Wasps

Under dingy yellow ceiling lights, my little eyes fixed on lazily trailing legs of the mud wasps buzzing in slow motion overhead, terrified of sudden stinging attack.  One night old man Wheeler shouted out then broke down weeping in the middle of a quiet moment of prayer.  I figured someone had finally been stung by one of those evil wasps; maybe the men in the church would finally clear the place of the pests.  

Turned out the poor guy felt the conviction of the Lord come over him to where he had to shout and weep.  Our tradition talked about shouting as a form of prayer; even now my old mother feels as if her father's quiet death, private death is a disappointment.  She thought he should go out shouting the name of Jesus with an angel of heaven standing at each side of the bed. Old man Wheeler's shout is the only one I ever saw though.

In the meantime the wasps still buzzed overhead, dad's voice droning on from the pulpit; don't squirm or mother will plant a debilitating pinch just above the knee.