It must have taken him months and months of talking about this particular prophet before Bart talked me into accompanying him one evening in order to see and witness for myself what he was calling a true prophet of this day and time in action.
Intrigued, I was already half-leaning toward seeing, hearing and observing for myself if this guy truly had a gift - truly helped those less gifted and fortunate - or if he was what I consider the typical church scam artist.
I fully believe in the gift of extra sight, having drawn on that inner power to save my own butt on more than one occasion! So only somewhat skeptical, I found myself one evening accompanying my friend and neighbor back to the large metropolitan city in that same, rusty old beat-up van - and yes, back to that same large House Of God that we'd been to previously on our food shelf quest. I tried to remain open and non-judgmental throughout the evening.
The music was excellent. I really enjoy black-cultured church music. I would probably go to such a place of worship every Sunday just to fill my soul with that music - if there were such a place of worship in our rural area. Anyone who knows and loves me also knows that I cannot carry a tune. My gifts lie in other areas and all prefer that I not confuse or mingle those gifts with any type of musical endeavors. (Whatever! - Roll of the eyes)
Right after the music and just before 
came to speak, the baskets were passed around for financial offerings. Uh huh. I hadn't thought to bring much money - I should've known better - but I donated the small amount of available cash I had on hand in appreciation of the good-for-the-soul music!
Then it was time for to appear. His physical features were stern - a tall, thin man with a hawk-like nose and prominent brow whose facial bone structure gave him a rather fierce look. He was wearing no-frills, but expensive clothing with patches on the jacket elbows, which were there for looks only. While listening to him speak that evening, I picked up that his childhood consisted of a holy-rolling Baptist minister for a father, I ascertained that he had excellent story-telling skills and that he was, indeed, an entertaining individual onstage. He had a gift. His mannerisms and actions were theatrical, but religion-based in theme - His efforts at delivering guilt to those listening did not affect nor pertain to me.
I live what I believe, I live honestly and respectfully, harboring little guilt whatsoever. When I make a mistake and speak before I finish thinking, (yeah, like that ever happens - LOL!), I apologize. It's all I can do. I am not unkind, but truthful and direct with my words. I don't 'go for the kill' in any disagreement and expect others to maintain that same degree of respect toward others when not in agreement. Some have not learned that it is not a competition-to-death during simple disagreements, but a shared and spoken opinion from another's view on life and living. No one needs to get maimed, scarred or broken, yet it is often the case - and we would all do well to learn to treat those with differing opinions with respect and acceptance. (There's my sermon - free of charge!) Sorry - so back to the story at hand:
Before ended his evening's performance at that large House Of God, the baskets were once again passed around - almost as a rude interruption - the second time. Such an act takes people's attention from the stage and to their pockets or purses, creating quite a lot of movement, rustling and murmuring within the audience. I murmured a bit myself when the second basket came around because I had given what little cash I had on hand into the first passing of the baskets and did not wish to appear cheap or unappreciative.
The distraction must have been 's cue, too, to call it an evening and prematurely end his presence onstage. I believe he was just gearing up before that interruption! It was not long afterward that he brought his dialogue and performance to a close. I had yet to witness any prophetic displays of wisdom, predictions or epiphanies. I saw no gift in that department.
Perhaps there was a little church politics going on with that second basket, too. Church politics do not differ much from small town politics. Perhaps a little animosity accompanied that disruption - perhaps it was just a misunderstood and not-well-timed, but well-intentioned act - perhaps it was a regular and oft-repeated procedure of one last attempt to milk the audience of their loose change and bills for the church's good works, such as the food distribution project of the church. Uh huh. I had not been around long enough to know the dynamics of the people involved. I simply watch and surmise.
Upon what I thought was to be our exit back to Smalltown, USA, I was informed by Bart (who had again disappeared into the crowd) that we would be gathering with a small group from the church at an all-night eatery. That sounded good to me - I was hungry. I had no cash left, but I still had my card, so life was good!
Of the group gathered at the table, I was the only female. This is not always a good thing with ultra-Christian males. I don't believe that the outspoken majority too often honor womankind as they should.
The first, of course, at the small gathering was as guest of honor, one was a young man in his late twenty's/early thirties whose eyes alone showed such absolute worship and adoration for the guest of honor that it was almost too intimate in nature to watch, one was his buddy about the same age, not so enthusiastic, one was a big ol' Native American friend of mine whom I absolutely adore and respect, one was my friend and neighbor, Bart - and then there was me, a 50 year old woman who is really hard to impress with words alone.
