RED ANT
A Story Written Back in 1984
An Easter story at Yuletide? Let’s just say it captures the spirit of the Good News message. Consider it my holiday gift to all! Enjoy!
The dew did not stay long in the sleepy Texas morning. The boy was up early enough to catch the moist desert smell that fanned his nostrils. Was it dew, or a bead of sweat that hung on the tip of that cactus needle? Squinting in the sunlight, he didn’t stop to wonder long. His fingers were busy reaching through the faint trace of a spider web to where a brightly painted Easter egg nestled in the prickly arm of the pearblossom cactus. Easter morning was an occasion.
Grandaddy’s voiced called out from behind the screen door. “Son, careful you don’t get those white pants all mussed up. We’ll be going to church soon. Save those knees for kneeling in the pew.”
The boy shrugged, though he had to admit, the warning made sense. The Sunday before, in the pants that matched his navy blue blazer, he had crawled on all fours following a horned toad that skittered in beneath the front porch. When the boy crawled out, he brushed off all the dust just fine, but on his knees remained a pair of moist sandy brown patches. Of course, no one would have noticed the knees if he’d managed to catch the horned toad. Certainly the sight of that wrinkled desert creature in his hands would have saved the day, for his knees, at least.
He placed the Easter Egg in his basket, set it on the porch, and sat down, dangling his legs over the edge. All the grown-ups were still drinking coffee and talking about the elders’ meeting that was to follow church that morning. Every year the new elders would get sworn in to coincide with the Death and the Resurrection, even though none of the old elders died, and none of the new elders were new. They just seemed to trade seats like a slow-motion game of musical chairs, one play each year. Of course, the best part was the Easter picnic in the Pastor’s backyard. The barbecues were stoked up, the potato salad set out, and the home-made ice cream scooped in generous proportions.
As he daydreamed about the taste of that ice cream, the boy noticed something crawling. He glanced down and saw that it was a red ant on the cuff of his shirt. He took aim with his thumb wrapped around by his index finger, as if he were readying himself for a marble shoot, and flicked the red ant into the air and back onto the ground where it belonged.
He marveled that such an aerial flight seemed to cause the ant no harm. But he knew perfectly well the harm of that little creature’s tiny bite. It was worse than his cousin’s pinch, worse than a cactus needle’s pinprick, worse than a hot pepper on a fresh cut. So he kept a respectful distance as he watched the red ant wind around the base of the mesquite tree, then tramp through the fallen remains of a cactus blossom, until it reached what appeared to be a miniature volcano, a mound of sandy earth with a hole in the center at the top. The ant disappeared into the hole.
So here it was, home sweet home. If there’s one, there must be hundreds inside that mound. There must be tunnels and secret passageways, and caves, like a small city, or a whole civilization. But then the boy noticed, that aside from that one, no other ants appeared. Could it be that it was really an abandoned colony? That the red ant went in by accident? That it was wandering around aimlessly?
He did not choose to leave the question dangling. He bounded over to the mesquite tree and broke off a dried branch within easy reach. It wasn’t a ten-foot pole, but it’s length was sufficient to poke at the ant’s mound without worry. He poked gingerly at first. Nothing stirred except the dusty sand, puffs of smoke signals. He poked harder and deeper, but still, no red ant revealed its presence. Perhaps it was a ghost town, and the ant he saw was really a dead ant looking for its lost colony in a sandstorm. Sandstorm! He suddenly stopped to notice that he had raised the dust from the mound and was covered with a fine silt from head to toe. The discovery caused him to wave his hands to clear the air. Then he coughed, stepping out of the cloud, feeling a sudden and powerful thirst.
He brushed himself off as he strode over to the hose at the side of the house. The hose was neatly wrapped around a roller mechanism. Grandaddy would come out at dusk every day to sprinkle water on the ground to encourage the growth of the desert flowers, the sprawling grasses, and the cactus. He always said that it was best to water at dusk, so the plants would have a chance to soak it in all night long. That if he watered at dawn, the heat of the day’s sun would cause such a rate of evaporation, it would be more like teasing the plants like a mirage teases a lost desert straggler.
