Free Gilbert Morris by The Angel of Bastogne Page B

for me—decaf,” Ben said.
    â€œMe, too. No cream.”
    â€œWon’t be long. Just set right there.”
    â€œI’ll wait until you get here,” Ben grinned. He saw the woman was amused by his remark.
    â€œThere ain’t no place else to run to in this town—if you’re hungry, that is.” She turned and walked away, and Ben said, “Seems like a pleasant lady.”
    â€œI think she’s a Pentecostal lady. Notice that bun?”
    â€œSure did. It’s got her hair so tight her eyes look slanted.”
    They both sat there until Mom brought the food back. The serving of meat was enormous, as were the vegetables. The butter was in a round mound instead of being in small squares and wrapped in tinfoil. “Made this butter myself. You can’t get that in the big city.”
    â€œYou sure can’t, and that bread smells delicious,” Charlene said.
    â€œYou want to bless the food, or do you want me to do it for you?” Mom said, looking down at them.
    Ben was suddenly amused. “I guess you’d better do it for us, Mom. You’ve probably had more practice than I have.”
    The woman bowed her head and began praying loudly enough for everyone in the café to hear it. “Lord, bless

this food and bless this man and this woman. May they be washed in the blood of the Lamb, saved, sanctified, and filled with the Holy Ghost. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
    Charlene looked up with a broad smile. “That was a wonderful blessing. Thank you, Mom.”
    â€œAre you a sanctified girl?”
    â€œI sure am.”
    â€œWhat about you, Sonny? You walkin’ in the light?”
    â€œI guess you’d call me a searcher.”
    â€œWell, the Bible says, ‘They that seek me, they shall find me.’ The good Lord said that Himself. So, you go ahead and eat, and I’ll be here if you want refills.”
    â€œThank you,” Ben said. “It looks delicious.”
    â€œThat was some blessing,” Ben said as he began to cut the pork roast. He put a bite in his mouth, and his eyes opened wide. “This is terrific!”
    â€œIt sure is. She spiced it up somehow or other.”
    â€œThe vegetables are good, too.” They ate hungrily, and Ben glanced over at Mom who had brought coffee out to refill the cups. She carried it in an old-fashioned aluminum coffee pot that looked like it would hold a gallon. “There aren’t many women like her around these days.”
    â€œI think not. They’re almost an endangered species.” She picked up the huge mug of coffee, sipped it, and said, “What kind of woman are you looking for, Ben?”
    â€œLooking for? What do you mean?”
    â€œWell, you don’t intend to die a crusty old bachelor, do you?”
    â€œThat’s possible. To tell the truth, I don’t really understand women.”
    â€œWell I’m glad you admit it. Women can be dangerous to a man. You know,” she said as humor flickered in her eyes, “there was a poet named Graves who wrote about a girl who could fade the purple out of cloth and tarnish mirrors with her look.”
    â€œMust have been some woman.”
    â€œI think she was. Graves said she could walk between two men and if no appropriate prayer was said, one of them would die.”
    â€œI’d like to meet that gal.”
    The dinner was pleasant, and they lingered over it as long as possible. “I hate to go back to that motel room.”
    â€œSo do I. The lonesomest place in the world is a motel room all by yourself—unless it’s a Greyhound Bus Station with lots of people.” Charlene said, “I bet Mom’s got some good pie. Let’s buy one and take it back to the motel with us. We’ll stay up and watch whatever’s on television and eat pie all night.”
    â€œWhat if she doesn’t have pie?”
    â€œMom always has pie. You wait and see.” She raised