. 

The story begins on a Sunday morning. I was a young man then, almost but not quite in my maturity. Early that morning, about an hour before services, I climbed Cemetery Hill and sat down on the grave of Eve Adams. I was in a mood for meditation and the spot was my favorite. My back felt a pleasant chill where it leaned on Eve’s grand old cross, a cold gray stone. But the grass was scratchy and already warm, for although the grave lay beneath the skirts of a queer old crabapple tree, the early morning sunshine rolled under the tree to lift her petticoats and caress her trunk.

Later the sun would grow too hot and the tree would permit no such familiarity. Then the grave and I would be in the shade.

Eve Adams, my mother’s great grandmother, was the most venerable resident of the cemetery. A lady of the Yakut tribe, ancient stewards of the region, she married Adam Adams, the European settler who founded the town. Since my earliest memories of childhood, I have always identified her as a mother figure, and I came to her grave whenever I needed comfort or security. My own mother is interred next to my father at the bottom of the hill, but I was still an infant when they both died, so perhaps it is not so surprising that I identify more with Mother Eve.

That morning, I felt oddly unsettled without knowing why. I thought I had forgotten some promise I had made, or perhaps I was neglecting an important duty.

Pensively, I surveyed the scene below me. I had the best view anywhere of my town, New Eden, and the quiet valley it owned. That was another reason why I liked the spot. 

Our chief road, which connected us with the main highway several miles west, emerged out of orange groves on my right. After passing an old, dead fig tree on the far bank of Mud River, the road passed over a surprisingly modern concrete bridge and metamorphosed into Apple Street. In this guise it passed several rows of shacks and warehouses struggling to maintain their distance from the greasy stink of the river. In the middle of the block a dignified Congregational Church held aloft a modest steeple. Its pastor, Reverend Stilwell, lived in a rectory next door to the west. Apple Street proceeded beyond the church to intersect with Commerce Avenue, crossed the same, and faded away into our nicer residential section.

On the corner nearest me was a two-story wooden building with a mausoleum on the bottom floor and a combination mortuary and biological specimen laboratory above. On the south end at the top of a stairway was a small apartment where I lived. Further south a small cabin snuggled into the shade of three oaks. That was where my Aunt Antonia lived. She was my guardian and also the mortician, grave digger, and owner of the BioSpecimen Lab.

Across Commerce Avenue to the east stood a two story, white Victorian mansion that belonged to the town’s first family, the Adamses. They were my distant cousins, more descendants of Eve. Their proud residence was surrounded first by a neat garden of pansies and marigolds, then by a flat lawn with a white picket fence, and finally on two sides by fruit trees.

Commerce Avenue north of Apple Street served all of our shops and small businesses, and after several blocks led to the fruit packing houses.

The most interesting feature of our town was the cemetery where I sat. More specifically, I mean the animal statues and giant flowers in the cemetery. We were always bragging about them to tourists and visitors. The animal statues were everywhere, a few even behind the mortuary on the level grass where a giant hammer had apparently pounded in rows of identical flat headstones to mark recent arrivals. But most were higher on the hill, at home among the elaborate stone crosses and monuments of the pioneers. They surrounded Eve Adams’ cross and crabapple tree at the top.

Nobody would say exactly where the statues came from, but it was well known in town that a cult had grown up around the person of Eve Adams. Many years earlier, soon after she was buried, some pioneer prankster chiseled an apostrophe in her name to make it Eve Adam’s. That started it. Next somebody planted the crabapple tree, and someone, perhaps the same person, placed a wicked looking statue of a serpent beneath it. Before long more statues appeared, always in the night, and always following the Garden of Eden motif. By the time I was born the animals were everywhere, lions suckling lambs, dogs reading Bibles, cats dancing with storks carrying babies. I grew up with these statues.

The giant flowers were Antonia’s handiwork. She planted them in beds all along the Apple Street walkway, in the area bordering the mausoleum, and interwoven with the graves. Only she and I knew their secret. The rest of the town just marveled at their incredible size and deep colors, and teased Antonia to reveal her fertilizer. She never did.

Above the town crouched the brown Sierra Nevada foothills, of which the cemetery hill was the first.

I watched Reverend Stilwell come out of the rectory, pass through his garden and out of his gate, and stroll next door to the church. He entered through the side door nearest his office.

Then I glanced to the west and saw the bus.

As soon as I saw it, I was struck by a conviction that the bus signaled something special for me, like a wedding day, something anticipated all of our lives until suddenly we are in it. First day of school, first kiss, graduation, marriage, birth of a child, fame, and death; they convert in a few heady hours from imagination to memory, except that death never enters into our memory. And this event starting now, signaled by the bus, had never existed in my imagination. I felt a sudden infusion of joy, that, for being involuntary, frightened me.

It was a sleek looking vehicle, blood red. As it glided over the bridge and turned into the parking lot at the church, I could see bold yellow letters on the side saying HALLELUJAH CONGREGATION. Underneath that in smaller letters was the jingle, Come to Life with us.

Curious to see the Hallelujah Congregation up close, I decided to walk down to the church a little early. I was on usher duty anyway, already dressed in my black Sunday suit, and I paused on my way to cut some of Antonia’s flowers for the altar, using my jackknife. I picked red carnations that were growing next to a lion.

