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The Stump

The preacher
always looked
so much larger
than life during
the sermon. This
is what Jonny tells
his big brother one
Sunday afternoon,
and it was met with
one heckuva loud
mess of Jeffy’s
all-over-the-place
laughter. Which is
pretty contagious.
So at lunch the
boys annoyed
the poo-hockey
out of their folks;
even the twins,
their kid sisters,
said to hush it
up. So the
thought about
the preacher
being so gigan-
tic disappeared
completely from
Jonny’s head,
all the way, at
least, until the
following Sun-
day, when right
after the service
was finished he
got an odd-look-
ing “Cummere,”
out of his big
brother, pract-
ically pulling him
out of a trance,
and he was hop-
ping and skipping
to catch up with him
as he took off down
the aisle toward the
pulpit, so that Jonny
said “What is it??” a
little bit too loud, and
he sort of ducked his
head into his chest,
a bit embarrassed as
he made his way to
catch up to the front
of the church where
Jeffy let out a loud
whisper, “Lookit!” and
pointed all sneaky like

down under behind
the pulpit to right
where the preach’d
be every Sunday all
red-faced at his ser-
man and . . . larger
than life. Two cinder
blocks, one on top of the
other, were tucked neatly
up inside the little hidden
shelf at the very bottom.
“Larger than life,” Jeffy
let out and just burst out
laughing ’til he was all
crouched over, and soon
enough, Jonny was, too.