I`m Gon`na Do It!
By Hal Haralson
The ringing of the phone in the real estate office was like an alarm clock awaking me out of my daydream.
"I`m Jay Nixon," the voice said. "I`ve got 200 head of certified Beefmaster cattle, 1100 acres of leased river-bottom land, 80 acres of irrigated coastal Bermuda pasture and the equipment to water the grass. I want $80,000 for the package and I`ve got to have it sold in two weeks. Someone in Uvalde said you could do it. Can you?"
The tone of voice indicated there were only two possible answers: Yes or no!
Being an eternal optimist, I chose the former.
"Good! Meet me at Barth`s Café in Kenedy, Texas at six o`clock tomorrow morning to inventory the equipment and start rounding up cattle."
"O. K." I knew the day after tomorrow wouldn`t do.
Jay sauntered into the Cafe wearing old boots run over the heels and Levis that looked like part of the first batch produced by Levi Strauss. We went to work. The conversation was brisk and animated and most of it Jay`s. We were the same age-32. He explained the urgency in selling the cattle and told me who he was as we got into his old pick-up truck.
The Oklahoma Cattlemen`s Association had heard about this young newspaper man turned cattleman and had offered him a job as editor of its magazine. Jay had to be in Oklahoma City and on the job in two weeks….
"I finished the University of Texas with a degree in journalism and began as a reporter on a small Texas newspaper. Got to messin` around with cattle five years ago and enjoyed it so much I quit the newspaper business and have spent the last three years sun-up to sundown building up this herd."
We turned into a tree-shaded lane and pulled up under an oak tree covered with moss. The horses were soon saddled and we headed for the river bottom. Jay gave me a chew of his Red Tag Tinsley and I felt completely at ease. He cussed like a sailor-nearly every other word-but we both felt at home as we ducked low limbs, moved cattle, and spit chewing tobacco over the saddle horn.
Emily had lunch for us at noon. We drove 10 miles into Kenedy and ate as men do after a hard morning`s work, gulping down our food. She was the antithesis of Jay: a small attractive brunette, a china doll all aglow with her young child and lovely home. If Kenedy, Texas, a county seat town of 5,000 people, had had Junior League, she would have been its president.
I got a room at the Kenedy Hilton and we spent the next two weeks working cattle during the day. I answered telephone calls, responding to the ad I had run in the San Antonio paper about the cattle and the lease, when I got back to the room at night.
The third day was particularly irritating. Some of the cattle were in the very toughest brush and wouldn`t come out. We had worked hard, sweated a lot and were ready for lunch when we turned the corner to pull into Jay`s drive. There was a strange car in the driveway.
"Damn it! That Episcopal priest is here. Emily must have been out being a blessing this morning." The hostility was open and vocal. There was no mask hiding Jay`s emotions. It was hard to tell who was the more uncomfortable, Jay or the priest.
Jay`s usual chatter stopped. He sat like a stone in his chair after a curt "Hello" to the priest. The priest shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and looked miserable. I don`t think he was used to having people be quiet and honest in his presence. Jay`s refusal to talk with him was clearer communications than words could have ever been.
Finally-to break the silence- the priest turned to me:
"Where are you from, Hal?"
"San Antonio."
"What church do you attend?"
"Trinity Baptist."
One had to give him "A" for effort but this was so stilted it made me uncomfortable.
"What do you do?"
Looking down at my boots and faded Levis, I started to answer, "I run a ladies` dress shop," but decided against it.
"Real estate," I answered politely, . . . "farms and ranches."
"Oh." He seemed relieved to have something to say. "You`re the guy Emily was telling me about who is going to sell the cattle."
I nodded affirmatively. Silence again. It dragged out.
The priest couldn`t stand it. I got the feeling that Jay was enjoying his discomfort.
He turned to me again. "Do you happen to know an Episcopal priest in San Antonio by the name of Ed Bush?" The odds were a million to one.
"Ed and Ann Bush, my wife Judy and I," I replied, "along with two other couples, started a prayer group about two years ago. We meet every Tuesday night."
The priest`s face lighted up. You would have thought he had met an Episcopal bishop disguised as a cowboy.
We talked for a few minutes before Emily came in to announce that lunch was ready. She invited the priest to stay.
He acted like that sheepherder who saw a pack of wolves coming over the hill and exclaimed to his partner: "We`d better get the flock out of here." The priest was gone. We gulped down lunch and headed back to the ranch in Jay`s old broken down pick-up.
The cussin` had stopped. So had all the rest of the conversation! I could sense the questions forming in Jay`s mind.
"What`s this prayer group business? You some kind of preacher or something?"
"No, I`m a real estate salesman." (I laughed to myself with delight. It had taken 10 years in the ministry, a suicide attempt, 13 shock treatments and three months in a mental hospital-just so I could answer that question, "No.")
