Letter to Birmingham

A short story for Martin Luther King, Jr.

The preacher's face flickered through familiar blood-red hues. It was the Sunday “spittle-ritual.” Kyle watched tiny, sparkling arcs of saliva launch outward from the man’s mouth in predictable trajectories. He had spent enough Sunday mornings tracking them and enough time thinking about them to figure out the distance each one traveled. He prayed to one day see the spittle kite its way over to Deacon Jansen in the front row. Contact was possible. It hadn't happened yet, but he rested in a “blessed assurance” that one day he would see it. After all, he was just a boy.

It was during this particular Sunday sermon that Kyle heard, what was for him, the most upsetting “revelation” of his parents' god. To have caught even one phrase from Pastor Tully's messages was a feat, even for church members three times his age. Most of the adults around him were over five times his age, so Kyle thought their ears must work exceptionally well since a wrinkled body probably requires less energy to function.

"And the Lamb of God broke open the second seal..." His pastor's voice echoed through the sanctuary with seeming indifference. It was this sentence that had jarred Kyle to a newly discovered divine horror. He looked at his mother, only to be greeted with a pleasantry he neither expected, nor understood.

He thought anxiously about the lack of response and turned his gaze to his father. His father's beard masked any recognizable feeling; the emotionless features repelled even the most intuitive eye. Kyle had spent many evenings at the dinner table attempting to read his father's feelings. He found it easier to read messages in the smell of garlic on warm bread.

“And the Lamb of God broke open the third seal...” The repetition threw Kyle into an even deeper fright and the boy clung to his father's arm tightly, now intent on every word. Images of the divine menace, the cruel inhuman gods, consumed him. He began counting them as the moments passed and Pastor Tully kept raving: seven seals in all!

In his mind’s eye, Kyle envisioned each seal torn open—the insides of the poor animal spewing out to the earth, the squeals of pain, and the torture. What a cruel god his parents had chosen, killing these creatures. The insanity of it stabbed the young boy's heart.

And his parents! They just sat there as if it was nothing! He remembered how his father had led him through the Birmingham zoo last summer; they laughed as the animals scurried behind the glass. The seals were so beautiful; their dark eyes seemed pure and innocent. The thoughts of this god torturing them in the end times turned quickly from a fearful bewilderment to an outright rage.

* * *

"Who does God think He is?" Kyle blurted the question from the back seat of the car, twenty minutes later. "I hate God!"

His father slammed on the brakes. Kyle's head sprang forward, his bushy black mop now covering his eyes. His mother reached over and grabbed her husband by the arm; his father regained his composure and resumed driving.

"What makes you say that honey?" Kyle's mother turned her head back inquisitively. "Did Pastor Tully's sermon on the end times bother you?" Her voice was gentle and understanding. Kyle could see his father's eyes staring back at him through the rearview mirror, noting an obvious displeasure beginning to form in his brow.

"Why does God have to be so hurtful?" His voice trailed off in grief as the image of seven little seals beingviciously torn open filled his mind.

"God doesn't want to hurt, Kyle. It's just that people have left Him no other choice. In the end times, those who reject Jesus will have to endure horrible things."

Kyle was fuming as thecar pulled into the garage. He sprang from thecar and made his way to the front lawn. He would usually play for about thirty minutes before lunch on Sundays, but today was the day he would run away, back to the Birmingham zoo, and begin his new crusade. On this day, Kyle would reveal the true intentions of the gods to all the people. He would lead an open war against the divine powers for the sake of the seals.

"Do we need to discuss this any further, Kyle?" His father’s voice was stern.

"No sir."

"Fathers know best, Kyle. God is our heavenly father and sometimes we just have to trust, even when we don't understand." His father spoke the last phrase from half-way inside the house.

"Don't go too far! Lunch will be ready soon." His mother's voice wasn't the last sound from his home. Kyle heard the door shut in the distance, his back still turned, his feet moving rapidly one after the other.

"God is the one that went too far," Kyle mused.

