If the revival preacher was the spark that set your nerves to tinglin’, the traveling evangelists were the blaze that burned the fear right into your marrow. They came from out of town, usually from places with biblical names like Calvary County or Jordan Mills, and they carried reputations that traveled faster than they did.

Folks spoke of them in hushed tones.

“Brother Hammond once preached so hard that three grown men fainted,” they would say.

“Reverend Slocum cast out a demon the size of a washing machine,” they would whisper.

“Evangelist Carter made a sinner confess right in the Piggly Wiggly,” they would testify.

Little remarks like that primed your imagination long before the man ever stepped inside the tent. By the time the evangelist appeared, I was convinced he had personally shaken hands with every angel in the heavenly host and possibly dated one.

The evangelists had a certain look about them. Their suits were always one size too large or one size too small. Their ties were tighter than good sense allowed. Their hair was sculpted into shapes that defied gravity and maybe the laws of physics. And they carried their Bibles like sheriff’s deputies carry arrest warrants.

When they stepped up to the pulpit, the whole tent went quiet. Even the babies hushed, as if someone had whispered in their brand-new souls that this here was a man who had visited the edge of eternity and returned with a warning.

The evangelist always started soft.
Real soft.
So soft you had to lean forward to hear him.

He would tell us that sin was a slow poison.
He would tell us that Satan was patient.
He would tell us that there were children in the tent tonight whose feet were already halfway into the fires of perdition.

And I, sittin’ there with my little hands folded hard enough to creak the knuckles, was certain he meant me.

Just when the hush felt unbearable, he would raise his voice a fraction.
Then a little more.
Then a whole lot more.

Before long, he was shoutin’ so loud that neighboring counties could have taken notes. He would pace the stage, arms flung wide, veins bulgin’ in his neck, paintin’ the air with images so vivid they seared themselves onto the inside of your skull like scorch marks.

He described the Rapture in great and terrible detail.
He told us about the moments after the trumpet blast.
He listed the sights and sounds of the earth when all the faithful were gone.

“You will see planes fall from the sky,” he cried. “You will see the oceans boil. You will see empty shoes on the sidewalk where the righteous once walked.”

I had nightmares for a week over those empty shoes.
Sometimes they whispered.

He went on.

“You will wake in your bed one morning and find your parents gone. Their nightclothes will lie beside you, still warm from the touch of their bodies as the Lord lifted them into the heavens. And you, poor sinner, will be left in the silence of your shame.”

I wish I was exaggeratin’, but that was exactly how he said it.

At that age, nightmares came easily.
Real easily.
Especially after a sermon like that.

I remember wakin’ in the middle of the night, heart hammerin’, convinced the Rapture had happened while I was droolin’ on my pillow. I ran down the hallway to my parents’ bedroom, flung open the door, and clung to the side of their bed in the dark, desperate to hear the sound of breathin’.

They were there, of course.
Snorin’, in fact.
But the relief was so powerful that I sat on the floor and cried.

Mama found me that way at sunrise and thought I had been sleepwalkin’.
I did not have the courage to tell her the truth.

The evangelist had gotten inside my head and built himself a pulpit right between my fears. I spent the next several nights kneelin’ beside my bed prayin’ feverishly for forgiveness from sins I was not entirely sure I had committed.

I prayed for kickin’ my cousin under the dinner table.
I prayed for covetin’ a Double-Bubble bubblegum container.
I prayed for thinkin’ a girl in my class was pretty.

And when Mama finally caught me prayin’ with such desperation, she said, “Child, you look like a man tryin’ to beg his way out of jail.”

I told her that was exactly what I was doin’.

The evangelists meant well, I suppose.
Their job was to ignite a spiritual fire under folks who had grown too comfortable with their ordinary lives.
But they did not concern themselves with the tender hearts of children.
Or with nightmares.
Or with the long nights after the tent grew quiet.

They were storm bringers.
And storms never think about who they frighten.

To this day, I can picture their faces.
I can hear their voices.
I can feel the weight of their warnings like stones in my pockets.

Those men never knew it, but they taught me something I still remember.

Fear is powerful.
But it is not smart.
It does not know how to stop growin’ once planted.

And in northeast Alabama, we planted it like corn.

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.