As the conversation wore on - Did I say conversation? Pshhhh. It would be more aptly described as a tribute and dialogue of , by and from , all about and only about . The drama and stage presence had continued into the dining part of the evening. I was finding it hard to digest food with all that glory flying around the table. I was also secretly hoping that he hadn't come to the table armed with an offering basket.
Really - How long can anyone go on and on, and on and on and on about oneself, his prayers, his thoughts, his life and his deeds, his closeness and personal relationship with God - all the while needing an adoring audience and rudely interrupting anyone fool enough to think that they could contribute to this one-sided tribute to his greatness and special place in the universe as if it were a conversation?
He was starting to work my last nerve and it was during these insufferable meanderings and rude interruptions to others who were simply trying to turn this spectacle into a conversation, that it occurred to me that that I had heard too much of and from already would be more aptly re-named 
. So as I'm forming these thoughts and opinions inside myself, lost in my own little world, I was
trying to compose the ominous and other-worldly musical sounds that would accompany the name
every time it was spoken ....Duh, Duh, Duuhhhh... - - Duh, Duh, Duuhhhh..... Cymbols? Perhaps a drum-roll and harps - Trumpets maybe .....
It was about this time that my friend Bart excused himself to go to the bathroom. That left no human barrier between me and ...... Nothing to worry about - He still had young goo-goo eyes worshiping him from across the table and he was still so consumed with himself that he shouldn't even notice that I was sitting there, right?
Noooooooo - That is simply not how life works. Bart's exit to the nearest bathroom gave a moment of pause at the table. It was at that moment that stopped elaborating on his special-ness, cut a quick, sharp glance at me, leaned toward me - and demanded to know in his loud, British accent, "What do YOU do for a living?"
Are you at all familiar with Lurch's sound, the butler from the Adam's family, when he groaned? Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I'm sure it was a very similar inner groan that almost escaped audibly from within me at that precise moment. I won't say that he was not intuitive enough to pick up on my opinion of him. Though, to my benefit, I did not at any time roll my eyes, gnash my teeth or make finger-down-the-throat motions during his proclamations of greatness. I just wished I could be anywhere else but there.
And here he was, , accosting me with his sharp features, pointing almost accusingly at me with his beak-like nose, invading my personal space and demanding to know what I did for a living. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....Yet, I replied in a calm, proud and friendly manner that I was an artist and a farmer.
The look of absolute and utter horror and disdain that crossed his face and distorted his features pretty much said it all - and as I watched this sudden transformation, the Lurch groan once again wanted to escape from within me - and he, , responded quite loudly and with much disgust - an unbelievable amount of vile disgust - in his loud British accent,
"Fahmah?.......Fahmah!?.. ..You are a Fahmah!?"
I thought for a moment that he just might spit - or worse, shove me off the bench and onto the floor - as I and everyone else in the restaurant gathered immediately that he thought very little of farmers - was truly repulsed by farmers - while sitting there eating his fried eggs, toast and hash browns and drinking his milk. Uh huh.
I hardly think that the chefs grew those commodities in the kitchen, nor were they magically manufactured from an edible play dough or other man-made substance, nor do I believe that they were divinely bestowed as manna from heaven onto his plate in the form of an edible breakfast.
----- No doubt, bud, it all came from farmers! -----
Here is where the East Coast upbringing can be a dangerous thing. I remind my husband on a regular basis, quite truthfully, that I am the shy, quiet and reserved one of my entire family. He has not yet met the two remaining sisters and has a hard time believing this statement. I cannot wait for that story to unfold while I sit and watch and surmise. Uh huh.
Having already previously glanced at 's hands before this explosive, public outburst of disgust of farmers and farming, I had already noted that the hands appeared smooth, soft and un-calloused, very well manicured - and appear to have never worked physically hard in his glorious lifetime....At this point in time, writing this story, you do not want to know what my own hands look like while I'm typing. I walked in from doing chores and just had to put in a few more sentences before washing the eggs off and putting them away! (It should keep people from licking my keyboard - not that I've noticed any problems, really, with that particular type of nuisance).
My thoughts and feelings raced beyond the speed of light at this loud and rude outburst from concerning farms and farming - Should I apologize for not being Big Ag, poisoning my ground and food with GMO's, pesticides and herbicides? For raising my animals naturally and respectfully? Should I apologize for being a small farmer who raises most of everything we eat as a family and also sells the surplus at Farmers' Markets? Should I apologize for having one dairy cow that is loved and spoiled and the princess of the farm? Or apologize for loving my fluffy-butts who give me 10 to 14 jumbo eggs every day? ......I don't think so!.....I am neither ashamed nor embarrassed about what I do for a living.