The Christians greeting folks at the door didn’t bother to warn me. Which is funny, because I thought these people were compassionate and gentle.

 I had just lowered myself onto the hard oak pew, fourth row from the front, when tiny objects barraged my face. With a shout, I dove to the floor, memories of Kuwait blurring the reality that I was in a church in America, friendly territory. But shots from the pulpit continued, clobbering the wood I’d just vacated.

Terror gripped my soul as it had a thousand times before, images of burning mounds and blood-stained sand in Kuwait rising like ghosts in my mind. My hands clenched and I tucked into myself out of habit, and I fought to slow down my breathing. But instead of the deafening boom of tanks and endless stream of hundreds of rounds of ARs unloading inches from my ear,  “hallelujahs” and “glory-to-Gods” resonated calmly from pews around me. A few more bullets ricocheted and plinked off my cheek, and, panting, I picked one up and examined it between my shaky thumb and finger.

A seed, not a bullet. An oblong, black-striped seed. I exhaled slowly and passed my hand across my sweating forehead. A welt was rising on my face. Okay. So. I was wrong about the bullets. But I could’ve sworn they were coming from the stage, from the so-called “pastor.”

 Love your enemies my eye.

 I wondered if they had invisible lasers scanning the doors for agnostics…although, I suppose if they had, an alarm would’ve whooped to life as soon as I’d crossed the threshold.

 Still, I couldn’t convince myself to get back to my seat, because my soldier’s intuition glued me to my pew-barricaded section of floor.

There was another attack.

I looked up to see an entire family of five shucked with pellets. And these crazies—instead of shielding themselves with their hands—opened their palms to catch them. Dumbfounded, I watched as Mom opened up her purse, withdrew a gallon-sized Ziploc, and gestured for junior to dump his in. His sisters unlocked their coin purses and poured their handfuls inside before setting them in their laps.

 Turning my head, I saw old ladies plucking seeds from their grey hair and carefully tucking them into handkerchiefs. They treated them like precious jewels or gold nuggets, not the sadistic ammo of their First Corinthians Thirteen shepherd.

 I was relieved when target practice ended with a hearty amen from the stocky man behind me. I glanced at my watch: time to go. With a slight penchant of bitterness in my soul, I slowly followed the crowd through the back doors, still wary of laser scanners.

The grass was recently sheared and I noted with grudging respect that the lawn was dandelion free. (Have you seen a church with unkempt landscaping?) I watched the churchies as they went to their minivans and sedans, oblivious to the seeds scattered pell-mell across the lawn.

Purse-mom and grandma must’ve had holes in their handbags. Or, pastor’s words just weren’t precious enough.

Suddenly, the afternoon glaze of sunshine disappeared and a chill tickled the back of my neck. At first, I thought a cloud had passed over the sun, but when I looked up, the ‘cloud’ morphed and defined itself more clearly. To my amazement, it became a host of blackbirds that dive-bombed the lawn of the church. I raced for my rusty white and orange Volkswagen van amid the deluge of aviary suicide bombers, but not before I chanced a glance behind me: the birds were swallowing up every dropped seed.

 

Part Two.

“Excuse me, Miss?” I called to the woman in a grey polka-dot dress.

It was the next holy day, and the service had just concluded. I’d sat next to her while the preacher pitched yet another home-run worthy sermon on the mound, his brain-washed followers stowing away every wallop. I’ll invest in a ball glove for my next visit.

She turned, and, smiling, adjusted the red scarf around her neck; it was the scarf she’d waved over her head, laughing for joy two seconds after a volley of black seeds had rained into her lap. She hadn’t stood up, of course; there was no way she was spilling a single one of those seeds from heaven. But the look on her face told me that if she hadn’t been in church, she would’ve danced around the sanctuary.

But that would’ve been blasphemous! If she knew I was thinking about such a sinful thing as dancing, why, she’d probably refuse to talk to me.

“May I help you?” She had a slight West Virginian drawl that stuck out like a sore thumb in northwest Ohio, but it loaned an extra winsomeness to her disgustingly saccharine smile. I resisted the urge to slap her out of her religious delusion.

“Yes, Miss,” I replied, as sweetly as I was able. I had to at least attempt to blend in, the skeptical, sacrilegious-thought-thinker that I was. If one of these churchies knew I was a non-believer, I knew I’d be tar and feathered before the next meeting.

I hoped my smirk was more of a smile. “I was wondering, actually, if you could help me understand something.”

“Sure, honey.” She moved her purse strap from one shoulder to the other. Not a single seed fell out. Interesting.