The first run of water was downright hot and absorbed the flavor of the plastic hose itself, so he let it run a little before taking a drink. The force of the hose ran a rivulet of water in a meander that finally trickled toward the red ant colony.
The boy gulped down a refreshment of the now-cool water, when his eyes noticed a significant development. While the stick by itself drew no results, the water seeping into the ground caused genuine concern among the ants. A Noah’s flood was upon them. They came pouring up out of the mound, in a volcanic rush to reach the air.
Bolder now, the boy grabbed his mesquite branch and began poking, this time not at the mound, but at the red ants themselves. As they drew rank and charged toward his shoes, the boy pranced like a horse, and stomped on them. His curiosity was no longer harnessed to the quest for answers, but now let loose, unreined, to play havoc and bring down a calamity upon the fleeing red ants.
“Playing God, today, son?” Grandaddy’s voice rang out. “Lot’s wife couldn’t have seen worse when she looked over her shoulder and turned to salt than what you’re doing to those red ants.”
When the boy heard Grandaddy’s voice bellowing from the front porch, he didn’t think so much about what he’d been doing as much as whether he had splattered any wet sandy soil onto his white cotton pants freshly pressed. The soles of his shoes were caked, as were the bottom quarter inch of each pant leg, but nothing worse.
“Well, Grandaddy, I just wanted to see how many red ants lived down there.”
“When they take a census, son, they count the living, not the dead. Those red ants may bite like the dickens, but only if you rile them up. They’re easy pickin’ right now, not like the rattlers up in the hills, or the scorpions that hide in your boots. But if you do them wrong, like you’re doing right now, you best not be surprised if they try to make things right.”
“Grandaddy, I don’t rightly think I really know what you’re talking about.”
“Get in the car now, everyone!” Granny called out.
By the time the boy got to the car, his teen-age cousin Jeannie was holding the door, smiling a touch too sweetly, meaning she had already claimed the window seat, and that he was to sit in the middle next to nearly deaf Uncle Burke, who was already smoking his Sunday on-the-way-to-church cigar. The boy thought maybe Uncle Burke was not really deaf, but just played deaf so he could do things he wasn’t supposed to do, like smoke on the way to church. You see, no one could tell him quietly not to smoke.
First, you’d have to get his attention, by tapping, no, pounding on his thick shoulder. He would turn his head only after completing his latest smoke ring, which seemed to give him an infinite joy. If you could manage to get out the words to ask him to put out his cigar, he would simply suck in another bellyful of smoke, blow another series of smoke rings, and then say, “What?” You could then raise your voice to a holler, at which time, everyone within earshot would turn to look, not at Uncle Burke, but at you.
Uncle Burke would still just smile, suck in some more smoke, and say, again, “What?” The truly exasperated– nearly everyone around him– soon realized why everyone went along for the ride, letting Uncle Burke smoke on the way to church. The boy hopped into the back seat. Jeannie sat beside him, quickly rolling down her window, opening up her fan anxiously, hoping to escape Uncle Burke’s lingering scent. Especially on Easter Sunday, the girl cousins would rather smell of honeysuckle than wreak of Havana.
Grandddy started up the Buick, letting it warm up until Granny reached the car. Even as she walked from the porch, she stood as straight as a flagpole, her white Easter bonnet in hand with ribbons flowing, and by her very presence she inspired everyone in the the car to sit up as straight as she stood. Well, nearly everyone. Uncle Burke sucked in another drag of his cigar. Granny took notice, but she did not tap him on the shoulder. She did not raise her voice. She simply looked at him, eyes of grey steel glaring as brightly as the lit end of Uncle Burke’s cigar. His casual bliss changed utterly when his eyes met hers. His neck bulged, and his cheeks flushed. What he could not hear, he could not help but see. He let out his smoke and extinguished his cigar, and only then did Granny relax her gaze and take her place in the front seat. Grandaddy engaged the automatic transmission and eased the big blue Buick down the driveway into the street.
