Worn bare by the promise of Glory, pressed flat as the face of Heaven, the Women of Jesus bake casseroles, clip coupons, rock babies, bury the dead. They sing “Amazing Grace” at four in the afternoon, at five the men arrive- six-pack of beer and off to the basement. On Sunday evening, Hallelujah! They slip from kitchens, from bleached dishrags, from hot, gleaming glasses, back to church. Fans flap, hands wave, breasts and hips in flowered dresses rolling tongues pray, feet stomp- Murphy’s wood oil and perspiration. Revived they return through unlocked doors to dark houses where they hover in stove light, flip the pages of a fat, black Bible, read the recipes spiced with suffering, learn the parameters of worry. Yes, there is grace, deep and dark as the ore of iron, but it is grace given out like calcium from too brittle bones. When, at last they heave themselves, lotioned legs and scrubbed feet, beneath the blankets, between the sheets, the Women of Jesus sigh. “Just like a boy,” they think, “a couple of hours on the cross, and down he comes, ready for resurrection.” -Mark J. Royse Site Collection, 1999