“Well, I’m sorta new to this…seed…thing…” I shook my stash of seeds—a grand total of ten—in a Tupperware container I’d bought yesterday. “…and I have some questions.” I didn’t tell her I’d picked them off the floor from beneath the pew in front of me.

Her smile pressed her eyes closed for a second and she fingered the red plastic lid. “For starters, you’ll need a bigger container next week.” She waved her hand. “Let me show you.”

We followed the sidewalk three doors down until we came to a quaint cottage with a picket fence and daisies lining the walkway. With her polka-dot dress and red ballet flats, she was a living lawn ornament, one that smiled and waved and welcomed you in syrupy West Virginian.

The first thing I noticed—after sliding off my brown leather Oxfords on her ‘God Bless You!’ welcome mat—were the jars. Jars filled with seeds. They were everywhere! Over the mantle, filling her bookshelves, nestled with pictures on end tables, stacked on her coffee table, (I think they held up the coffee table, actually), and there were even pictures made with seeds. Kind of like an advanced version of a kid’s summer art project, if there was such a thing. My eyes widened when she lit a candle and tucked it into a little jar half-filled with red seeds; if she was having romantical thoughts, I’d have to high-tail it out of there before---

“I saved the best ‘till last,” she squeaked, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the kitchen. She set the lit candle jar on the counter, which was--no surprise--covered in jars. But I stared out the patio doors at her large backyard. It was mostly bare earth with sporadic bursts of weed and droopy, stunted plants.

“I tried putting down seed, but it never did much,” she drawled to me with a sad nod of her head.

“Well,” I started, pointing to a spot that was nothing but rock, “you’d have to bust up that sheetrock first before you could grow anything---”

“But I did try,” she said bemoaned, her eyelashes flipping rapidly. With a hand to her temple, she gestured toward a closed door off to the side.

I gave up on the backyard and followed.

With a delicate clearing of her throat, she slid open a door with her slippered foot to reveal a pantry covered floor-to-ceiling with, you guessed it: seed jars. Unlike the other jars decorating her home, these were organized by seed color and size and even labeled for further clarification.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” she breathed, touching the glasses tenderly.

I dragged my finger along the metal lids, browsing for a “grass seed” label, and it was as I suspected: dusty. I looked up to see that she was watching me, waiting for a response.

“Oh! Yeah!” I stuttered, pasting what I hoped was the most delighted smile on my face. “It’s…so….” Miss West Virginian skipped to the counter while I fumbled for an acceptable adjective. “…organized.”

Thankfully, she didn’t notice the lameness and general non-existence of my enthusiasm. Or maybe she did, and was gracious enough to hum along as though I’d lavished the most splendid of compliments upon her. She set a large canning jar in each of my hands. A gift, she said, from one parishioner to another.

“I’m so glad you could visit,” she beamed a few moments later as she led me back through the hallway. “But I’ve got more seeds to sort through, as you can see.” She unzipped her purse and tilted it toward me so I could peek at its contents.

“Yeah,” I said, taking my cue. “You’re quite the busy lady.” This time I smiled for real. “I’ll take your advice and purchase more containers.” I shoved one of the glass jars under my arm as I groped for the doorknob.

“Oh, you do that! I’ll bet one day you’ll have more seeds than I do!” Her tinkling laugh grated on my nerves and my smile faltered.

“I wouldn’t dream of having more seeds than you,” I insisted dryly as I stepped into the sunshine.

“Well, of course you can always hope,” Miss West Virginian drawled. “See you next holy day!”

 

Part Three.

My ball mitt must’ve really caught people’s attention the next time I went to service: guys I never saw before came by and thumped me on the back like I was a part of the team. Of course, I laughed and joked as they commented on my method of grasping the pastor’s teachings, but I wondered--whose team were they on, exactly? And…did I really want to be on it?

I slid the Tupperware under my arm—I had the Russian doll effect going on, having tucked them into each other by size. They fit, of course, because I didn’t stuff them with seeds, despite the prompting of Ms. West Virginia the week before. This would be the only public place I’d ever be seen with Tupperware. Eeeyeehh.

A man whom I immediately dubbed as the churchie’s star quarterback swaggered over, his orange hair cropped low, squarish glasses settled on a nose cut from freckled marble, his collared shirt tucked into dark slacks. No tie. The women probably forgot to chide him for his lack of one, distracted by the man’s shirt-stretching bulk.

He stuck his hand out, a large gold band circling his finger. Who was the lucky woman? “Jean. The name’s Jean.”

“Matthias,” I managed, my breath escaping as Jean’s hand clamped mine and didn’t immediately let go.

“I like your style, Matt,” he said with a perfect grin.

I tried not to grind my jaws together. Matthias.