The whole town seemed caught up in the slow-motion rhythm of the quiet sun-shiny Easter day, almost sleepwalking in a haze of pleasurable dreaminess.
The Buick passed by the Pastor’s house, where numerous white canopies were being erected at that very moment, for the picnic later on. The drive between the house and the church was only about ten blocks long, but with the pace, it seemed to take one long yawn and the whole morning seemed nearly gone.
The Buick parked beside the Pastor’s Mercury, and the family emerged from the car, smiling and nodding hello to the neighbors and friends who were also arriving.
Theoretically, sleepiness and church are not supposed to walk hand in hand. Granny’s posture enforced an alertness for the boy. Just by sitting up so straight, there was no chance of nodding off, even for a few moments during the service. He’d known worse. Once he had closed his eyes for a few moments just to try to picture the image of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead, but it must have gone on too long, for when he opened his eyes, he met Granny’s far-from-merciful gaze. Grandaddy leaned over to him, handed him a Hymnal and whispered, “The Lord’s Word is the Lord Himself knocking at your door. If your mind’s got to wander, find a song you can sing low to yourself. At least then, when the Lord comes by, He’ll know you’re home.’‘ He winked at the boy, and by the time the next song came around, the boy was ready, and he could tell from Granny’s wisp of a smile, that he had redeemed himself in her eyes, and if he passed her test, he could probably pass the Lord’s.
Easter Sunday was the one day aside from Christmas that the church was filled. Not a single spare space was left in any pew, except for the polite cushion of air around Uncle Burke, whose invisible halo of cigar smoke created a natural parting of the sea.
The boy wrinkled his nose and scooted over another six inches away from Uncle Burke and that much closer to Grandaddy. Granny was next, as Cousin Jeannie had scrupulously managed to sit on the outer aisle, not only to avoid Uncle Burke, but also to look with a clear view to see Jack White’s football-hero smile. She imagined that Jack’s grin was just for her, but he managed to keep all the girls guessing, by practicing variations of his smile for each one. Jeannie didn’t worry about falling asleep in the pew; she had to stifle thoughts that would cause her to blush. It was hard to keep her mind on God with Jack in full view the whole time. Her modesty did manage to cause her to avert her eyes coyly, and then her lips would murmur a few prayers, alternately asking God to forgive her for her thoughts during church, and then to make it right by asking God to let Jack be her future husband, or at least that he would ask her to the prom that June, for it was tradition that the high school boys would pop their questions after Easter Sunday, so as not to interfere with Lent. This tradition gave Lent a heightened significance to the high school girls, in that whether they liked it or not, they had to wait, and let their curiosities burn without release until forty days and forty nights had duly passed. Jack’s smiles were as consciously calculated as his quarterback calls from the huddle. The Pastor, viewing the excitement in the faces of the young people in the crowd, praised God for their enthusiasm for worship, never the wiser for the truth of their prayer intentions.
The organist struck up the chords for Onward, Christian Soldiers, snapping everyone out of whatever spell they were in, reminding them that they had indeed gathered here for a reason. The sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, which had, over the years, managed to survive the highest soprano note of the Pastor’s wife’s sharply tremolo voice.
The boy found himself wondering about his soul, as the opening remarks of the service droned from the altar, punctuated by intermittent responses from the people. He wondered if his soul was a thing, like his body, that he could touch. Was his soul hiding somewhere, in his heart, perhaps? He placed his hand over his heart. Was his soul hidden within his heartbeat? Or was his soul more like the air, invisible, but present and accounted for. Did his soul go out each time he exhaled and return safely each time he inhaled? Like when the soul escapes in a sneeze, and someone says “bless you” to ensure the safe return. Or was his soul his double, having his own shape, his own looks, but otherwise like a ghost, not a scary ghost, but a good ghost, a holy ghost?
He must have let his eyes wander, because Grandaddy nudged him gently to pay attention to the Pastor, who had stepped up to the pulpit and waited until he had all eyes upon him, as a sign that all ears were ready to hear God’s Words.