Hello, Lion, I said, feeling that I was speaking that name for the first time. I looked around and laughed. Hello, Lamb. Hello, Camel. Hello, Raccoon.

There wasn’t much traffic on Apple Street yet and with the carnations in my hand I crossed over to the church parking lot where the bus passengers were busy unloading themselves. They seemed to know what they were doing, and I wondered why Reverend Stilwell had told me nothing about their coming. The Hallelujah Congregation included a cross section of ethnic groups, young and old, male and female, with perhaps an extra measure of young women. They all wore rope strap sandals and long white robes made of coarse cotton, radiating love and exuberance. This mixed oddly with the oily heat of the bus.

The middle-aged man supervising the unloading was tall and good looking. He reminded me of my picture of my father, jet black with African hair, but without my father’s vertical Abyssinian forehead.

When the man noticed me staring, he waved cheerfully and bounded over with a few springing strides.

Praise God, friend. I’m Brother Matthew and this is the Hallelujah Congregation.

I’m Seth Menelik. Somewhat intimidated, I shook the pleasant black hand which emerged from the sleeve of his white robe, a hand darker than mine. Very pleased to meet you, Brother Matthew.

He held onto my hand for a long moment and peered into my eyes as if he were reading my soul. Then he let go and pointed to the sanctuary, placing his other hand on my shoulder.  Do you belong to this church, Brother Seth? I would like to be introduced to your pastor before the service this morning.  Still clutching my carnations, I led Brother Matthew to the side door, and after knocking, brought him into the church office. Reverend Stilwell gave us a quizzical look as he rose from his swivel chair and reached across his desk to shake hands with his surprise visitor.

Reverend Stilwell, this is Brother Matthew. I said as the reverend gestured his guest to a comfortable chair. He returned to his own seat behind his desk and scratched his ring of short red hair that surrounded a shiny, freckled bald spot like a halo and made him look like an Irish monk. One couldn’t help thinking that he should have been wearing a gray hooded robe rather than a black suit with a clerical collar.

Brother Matthew was more reserved than he had been outside and appeared to consider each word before he spoke. I apologize for not writing or calling to warn you that we were coming but this has all happened so suddenly that we had to just trust in God and do as He bid us.

Reverend Stilwell tried to keep his hands folded on his desk. Don’t apologize. How can we help you? He glanced out the window at the people unloading the bus.

Reverend Stilwell, the Saints in our congregation live together in a large house. We sleep in two rooms, one for men and the other for women. This morning while the sky was still dark, I awoke, feeling the strong presence of God. I silently prayed, waiting for Him to make his purposes known. Soon I heard the voice of an Angel.

Reverend Stilwell scratched his hair nervously but said nothing, so Brother Matthew continued.

The Angel said, ‘Matthew, arise and prepare for a journey. Take these disciples who have been charged to you and go to the town of New Eden, to the first church you will come to after you cross the bridge which leads into the town. You will be shown a young man, whose name is written in the Book of Life but who stubbornly refuses to turn his face to Jesus. Show him the love of Jesus and tell him of the wrath of God, so that he may come into the safety of the flock of the Lord.’

Suddenly I felt very hot and the hair of my arms stood out straight. But I kept still and said nothing. Brother Matthew did not notice.

Then the Angel was gone and I rose up to find that the men in the room with me were all awake, for they had also heard the Angel, and in the next room I heard sounds of the women, also rising, for they had also heard. Before the sun was up, we were on the road with our bus, and have just now arrived at your church.

Reverend Stilwell folded his hands again, looking thoughtful. You heard an Angel? How extraordinary. But how will you find this young man?

The Lord will show him to us. We would like to hold a prayer meeting, perhaps this afternoon?

Reverend Stilwell scratched his bald spot and looked at a calendar on his desk. This afternoon? Well, there’s nothing going on, so I don’t see why not. Sure. You’re welcome to use the sanctuary for a prayer meeting. How does two o’clock sound?

Praise God, and thank you.

Right. Praise God. I’ll announce your prayer meeting from the pulpit at service this morning. Shall we go into the sanctuary now? It’s time to open the doors. Seth, those are gorgeous carnations. How does Antonia do it?

I grinned and shook my head. As we left the office, I turned into the kitchen to get a vase for the flowers. By the time I entered the sanctuary and placed them on the altar, the two clergymen were standing by the open front doors, talking. By and by Esau Adams loomed up in the doorway, shook hands with both of them, and slouched through the foyer into the sanctuary. Stuffed uncomfortably into his huge black suit, he glanced around nervously, as if afraid of moving for fear of breaking something. But when he saw me, he brightened up like a puppy dog at the sight of a friendly face.

Eh, Seth, it’s a great day outside. Such a shame that we have to be stuck up in this dusty old building. He brushed some dust off his pants. As usual, he had been romping with his dog in the alley.

Better shoo your dog outside. I told him.

Esau turned around. His big mutt was inching past the men in the doorway, his tail wagging him forward. Go on, Big Red, get outa here! Esau started to follow his dog out, but remembered himself and came back. Well, he sighed, what do you want me to do?

Although Esau Adams had been a church usher for many years, longer than me, he never remembered the routine. He was not stupid; in fact, he was a very successful real estate man, managing the property of the leading family in town. The property was in his mother’s name, but since the death of her husband, Esau did the work. It was in the hope of pleasing her that he continued stubbornly as an usher instead of going hunting every Sunday in the hills with his dogs.