* * *

A nine year-old can only cover half as much ground as a twenty-five year old, but he can travel twice the distance of a fifty year old. Since his dad was thirty-seven, Kyle calculated that the two of them would travel at nearly a dead even pace. And, seeing how he had a twenty-minute head start, there was no way his father would catch him. This recognition filled the boy with a degree of resolution which made him slightly uneasy.

It was a spectacular Sunday afternoon and the world had become his missionary field. Kyle was now bent upon delivering the seals from the hands of this angry god and determined to lead the people to a rebellion of universal consequence. His purpose marched beside him. He wondered why the tune of his marching played so faint in the ears of his would-be role models. He thought of how calmly his parents looked when the pastor described the murder of the seals and this thought pressed him forward, even with an empty stomach.

Fifteen minutes up the road, he needed a rest. He needed strength before mounting his insurgency against the divine powers. Up ahead, he saw a house under construction.A nice breeze was cooling things down as Kyle made his way up the unfinished driveway; he nestled up next to a stack of brick with a view facing the front of the house. He had passed by this construction in his parent's car and always wanted to look at it more carefully.

This was a going to be a strong house; someone had put a lot of thought into it.

Beside him, he noticed several large tracks from a massive construction vehicle, probably a bulldozer. Kyle stood up and made his way down the path cut by the machine's giant feet. He began kicking summer dirt clods as he went.

After the fifth clod spun its way across the trail, Kyle looked up and noticed a peculiar sign:

"FILL DIRT WANTED"

"Who was this ‘Fill Dirt’? What did he do? And why would they put up a sign way out here?" Kyle wondered. He picked up his pace, fearful that ‘Fill’ might be near. "Maybe he's a child kidnapper," Kyle thought.

At that instant, a figure appeared from the thick woodland growth beside the road. The man was black, and Kyle guessed him to be at least twice his dad's age. He couldn't make out the man's expressions, but he was pretty sure the old fellow wasn't happy.

Immediately, Kyle turned and ran. The old man was shouting something in the distance, but it was too difficult to make out at high speeds. He figured the consistency of a man's voice must break down when a listener moves away from it. None of that mattered though, because Kyle was determined to ignore the man and make a valiant escape.

Up ahead, he saw the source of the tracks. It was a yellow bulldozer with chipped paint and a body smattered in rust. Kyle quickly made his way to the machine. In a bound, he was able to ascend the mechanized wheel-base. He turned the handle of the dozer’s door and crawled inside to the floorboard. It smelled horribly of grease and oil.

The cab was hot; it had been baking in the afternoon sun and the metal emitted the captured heat in waves. Kyle panted and realized for the first time on his journey that he failed to bring water. He assessed his situation and decided it was pretty grim. Kyle reasoned that the gods themselves were likely attempting to quell his rebellion, sending Fill Dirt: a dark angel from abyss to drag him down into eternal torment.

"This is a wanted man," Kyle thought; "probably capable of anything." On any other day, he would have been afraid, but today was different. He had thrown off the chains of his parents' wicked theology and his mission was just.

Moments passed before Kyle heard the voice calling out in the distance. It was Fill Dirt. The villain had simply followed the tracks. "I'm in an obvious location," Kyle thought. He sat up, and stuck his head out to catch a glimpse of the man.

His movement proved to be a mistake. The old man had spotted him, most likely due to his bushy hair. Kyle lamented his actions on Thursday, when his mother offered to take him to the barber shop. The gods were truly mounting an offensive, exploiting every possible weakness and Kyle realized there was no escaping their wrath now.

The old man threw down the gauntlet: "Hey, you boy! Get out of that thing. This is private property."

"No sense in praying now," Kyle thought. He glanced around the cab for a weapon. He refused to go down without a fight, but the kidnapper was upon him; the door of the cab flung open and surprisingly strong hands took hold of his shirt at his chest and behind his neck. The man pulled him kicking and flailing from the bulldozer.

For a moment Kyle thought he'd play dead.

"What are you doing out here, kid?" The old man's dark eyes were kinder than Kyle had anticipated. His grasp on Kyle released. "You could get hurt out here, son. This is a construction site."