The Pastor smiled, greeting the people with a hearty, “Good morning, brothers and sisters. Happy Easter! You all look especially fine today. Ladies with your Easter bonnets. Men with your fresh new ties. Boys and Girls in your white and yellow, pink and baby blue outfits. A fine a sight as God could want to see, looking on any of His meadows where the wildflowers grow.
‘’Today, we gather to remember that although Jesus died, He conquered Death, and rose to live again, and lives now and forever with the Father. And He asks us to live as He lived so that we may also live again with Him in Heaven.
‘’When He was in the midst of His ministry, one day, a lawyer asked Him a pointed question to test Him, according to Matthew 22:36-40. ‘Teacher,’ the lawyer called out, ‘which is the greatest commandment in the law?’
‘’You see, this smart lawyer was trying to see if he could catch Jesus on any technicality of the law of the Hebrews. There were so many different groups in the crowd, whatever commandment of the law He might have chosen to say was the greatest would no doubt have pleased some and angered others, so they would start arguing among themselves, and Jesus would have been shown up.
‘’It’s like children when they corner their parents and ask, who do you like the best? Only here, what Jesus answered would prove that He was God’s Word for everyone, not just for Pharisees, not just for Sadducees, not even just for Texans.”
A murmur of pleasure issued audibly. His flock was still awake.
“For everyone in the whole world, for evermore. Here’s how He answered: And Jesus said to him, and to the crowd around him, and to us who listen to God’s Word today, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it, You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the law and the prophets.’
‘’Can you imagine, all of the laws in the Old Testament and all of the Prophets’ wisdom gathered in the Good Book, all summed up in the commandment to Love: love God, love Neighbor, love Self. And all else follows. Can you imagine how all those people were stopped in their tracks, how all of us are stopped in our tracks, because it’s so simple, and it makes so much sense. Its truth is self-evident. But like many things in life, the simplest idea may be the hardest to live up to. God knows it’s hard for us. He knows, because He had to send His son to teach us about it.
‘’Why should it be so hard for us to love? Looking at you all today, it is not hard to feel a wealth of love. Look around. Smile at each other. Really look into each other’s eyes. Today, you have all chosen to put on your best. With all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind. Your being here bears witness that you have chosen to love your God, your neighbor, and yourself.”
The boy saw Jack smile at Jeannie, and he saw Grandaddy give Granny’s hand a squeeze. Uncle Burke’s big body squirmed uncomfortably, perhaps unsure of whether he really qualified for the Pastor’s compliment. The boy himself was relieved that his soul was not likely to be hiding out in his heart or in his mind, since it was somehow an invisible partner in a trinity. So maybe mind, heart, and soul were like Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Anyway, after everyone settled down again, the Pastor went on.
“And that’s what God wants us to do all the time. Not just to choose our Sunday-best clothing for church, but to choose the best that our hearts and our souls and our minds can choose: LOVE.
“That’s also the rub. It’s not automatic. It’s not once and for all. We must choose love. We must make the choice every day, seven times seven times everyday. Only love counters sin. Only through love do we align our wills to God’s will.
“God commands us to love, but we have the choice of whether or not we obey. Because we are free. Love is not love unless it is freely given. God commands us, but He does not force us to love. Oh yes, we can choose to turn our backs on Him. We can choose to hurt our neighbors. We can choose to neglect the poor. We can choose to mistreat our children. God gave us free will in the hope that when we are put to the test, we will join with Jesus in choosing to do what’s right, choosing to love, no matter what.”
The boy wrinkled his nose. No matter what, he thought? It wasn’t hard to love Grandaddy, because he’d give you a chance to get good once you weren’t. Granny wasn’t too hard to love, but you had to be pretty good to begin with. Jeannie could get sassy, but she was okay, too. Uncle Burke, though, now he was hard to love, all blubbery and smoke-smelly, and none too considerate.
Love even him, no matter what?