He shoved his beefy hands into his pockets. “Do you have a second to swing by my place?”

I swallowed my ire. Just get “in” with one of them, Matthias.

“Sure, Jean,” I said with a nod. “That’d be swell.” Swell?

Jean’s home fit him: sharp, well designed, and it had the aura of a successful business. It was a two-story home, also built on some kind of shale that must be the way of the land in this part of the country. It was the house of one who was well off: it had a nice front lawn and even shaded groves on the sides. I caught a whiff of something sweet as we walked to the front door.

“Peaches and nectarines,” he explained at my raised eyebrows. “They’re not as common as apples, but they do alright.” Inside, he offered to get me some water, and, since the door was open and it was a nice day, I stepped out to the back porch. All I could do was stare. He didn’t have a yard. He had a…jungle.

“I had a dream ten years ago, Matt, to make a lot of…you know, riches for God.” He handed me a water bottle. “For His Kingdom and purposes, I mean,” he said with a smile that reminded me of Ed McDermitt, tv car salesman. You didn’t have to see the commercial but once to get the annoying jingle in your head: “Come on over, come ‘an see Ed…with him, you’ll find the lowest prices—in RED!”

The smile never faltered, just like Ed’s. “I’ve got plans to grow a lot of produce and send it overseas to China, you know, where they need it most.”

No, I didn’t know. Must be some Christian inside information I wasn’t privy to, but I just nodded my head.

“It’s hard with a business to do the upkeep myself, and I haven’t been able to hire anyone at a rate that would be….beneficial….for the company, you know.” He barely takes a second to breathe. “And another thing, Matt, I’ve been trying for months to get these investors lined up to get a tractor to cut out all of those weeds….”

I nodded again and tried to look sympathetic as he went on about the unsavory character of aforementioned investors and their employees, but I couldn’t get over what I was seeing. The “weeds” were a thorny death trap that had swallowed his rows of crops for half an acre. I could hardly make out the potatoes, onions, cauliflower, and tomatoes. Ten years and this was all he had to show for it?? Dude, just borrow some hedge clippers, a weed whacker, a chainsaw. Something.

“Jean!” A woman called from inside the house, so we stepped back inside. Jean’s wife was a vision of long blonde hair poised atop her head, manicured nails, DKNY jeans, and knee-high boots.

“I can’t believe you took him out there!” she scolded, swatting his shoulder. Her smile seemed a tad stiff, like when I tell my in-laws I’ll call them for lunch next week as I’m herding them out the door. “The Petersons are coming over and I need your help putting up the curtains—should I go blue or green?”

A full minute passed before I realized she’d been talking to me. “Oh!” I sputtered, glancing frantically around her white kitchen with white countertops and white cabinets and white wallpaper with blue trim. “Well, I think the blue.” A second thought. “Ma’am.”

“Very good,” she simpered before turning to call down the hallway where Jean had disappeared. “Jean, you always pick friends with good taste!”

I watched them lift the curtain rod over the sliding glass door, watched as the thorn jungle disappeared as the blue curtain fell into place.

A young man, a thinner, younger version of Jean came bounding down the stairs, guitar case in one hand, touch-pad electronic in the other. His head jerked as though he was having a spasm…then I realized it was to get his bangs out of his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m out to practice!”

Jean laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “What about getting your mother some potatoes for tomorrow’s luncheon? She’s gotta make a salad.”

“Dad, I can’t find them out there. Wasted half an hour of practice time last Saturday.” The kid shook his head again. “You do it.”

There was quite the awkward silence as Jean Jr. removed himself from his father’s grasp, plugged in his earphones, grabbed his skateboard, and hurried out the door.

A second later, Jean’s daughter (judging by the blonde updo like her mother’s) came up the steps hand-in-hand with a young man in a button-down shirt and ironed khakis. Ironed. Wow. This kid had “youth pastor” all over him. The daughter’s eyes were glued to his pimpled face, glazed over in that starry-eyed-love look.

Jean opened his mouth, then closed it.

Potato picking was not gonna happen with these two.

Jean’s daughter spoke quietly to her mother before entwining her fingers with those of her romeo-esque pastor-wannabe, smiling, and disappearing into the kitchen.

Jean took advantage of the silence. I could just about hear the pride swelling in his chest as he took his next inhale. “This is the genius who took a ball glove to service,” Jean boasted.

Jean’s wife nodded, as though unsure what that meant exactly. “That’s nice, dear.”

“I figure, if he thought to pull that off, then he should work for me! We could use some creative minds now, couldn’t we?”

“Yes, dear.” She flashed me a smile. “It was nice to meet you, Matt.”