"I'm heading to Birmingham." Kyle tossed the words out before he knew what happened.

"What's in Birmingham? Your parents know where you are?"

Kyle thought for a moment. If this truly was Fill Dirt, he didn't seem all that bad. The old man might even make a good convert. He'd also need an adult to be able to buy food and water, unless he planned on begging.

"I'm going to Birmingham to start a revolution."

The old man paused for a moment and looked inquisitively at him; then he said, "Well, I suppose there's no better place to begin such a thing. What's a boy your age trying to change?"

"I want to rally the people against the gods."

"Hmmm," the man pondered out loud, then continued. "What's wrong with the gods?"

"They're cruel." Kyle tossed out his response eagerly.

"I suppose they can be sometimes." The old man allowed a smile to curl up over his stubby chin. He pulled Kyle around in the direction they had both come, urging him to walk alongside him. "Fastest way to Birmingham is this way, son."

It didn't occur to Kyle that he might have been moving in the wrong direction. This man was kind, and he regretted running from him at first. Then, Kyle remembered the sign.

"I saw a sign back this way. It said, ‘Fill Dirt Wanted.' You're not a wanted criminal are you?"

The old man looked puzzled, but only for a second. He started laughing, almost howling.

"No, no. A man like me isn't wanted in these parts at all. They'd toss me out of this town if they could get away with it."

This made very little sense to Kyle. He asked the man to explain.

"I reckon when you get to Birmingham, you'll find out, especially if you go trying to start a revolution."

"Have you rebelled against the gods? Is that why folks don't want you around?" Kyle looked at the man inquisitively.

"I think it's probably the other way around, meaning the folks who don't want me here - they're the ones rebelling." The old man spoke resolutely. "And, there's just one God, near as I can tell."

Kyle was getting more confused by the second. The black man patted him on the shoulder as a gesture of comfort. This man clearly knew about things that Kyle didn't understand. It made him want to hear more.

The pair passed the unfinished house Kyle rested beside earlier and they started making their way to the main road. The conversation continued.

"The way I see it, there's the God that IS and then there's the one people make."

"I thought you said there was only one God?" Kyle shot back.

"One true God; that's what I meant... there's lots of gods though. This tree could be a god if we built a church around it then sang it a few songs."

"My parents have a god and a church. They make me go every Sunday. Their god kills animals; the preacher said so himself."

"You mean like lambs?"

"No. He kills seals."

"Seals? What seals?"

Kyle thought for a moment and tried to piece together the phrase from Pastor Tully's sermon, "God tore open seven seals," he said aloud.

The old man started laughing again. "What's your name, boy?"

"Kyle."

"Listen Kyle, it's like this: seal can mean different things. The situation you're telling me about, ‘seal’ means the way a person closes up a letter. Think of ‘sealing’ up a jar of peanut-butter or something; you're trying to keep it until later. God tore open the seal, meaning he opened up a letter of sorts. It was the proper time."

Kyle stopped walking. "So God isn't going to hurt animals at the end times?"

"I couldn't tell you anything about all that. I just know He's not tearing open a bunch of seals like the ones you see in your school books." The old man chucked again.

"Is that the reason you're heading out to Birmingham?"

"Yes." Kyle felt a mix of foolishness and relief wash over him. It wasn't the first time he gotten things mixed up, like the time he thought his dad's motorcycle was a zucchini and his greenish-yellow vegetables were called ‘Suzuki's.’ He supposed it wouldn't be the last time he messed things up either.

“Don't feel so bad. Stay thirsty for justice. Birmingham will be there when you're ready." The old man stopped at the main road Kyle had traveled earlier and extended his hand.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Kyle."

Kyle shook his hand. He felt the warmth of the gods returning.

"You too, sir," Kyle said as he started down the road. Moments later, he realized that he'd never asked the old man his name. He turned around.

The old man slipped quietly down the path of a house unfinished.

“Birmingham will be there when I'm ready.”

Kyle sealed this message until the proper time.