“Should it be any other way? You might ask, why didn’t God set it up so that we could only choose good, only choose love, only do what’s right? Wouldn’t that be a beautiful world? If He really loved us, why didn’t He spare us the all the grief and pain we go through in trying to make the right choice?
‘’You know, Jesus often used animals in His parables to help us understand these things. In reminding us that God provides for all of our needs, Jesus told us to observe the birds who are always fed and do not worry for the morrow. But He does not say that we are birds, or even that we are like birds. In fact, He is saying that if God can see His way to take care of birds, how much greater is the care He will take for us?
“Put the lawyer’s question to the scientists and they tell us that in the animal world, the greatest law is the survival of the fittest. Animals have no choice in the matter. Animals have only instincts for survival, each according to is own nature, determined by God’s will.
“When a family of coyotes gathers to yip, yip, yip in the moonlight, and then attacks one of our rancher’s calves for a midnight snack, we are angered because we need that calf to grow up to provide us its milk, so we can make butter and cream, and home-made ice cream.”
His eyes twinkled. The young people murmured their mmm-hmms, smacking their lips and flashing their taste-bud-anticipations to the Pastor’s picnic. The Pastor took this stirring as a sign that they were at least partly listening, and this renewed his confidence to deliver his message, because he was coming to a difficult point to make.
“We would be wrong to call the coyotes evil and the calf good, morally speaking. Neither one had a choice in the matter. The coyote did not have a menu to choose from to order its steak done rare. The coyote could only act on instinct, the will that God gave it. The coyote did not commit a sin, no matter how angry we get.
“We DO get angry, don’t we? We will take up a rifle to shoot those coyotes. We will quote righteously, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, in retaliation. But this is the very law that Jesus was overturning by teaching us to go beyond the primitive survival of the fittest, in order to choose love, and to turn the other cheek. Can we choose to find a way to love that coyote family? Not an easy law to live with, is it?”
The boy remembered the summer before, when he took a ride on Ginger, a spirited mare at his Uncle Hank’s ranch. Hank had lent the boy an old pair of boots and a well-worn Stetson hat. Everything had gone fine, at first. The boy even cinched the saddle himself. The moment he swung himself up on the saddle, she reared up and took off, paying no heed to the reins as they pulled back on the bit in her mouth. She headed for the clothesline, which had five metal wires strung across. Instead of leaning forward, the boy leaned back flat as he could. His chin strummed the bottom side of the clothesline like a guitar, which left him bruised and swollen for about a week-and-a-half. He was definitely mad at Ginger. But she was just a horse, and it turned out she hadn’t been fed that morning and was merely running for the trough by the windmill, where she knew she’d find some tasty oats. So the Pastor was making some sense, the boy figured.
“Animals can only do God’s will, because they have no free will of their own. A dog can be loyal. We can train a dog to do good things, to lead the blind, to corral our sheep, to guard our homes. But this is because God has given us dominion over the animals, to help us accomplish His work in the world. An evil man can train a dog to attack a child. But it is not then the dog’s sin, but the man’s.
“Or consider the great species of ants, among the most well-organized societies in the animal world.”
The boy perked up. He wondered how the survivors of his morning blitzkrieg were doing.
“Don’t you think sometimes, in the chaos of our headlines, wouldn’t it be nice if we could be as organized as the ant?”
All of a sudden, the boy felt an itch on the back of his knee. He wanted to scratch it, but Granny was watching him at that moment.
‘’Each ant works without complaint, gathering more food than any individual ant could possibly eat, caring for the eggs, protecting the Queen.”
The itch seemed to be moving. Moving north along his southern hemisphere, along the inside of his thigh.
“No ant has chosen, because they are not free creatures. They cannot do but what God has given them to do.”
The boy swallowed nervously, looking about, unable to decide what to do, as the itch approached unbearability.
“We humans have a choice. We can choose love: of God, of Neighbor, of Self.”
The itch crawled to the bottom rim of the equator. The boy was frozen in silence.
‘’The knowledge of right and wrong comes to us through God’s Word and from the wisdom of our lived experiences. The choice of right and wrong is reserved only for us human beings.”
