Flex Fuel — Separating the Sheep from the Goats. But what about the Geese?

A memory from 1980 with a SIX YEARS OLD me~

“The words goat and goats exists 132 times in the Holy Scripture.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Jim was looking at me with such disbelief. “That might be the craziest thing you’ve said to me today. What the fuck is this crazy ass story! How the hell do you know that?”

“I know words. They’ve chased me my whole life.”

“So you KNOW that the word goat is in the bible 132 times? Really?” Jim was eating off my pile of cold fries now. His had long been consumed.

“Yes.”

He surrendered. “I’m listening.” With a hand on the side of his chin, his head sat crooked to one side, his eyes took the talker in. He had lifted the curtain for part two.

“I know most people in the world don’t know it.” I nodded to myself mostly.

“It being that fact, or the bible?”

“Both,” I offered easily. “If someone were to ask you when the word “goat” appears, most would likely guess something about Noah and his arc or sacrifice. But such an answer in my world even at six, was far, far, far too simple.

“Do you know where we are at?” my father asked me.

“Fish Lake Valley.” I knew how to read the signs and driving out there had taken an eternity.

“Do you know why we are here?” he next said.

“We’re preaching.” I found the question to be silly actually. Of course I know why.

I thought nothing of this back and forth of question and answers. The exercise was a practiced dance, and I was still young enough to see it as a way to get a smile or a candy from some treat-filled suit-coat-pockets.

“Very good,” he said, “but what is our purpose?”

“To find the sheep and warn the goats,” I said honestly. There was a smile in my voice. I knew it was the right answer.

“Very good,” he crooned. “Do you know what scripture that is from, the sheep and the goats?”

“Of course Papa,” I said. “Matthew 25:32 says, ‘and before him shall be gathered all nations and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth this sheep from the goats’ and it’s our job to help him.”

My father beamed. I was living proof that he was a good teacher, even of the youth. What’s more, these were the years when smiles came easily between us. I was his Papa’s girl. “Should I read that scripture to people today?” I asked eager to make him happy.

“No, today we will stick to Revelation 21:4”

“Okay. That’s an okay one I guess.” Our eyes met in the rear view mirror and he told me in his own way that my knowing was good.

He saw my disappointment at not being prompted to recite it. “Go ahead, tell me what it says.”

I was happy and jumped into action, “Revelation 21:4 says, and ‘He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.’” I ended the passage with increased volume and an exaggerated emphasis. That scripture really did make me happy.

My father nodded but needed to say nothing else. To him, in that moment, Genesis 1:31 was personal. “He looked over all he had made, and he saw that it was very good!”

We pulled into a neighborhood. Old houses with small porches, trailers, and roads, paved but full of more pot holes showing dirt than black top littered the neighborhood. We parked under a large tree and the group in the car separated into pairs of two and three. The territory maps had been handed out, our sheets for keeping records about who would answer, what we placed, and which houses were abandoned were hid carefully on clip boards the size of my child’s hand.

“Keep good records,” my father said, as he sent me out with a Spanish speaking brother-uncle person. His name escapes me, but he was special within the organization because he was one of the Anointed 144,000 who some believe are chosen to rule in the actual heavens with Jesus. “There are lots of farm workers who live out here so we need someone who speaks both English and Spanish in each pair.”

Everyone nodded and we set out to systematically canvas each block.

“Heather, remember if you feel anything at all, tell ___ (the Brother-uncle person I was with) and he will get you guys out of there. Okay?”

“I know Papa. Don’t worry. I pay attention and the Holy Spirit is with me.”

Our first two doors were not home. The lady at the next door had been busy.

“You know,” my partner said, “if you begin your introduction with the sentence, ‘I know you are busy, but Il be very brief,’ no one can use that word “busy” as a conversation stopper.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see.” I made a mental note to try it out next time it was my turn to speak.

Our third house took a magazine and I felt amazing. The fourth and fifth doors said they had their own religion and like before, as we walked, we discussed ways to overcome this specific objection.

The next house was father away down the street, out by itself. “Are we going to drive?” I asked.

“No we can walk. It’s a beautiful day. Besides, it will give us time to practice your Spanish.” And so we did. We walked and talked, as I learned to say “gato” and “gata” and “La Biblia” and “Despietod.”

“You are doing well,” my Spiritual-brother-uncle told me.

“Gracias,” I said happily. “Can I knock on the next door? Please, pretty please?” I wanted to try my new tricks so they couldn’t shut the door on me. Plus I was turning in time now so I needed all of the talking time I could get.