“Matthias,” I corrected. “A pleasure.”

“Let’s set up another meeting for next week,” Jean said, gesturing to the door.

I take the cue and follow him outside. “Yeah, sure.”

“Are Wednesdays or Tuesdays better for you?”

I don’t get to answer because we both notice the small, very thin woman standing among Jean’s fruit trees, reaching for some peaches.

“Hey! Hey you!” Jean yells.

Peaches drop from the fragile woman’s hands, and she steps back, eyes wide, frozen in uncertainty. Her reddish-gray hair is in a messy braid, her clothes are thin and worn. And her eyes, I notice even from this distance, are haunted. Desperate. I’ve seen it in the eyes of war orphans near Baghdad, in children wandering around decimated towns looking for anything edible after their families were killed.

Jean waves a hand over his head to get her attention. “This is private property!” He quickens toward her, urgency lengthening his strides. “Move along, lady. This is for people over in China…”

Something inside me turns over, and as I stare after them, I can’t help but think that I’m finally seeing the real Jean. Can’t he see the woman is hungry? What would it hurt to let her have a few pieces of fruit?

But before Jean gets close enough to engage her in conversation, the woman bolts; her face the second before she turns tells me she’s on the brink of tears.

Jean watches her for a minute, then shrugs and turns back to me. “Every so often we get riffraff. Just gotta be firm with ‘em.”

I blink at him.

As though nothing happened, he continues on with our conversation. “So…Tuesday, then?”

I don’t trust myself to speak and simply nod.

“Great! Great! See you then!”

 

Part Four.

The next Tuesday, Jean and I meet again, as agreed, and after a long-winded business shpeal (during which I could hardly look him in the eye), he loans me one of his wagons. He wants 70% of the seeds I collect with my glove during service, which seemed steep, but he assured me that it’s all “for the orphans in China, of course.” Of course. If Almighty Jean says so. His firm handshake—paired with the stern look in his eyes--was extra long, as though to make sure I didn’t forget it.

Oh, if the editors in Columbus could see me now: tugging a kiddie wagon behind me to church, of all places! My father would be pounding his fists bloody on the inside of his casket.

The things we writers do for a story.

I give little effort to seed collecting this time, and what few I gather, I pass on to those sitting around me. And they’re all much obliged for my generosity. Purse-mom beams from ear-to-ear and tells me thank you three times; Miss Lawn Ornament, though, shakes her head and chastises me for giving so many away, but smiles gratefully too.

Still, I only end up with maybe a hundred seeds.

After service, I head down the street to Jean’s to return his wagon. Gradually I notice the dragging scuffle of my gait, and admit to myself I’m loathe to see him again. Usually it doesn’t bug me if someone is treated unfairly, but I just can’t shove the memory of the skinny woman reaching for fruit from my mind. Or the haunted eyes of starving children. I realize then I’m looking for her and glance down at my shoes instead.

The man can have his blasted seeds and his cart. I’m done.

I march up the sidewalk, trying to ignore what I assume is an employee fertilizing the side lawn. But suddenly, I’m diverted by the sound of a child’s laughter; I glance up, half irritated, half curious.

A property three houses past Jean’s mansion captures my attention.

The wagon tongue clangs loudly onto Jean’s front porch steps, and I walk—I’m tempted to stomp—across Jean’s manicured lawn towards the sound of happiness, which appears to be a modest ranch house with a verdant topography. The yard is what I’d imagine a present-day Eden to look like: trees and plants and bushes and flowers—in full bloom, with insects and fowl and everything—are everywhere I look. It seems chaotic and unorganized from afar, but once my loafers have officially stepped onto the property, I’m aware of its pleasant asymmetry.

The house is situated more toward the back left of the lot; the house isn’t immaculate, but it’s not quite run down. When I look at it, it just says ‘home.’ A huge oak or equally majestic tree growing on the opposite right corner seems to be the centerpiece, the mother-hub, if you will, for ferns and flowering bushes and reed-like grasses. In its mottled shade are daffodils, roses, gladiolas, dahlias, sunflowers—myriads of other colorful flowers whose names I haven’t the faintest idea of. Fruit trees are on the outside ring, like sentinels on the perimeter.

There’s a trio of boys dashing around an orange tree brandishing branch-swords; I watch as one shimmies up into the branches and dangles upside-down, much to the amusement of his mates. Farther off, a little girl tugs earnestly on her mother’s hand, and as they step from the sunlight to the shade, mom’s face softens, weariness melting out of her posture. Mothers and sons are coming and going, men and their grandsons and wives are weaving in and out of the greenery like atoms orbiting a nucleus.