The boy decided that stillness would allow him the only dignity he might have.
“We can learn from those who have lived before us and from our elders. We can learn the most from Him, who was, who is now, and who will be forever and ever.”
Oh, Lord, Jesus, the boy thought, don’t let it be what I’m afraid it might be.
“Now, please join me in the prayer Jesus taught us.”
The people intoned the prayer together: “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”
Oh, Lord, I wish that red ant were in Heaven instead of where it is right now.
“Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…”
Lord, don’t let it bite me.
“On Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”
Oh, lord, forgive me, I’ll never stomp on your red ants ever again, Lord!
“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from…”
“Eeeeeeaiii!”
A piercing, bloodcurdling cry of pain and the simultaneous leaping of the boy out of his seat and up onto the pew itself, interrupted the Easter Lord’s Prayer. Tears poured down his face, as all the people and the Pastor looked at him as if he were possessed by a demon. Uncle Burke and Grandaddy looked on from either side of the frantic boy, trying to understand.
“A red ant! A red ant bit me!”
“Where??”
Pointing furiously, gritting his teeth, he pointed to his backside and shouted, “There!”
Grandaddy turned the boy toward him, unhitched the boy’s belt and pulled down his trousers, shorts and all, leaving Uncle Burke with a perfect bird’s eye view of the boy’s behind. Burke spotted a bright red welt still swelling up, with the red ant at its epicenter, piercing with its tiny but powerful mandibles. Uncle Burke placed his finger alongside the red ant, about to dispose of it– when the boy pleaded, “Don’t kill it, Uncle Burke, don’t kill it! Just take it off me, but don’t kill it, pleeeease!”
“What are you jabbering about– of course I’m going to kill it. It’s killing you, for Christ’s sake!”
“No, it’s not! Grandaddy, don’t let him kill it. It wasn’t the ant’s fault. It was mine. That red ant’s a hero, Grandaddy. It was protecting its colony.”
From the pulpit, the Pastor seized the moment, “Not a hero son, just following God’s will, its instinct. At the moment, son, you’re our hero.”
Then Grandaddy broke in, “Burke, don’t kill the red ant, just get it off. Set it on the Hymnal, take it outside and let it go.”
Uncle Burke shrugged. Granny leaned in with her gaze. Then Burke reluctantly followed Grandaddy’s command to love that red ant.
Still smarting from the sharp bite, the boy rubbed the throbbing welt. He pulled up his pants, and buckled his belt. Only then did he fully realize that everyone in the whole church had been watching intently. Spontaneously, the whole congregation burst into a chorus of laughter and applause. The Pastor called for the closing hymn, inwardly pleased at such a timely illustration of his point, thanking God for having such a joyous sense of humor.
Jeannie was sure that her cousin’s misfortune would ruin the likelihood of Jack White asking her to the prom, but she was pleasantly surprised when Jack used the occasion to call his play. “Jeannie, that cousin of yours couldn’t have shown more vividly the ultimate in turning the other cheek. The flash of the Moon in that church was simply blinding!” Jeannie blushed. Jack White smiled at his own cleverness, then tossed her the pass she’d been waiting for, “Will ya go to Prom with me?” With just the right aversion of her eyes she demurred that she’d be glad to go.
When the boy appeared at the picnic himself, the whole town stood up and cheered him on with smiles and a round of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!
The Pastor brought him the biggest bowl he’d ever seen of home-made vanilla ice cream covered with fresh red strawberries and smothered with hot fudge.
Indeed, Easter Sunday was an occasion.
Afterword: Yes, the Red Ant story is autobiographical. I am the boy. All the fictional figures in the story are based on actual people I knew back when I spent several summers at my great uncle’s ranch in the Texas Hill Country, where all the land you could see in all directions, was his. Granny and Grandaddy were my greatgrandparents who each lived well past 100. While a bit embellished, the red ant bite episode really happened– I can still feel the very place those mandibles chomped and raised a mean welt. Eeeeeeaiii!