How I Met Cindy

When you are the preacher’s kid, sometimes, you end up doing things that you really don’t want to do.

It was the first day of Christmas vacation. I was 16 years old and had my first vehicle, a Ford pickup, painted burnt orange. I was a very self-centered young man and was determined to spend my vacation time hanging with my best friend, Judd, and my girlfriend, Monica. Dad, naturally, had other things in mind.

“Look, son, we have all of the groceries from the food drive delivered except for one family. I have to work tomorrow and I’d appreciate it if you would make that delivery for me.”

Let me translate Dadspeak into common English for you: “Son, deliver these groceries to the poor family the deacons and I have picked out or don’t bother asking for gas money for the next few months and don’t expect the tape deck for your truck you want for Christmas under the tree!”

In case you want to know why a pastor was working a second job; our church only had about 45 members and they couldn’t pay my father much of a salary, so he bagged groceries at Bob’s Supermarket to make ends meet. Bob also supplied most of the stuff for the food drive.

I sighed my most petulant teenaged sigh and glared my best glare, but it had no effect on the good reverend.

“They live out in Blackwood Holler, last house on the left before the road dead ends. You’d best leave about five. When you get there, park on the side of the road, carry the food up their driveway, and leave it on the porch try not to wake’em up. You know how proud people around here are. If they saw they were getting charity, it would do more harm than good!”

I really couldn’t have cared less about a family of welfare recipients and their pride, but the next morning found my truck rolling up Blackwood Holler. The road started out blacktopped. After a mile, pavement gave way to gravel. Less than two miles, gravel became a combination of dirt and hardpan. Four miles, I saw the end of the road ahead and a house with asbestos siding, a rusted tin roof and a front porch that looked like it might collapse at any second. I honestly doubted if the porch would support the weight of the five bags of groceries in the bed of my truck. There was a porch swing and a rusted wringer washer that looked like it dated back to the Great Depression on the porch, so I pulled off on the side of the road, stopped, got out of the vehicle, and carried three bags of groceries to the house. The porch creaked when I stepped onto it. I put the bags in front of the washer. There were no curtains on the windows and I could see inside. What I could see of the house looked like it hadn’t ever been cleaned. There were also no lights, so I hoped the family would sleep for several more hours.

I ran back to the truck and grabbed the last two sacks. I could see a canned ham and Some sweet potatoes in one of the bags. I ran up the driveway and put the two grocery bags beside the other two. That’s when I heard her voice.

“Howdy,” said the voice it was thin and wavering. I looked in the direction the sound came from, side of the porch where the swing was. There was a tiny, blonde haired girl sitting on the swing. She was about 9 or 10, dressed in a thin, pink nightgown and barefoot. It was December and she was not dressed for the weather.

“Hey, kid,” I said, trying to sound older and wiser than I actually was.

She stared at me with round, blue eyes. It was like she was a Martian and I was her first encounter with a human.

“Are you real?” she asked me.

“You bet I am, girl!”

“Are you an angel?”

That caught me off guard.

“Uh, no, I ain’t,” I said. I chuckled. “Just ask my parents or my teachers at the high school and they’ll tell you that!”

“You must be an angel or a good Christian or something like that to bring us food. We ain’t got none in the house.”

That choked me up. I felt tears burning in my eyes. I hadn’t cried since my grandma died when I was seven.

“I ain’t none of that, but some good Christian people wanted you to have that stuff.”

She smiled. It was the prettiest crooked smile that I have ever seen. She climbed out of the swing and padded across the porch to where I stood.

“Can I give you a little kiss on the cheek?” she asked.

I took a knee and she gave me a peck on the cheek.

“I’m Cynthia Puckett,” she said. “People call me ‘Cindy’.”

“Randy Evigan” I responded. We shook hands. “Glad to know you.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Randy.”

“Now, look, Cindy, don’t tell your family where the food came from. If you wanna tell’em an angel brought it, that’s alright with me. It’s supposed to be a secret. OK?”

“You bet!” she said.

And that’s how I met Cindy….

It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m 32 years old and I’m standing at the front of my father’s little church, dressed in a rented tuxedo that feels like it might be a size too big. Dad is standing up on the platform, Bible in hand, dressed in a JC Penney clearance table suit and he looks like he belongs in fancy clothes in front of a church. I must look ridiculous.

Mrs. Dunigan, my old 7th grade teacher looks ancient and frail, but she can still do amazing things with a Hammond organ. She plays the wedding march and everybody present stands and turns to watch my bride walk in.

She looks like an angel in the white dress that shows off her figure perfectly while still being modest enough to receive my Independent Baptist mother’s approval. Cindy is strides barefoot and alone down the aisle. Her father has been in prison for years. I almost lose my breath as she approaches me and takes my hand.

“Are you real?” I ask.

She giggles and smiles that crooked smile.

“You bet!”

“Are you an angel?”

“Ask me a year from now,” she responds with another crooked smile.

Yeah, I’ve done some things I really didn’t want to do.

But it usually turns out ok…..