A childhood encounter that I never remembered.
“You are going to hell. The devil will be glad to take you if you don’t repent.”
I was sitting between my parents while the sermon stretched on. At this point, the words were just passing through my ears. I was daydreaming about my RC truck. I’d spent weeks saving up for a new motor and gear, and I was planning to take it down to the old gravel pits. There were plenty of places to go off-roading there.
I figured everyone else my age was daydreaming too. Fifty minutes into a sermon will do that.
Finally, I heard, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow…”
That was the cue. We were almost done.
I checked my watch. Nearly two hours. It usually ran a little over one. This sermon was cutting deep into my afternoon.
I walked out ahead of my parents. Pastor Hicks was at the door.
“Andy,” he said, smiling, “what are you doing today?”
“I’m taking my RC truck to the gravel pit.”
“Don’t let the devil in,” he said.
“I won’t.”
“Remember, the devil is real. You always have to be on watch.”
“I will,” I said.
“Have a blessed day.”
“And also with you.”
I knew the devil was supposed to be figurative. I’d never seen him. I believed God was real, but I hadn’t seen Him either. That’s just how it was.
I waited outside for my family. Fifteen minutes passed.
When they finally came out, my dad frowned. “Why did you rush out? That was rude.”
“I talked to Pastor Hicks.”
“No. We leave together. It was a good sermon. Do you remember what he said?”
“Yes,” I said. “If I don’t repent, the devil will take me.”
“That’s not what he said,” my dad replied. “It was about choice.”
He got distracted greeting someone. My sister caught my sigh and smiled. At least I was spared a lecture.
We got home close to one. I grabbed my RC truck and started making a peanut butter sandwich.
“You’re not going anywhere until lunch,” my dad said.
“This is lunch,” I said. “Peanut butter plus bread.”
“Watch your tone. We’re eating together.”
I waited. And waited.
By the time lunch was over, it was 3:30.
The gravel pit was thirty minutes away by bike. I finally took off.
The truck ran beautifully. Rocks, embankments—perfect. Then one bad turn. The truck tumbled off a fifty-foot drop into the water.
Gone.
I walked down the path to see if anything could be salvaged. As I passed behind a ten-foot boulder, I nearly ran into a man.
Tall. Slim. Well dressed. Calm.
“Nice day for the gravel pit,” he said. “Where you headed?”
“To see if I can get my truck back.”
“I saw it go into the water.”
“Then why ask?” I snapped.
“Just being friendly.”
I took a breath. “Sorry. I worked a long time for that truck.”
“My name is Andy,” I started.
“I know,” he said.
“How?”
“I’m Satan.”
I laughed. “You don’t have horns. No tail.”
“Satan isn’t who you think he is,” he said. “I appear as someone approachable. Successful. Familiar.”
“What, you want my soul for a truck?”
He smiled. “You’re stuck in opposites. Let’s see if the truck’s salvageable.”
I followed him down. There was another RC car sitting nearby.
“Take it,” he said. “The kid who left it was careless.”
“I’ll turn it in.”
“Suit yourself.”
“You’re trying to trick me.”
“No,” he said. “Like God, it’s your actions over a lifetime that matter. I don’t do contracts. I prospect.”
“Am I going to hell?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
He handed me $200. “Go buy a new truck. Remember—good and bad exist together.”
“There’s nothing attached,” he added, walking away. “After I leave, you won’t remember this.”
I shoved the money in my pocket.
When I reached the water, my truck was sitting on a rock at the shoreline. Damaged, but responsive.
On the way home, I dropped off the other RC car at the police station. At the grocery store, I found $200 in my pocket. I didn’t know where it came from, so I put it in the donation box.
I went home quietly happy.
The next Sunday, the sermon was short.