“Of course you can. You are a publisher now. I won’t interrupt unless you need me.”

When a child, or new convert, is spiritually mature enough to begin and end a biblical conversation on their own, they begin the quest to become a time-recording publisher. This is both an honor and responsibility because as a publisher, there is the expectation that not only will you go door-to-door to preach, but you also have the ability to teach the truth to interested individuals. I became a publisher at age five and took the title quiet seriously. I had to do well, for both god and father were watching.

We knocked on the door and no one answered. The windows were darkened and no car was in the drive way. “Knock again,” my brother-uncle-future angle said. “You always knock twice, just to be sure.”

Still no one came so he said we should walk around to the back to see if they are out in the barn-shed thing. To me it looked like it was falling down, but it wasn’t my place to say so I followed his lead through the high grass and around the corner. What met us were two very angry giant, white, tall, attack geese. They were flying at us. Honking and charging. I am pretty sure one spit on me.

“Run Heather,” my Brother-uncle said.

“I am,” but I wasn’t fast enough. The attack goose nipped my leg and I started to bleed. I reached down to wipe it and when I looked at my hand, I started to scream and that bird got me again. I was running, and screaming, dropping my pamphlets in the yard. The next thing I knew, there were two more charging at us making the number four of them to our two. It was so scary.

“Over here,” and my preaching partner swooped me up under his arm and ran to an abandoned car sitting out in the field. He threw me up on top of that car and crawled up there next to me.

I was bleeding. A line of red blood separated the top from the underside of my leg. Then I was screaming because the car’s metal was hot and burring me.

My Brother-uncle person took off his suit coat and tried to get it under my legs. “Please stop screaming,” he said.

The geese circled like sharks. We were going to die up there, I was sure. Their wings were spread, honking, and they were spitting acid stomach bile that landed on the car in blobs of red. They were as tall as the car, I’m not even kidding. Giant, ferocious beasts and there was no way we were getting down, at least for a while.

“Don’t cry Heather,” he had an arm around me and pulled my feet up so they weren’t dangling over. “We need to stay calm. The others will find us and scare them away with the car.”

I could not be consoled. I was hyperventilating, sobbing, and choking all at once. I was so frightened. I was thirsty. It was hot outside and the sun was beating down on my head. “I have a head ache,” I cried.

“Let’s say a prayer. Okay?” he was attempting to make eye contact but I was too concerned with the killer birds to look at him in the eyes, “Will that be okay, Heather” He used his hand to pull my chin up and distract my eyes.

I don’t think I replied, but there we sat while he prayed that Jehovah send someone to save us soon. “The neighborhood is not so big” was what the adult said.

So there we sat. A big man in a fancy suit. His shoes were dirty because he made us walk in the mud. And a little girl in a polka-dot green dress. My socks were brown, and I only had one shoe on, which was caked with mud. I had no idea where the other one was. My leg was smeared with red blood that I had tried to wipe off, but instead made a giant mess.

No one came. An hour went past. No one came. Seventy minutes went past. No one came. I started crying again. Once, he tried to get off of the car because the birds had become distracted and started to walk away, but as soon as his feet touched the ground, they were trying to kill us — well me.

“I hate birds,” I pronounced with emphasis. “I want to go home.”

“I know.” There wasn’t much more to say really to make the day get better, not for me anyways.

Two hours and ten minutes later, my father and his car showed up. A long station wagon loaded with people tooted the car horn and demanded the guards of the property stand down.

“See, our prayers were answered,” my Brother-uncle person said.

“Took a very long time” and I meant it.

“That is why patience matters,” he said. “Sometimes we have to wait a very long time to be saved.”

Once in the car, my dad gave me my candy. I think he felt bad actually, and that didn’t happen often so I asked for two. “Can I please have another? One for each hour? You took a very long time to find us.”

He handed the second one over and tried to sound happy, “I’m sorry, but well, that was an adventure. Wasn’t it?” I said nothing and sucked on my candy. “Did you find any sheep today?”

“No,” I said, “and not any goats either. Only geese. Very angry mean geese.”

“Well tonight at dinner, we can see if goose is in the bible.”

“It wasn’t a goose, Papa,” I corrected him, “It was four angry geese and they won’t be in the bible because they are evil.”

There was irritation in my father’s voice. He handed me a tissue and told me to try and clean myself up. Then he said, “Today, why don’t you just look out the window. The sunset you see is the very best view in the desert.”