"What`s with this prayer group then?"
"Just several couples who meet on Tuesday night and discuss our experiences with Jesus Christ and the place He has in our lives, our family, our work."
"Of all the real estate salesmen in San Antonio I have to pick a religious fanatic!" Jay was obviously upset. "You`d better not try to cram religion down my throat."
We were mounting the horses. "I came down here to sell these cattle," I said, "Let`s get on with it."
"All right, by God, but don`t expect me to quit cussin` and chewing tobacco . . . and as far as preaching to me about Jesus…."
"Jay," I cut him off, "one of the things about the Good News Christ came to give is that you are free to tell Him to take a flying leap at a rolling doughnut and go merrily on your way. He won`t stop you."
"All right! I`m glad we understand each other about that."
I bit off a chew of tobacco and we headed for the river. The silence was deafening. We talked about other things for about two hours until Jay brought it up again.
"Religion is for women and priests anyhow. I am so damned uncomfortable in church I can`t wait to get out on Sunday morning. They`re all a bunch of hypocrites."
"Funny," I said, "that was Jesus` reaction to organized religion. He called the Pharisees hypocrites. They were religious leaders. He spent His time out in the country with several cussin` fishermen. I expect He would feel more at home in this hot dusty tiver bed than in one of our churches."
Jay didn`t respond to that, but as the week wore on I could hardly keep from laughing. Jay couldn`t stay off the subject of Jesus Christ and I refused to respond in the traditional way and did no more than answer his questions. He became more miserable by the hour and used every approach I ever heard of to try to get me to tell him he had to do something so he could refuse.
"I could never be a Christian anyhow. I cuss, I get drunk, I play poker and I`m not about to give that up," he argued.
"Jay, that`s not what Christ asked when he met those raw-boned fishermen. He just said, `Follow me.` Do you think a life-time habit of profanity stopped when Peter followed Him?
"Hell, no!" He answered my question.
"Right, and you can bet that if he had not felt comfortable around Christ he wouldn`t have followed Him. The thing that attracted him to Jesus was good news. `You`re OK Peter, just like you are. I can use a man like you. Follow me and I`ll make you a fisherman of men.`"
"Yeah, but he changed." Jay thought he had me cornered at last.
"Did he?" I replied. "After living with Christ for three years Peter cussed and denied he ever knew Him on the very night Christ was hanging on the cross."
"But how about all these bad habits? How could I be a follower of Christ when I do all these things?"
That was the first indication- verbally-that Jay was seriously considering turning to Christ.
"No strings, Jay," I said. "You just ask Christ to take your life like it is and let him worry about the changes."
I looked down at the neck of the horse I was riding and I`m sure the Holy Spirit must have put the words in my mouth: "It`s kinda like saying, `Here, Christ, You take the reins of my life,` and you turn them over to Him."
"My life with Christ each day is just like riding a good cutting horse. It is at the same time a most exciting, exhilarating and frustrating experience. You and I both know what it`s like to ride a well-trained cutting horse. He`s bred to do his job and a good one can cut a calf out of a herd and hold him indefinitely. It`s almost as if that horse knows every move the calf is going to make before he makes it. The best thing for the rider to do is hang loose in the saddle and leave the reins alone.
"My life with Christ is like that. When I let go the reins and hang loose he does his work through me and it`s an exciting, exhilarating ride. My problem is that I get to thinking, This is great; look what I`m doing. Then I take the reins."
I didn`t have to explain this analogy to Jay. Anyone who ever rode a cutting horse knows he is sensitive to neckreining. The slightest pressure of the reins on his neck will cause him to turn on a dime to the right or left. A good rider will relax in the saddle and hang loose.
"I take the reins," I went on; I screw up the whole deal and then turn them back over to Christ. This goes on daily. I keep wanting to run my own life. But he`s patient with me and straightens out the mess I`ve made and it`s OK."
So it went all week. Jay came closer and closer. He began to relax and feel at ease again. The cussing came back and Jay raised another reason why he just couldn`t. His will was strong, the struggle honest.
Two weeks passed. The cattle were sold. I was driving Jay to San Antonio late at night to catch the plane to Oklahoma City. On the outskirts of the city he broke the silence of his inner struggle as he slammed his fist against the dash of my car and shouted: "By God, I`m gonna do it. I feel like I did when I sat in the plane at the end of the runway-alone-and my instructor said I was ready to solo. I was scared, but I knew if I ever got off the ground I`d have to do it then."
And then he prayed-a beautiful, profane prayer.
"Now look here, God. Hal said You`d take me like I am. I want You to have my life but I can`t give it to You except the way I am. But, by God, if You`ll take it that way, here it is."
I think God smiled that night. Profanity was never more profound.