Young families walk past me, and both the children and adults have their arms full with fruit and small plants and packs of seeds. A wrinkled couple, walking hand-in-hand, carry a basket of grapes and herbs and a few packets of seeds. Groups of teenagers run by, each with a fruit or vegetable in hand: tomatoes, cucumbers, ears of corn, carrots, celery, grapes, pomegranates, apples, pears.

My stomach rumbles, and I realize I didn’t eat a thing for breakfast.

“Hey there!” I call to the teens. Two young kids circle back, not minding the interruption as most teens often do. As they slow to a stop in front of me, I hear a rhythmic shaking coming from the direction of their pockets.

“…Could you tell me where you got that?”

“Sure!” The dark-skinned one tosses his butternut squash from one hand to the other. A baseball pitcher, perhaps? “You just keep going the way you were going—head for the big tree. Then hang a left. Just ask if you pass it.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Young families with toddling children and wrinkled couples alike have their arms full of potted plants, fruit or vegetables, and seed packs. Those seeds—in hands and pockets--jingle in a subtle chorus that doesn’t seem to end.

A youthful, middle-aged couple I assume to be the homeowners of Eden stand behind a fold-up table in the shade of the mother-tree. Their smiles are genuine, and deep contentment surrounds both them and everyone nearby. Laughter comes easy, hugs are easier still, and it seems all that come here are accepted. Genuinely. They could be really superb neighbors, and if it weren’t for the various shades of skin, I’d say they were something like a big family. Or Amish.

I’m completely thrown off guard when three young men appear from around the other side of the tree, rifles slung over their shoulders. Immediately my hand gropes for the pistol I used to carry on my hip…but that was two years ago, I realize with a numbing dread. My mind warps this utopia into a full-fledged massacre and sweat breaks out on my forehead as I look for places sufficient for a barricade. My frantic panic cuts off, though, when the young men lean their hoes on the oak tree to greet the couple with hugs and handshakes.

I exhale very slowly, faintly wishing I still smoked.

I shove my shaking hands in my pockets, trying to calm down. I don’t let the young gardeners out of my sight, observing as the wife points to a section of the garden and hands one of them a basket. They pick up the hoes and head in that direction. I almost follow, but decide against it.

Something is happening here, something better than I had experienced the past few weeks within the walls of a building. The longer I watch the husband and wife, the more I’m intrigued: every person who comes to the table leaves with seeds, which are placed in hand, not thrown. The ones who can pay for what they take do so, but those who cannot are given either a handful of fruit or a plant on the verge of producing something, hugged, and given some sort of blessing from the husband. He looks them in the eye, places his hand on their head, and says something that causes each one to smile. And then they go. And the husband turns to the next person waiting for his attention.

I glance at my watch and am shocked to see an hour has ticked away. And it hasn’t seemed but a few minutes. I don’t want to leave, either. But I glance back toward Jean’s house: the wagon is still there, the worker gone.

Amid the people and the green leafage, there’s a copper head disappearing around a berry bush.

I smile for the first time in two days.

The woman chased from Jean’s yard emerges from the bushes with a handful of berries and oranges balanced in the crook of her arm. She approaches the table timidly, hopeful, though her shoulders kind of hunch forward a little bit as though she’s expecting an escort off-grounds. Her fears are put to rest as the kind wife pulls out a basket and seed packets from beneath the table and gestures toward the vegetable plants. I watch her lips. Please, she says. Go and get more! There’s plenty.

With a huge smile that transforms her face from pretty to beautiful, Ms. Copper takes her items, sets them tenderly in her basket, and walks with head high into the garden.

I decide it’s my turn. Or perhaps my stomach decides it. Regardless, I make my way to the table, and wait a few moments as a pair of sisters interact with the husband.

“Can I help you?”

I blink at the woman whose clear brown eyes look expectantly at me, eager to help, her expression guileless and sincere, full of…happiness. Or something. Reminds me of a middle eastern holy man I met once.

“Uh, yeah?”

She smiles, not at all flustered by my uncertainty.

“Do you have watermelon?”

“We do! They’re just past the cantaloupe and strawberries. That way.” She points to my right. “And we have some amazing blueberries this year that you’ll want to sample.”

Samples? This could be better than Costco!! “Great,” I say, smiling again. “Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome, um…..?”

“I’m Matthias,” I say.

“You’re very welcome, Matthias.” She almost looks like she’s about to laugh, but not at me…I don’t think. I suppose I wouldn’t care even if she did. I turn to walk in the direction of the watermelons, but then spin around to face her again.

“Oh, could I um…could I have some of those seeds you’re giving out?”