IT’S ALL FOR YOU by DeLane Phillips

IT’S ALL FOR YOU by DeLane Phillips

Daddy says that if we want to see the Glory of the Lord we can’t give You-Know-Who any room to dwell in our lives. He says that light can’t abide with darkness in our house. So, Daddy told the Devil to leave the house. We can’t even say his name, or the words “but,” or “darn.” We can’t say the “devil” in the house, in a sentence, or anything. Mama made deviled eggs for lunch and we couldn’t even say their names. Apparently they’re stuffed now. 

Daddy says we shouldn’t even mention his name, the “you-know-who,” because we’d be giving “you- know-who” the credit. 

We gotta’ give credit where credit’s due, and that’s to the Lort. 

“What in the devil am I gonna do when my friends come over? How are we going to talk? They’re sure not gonna’ understand the difference between a devil and stuffed!” I demanded, stomping my foot, like Mama, with my hands on my hips. 

Go to your room and don’t come out! Daddy ordered. So, I did as I was told. From inside my room I listened to my parent’s conversation. Daddy yelled at Mama, 

She’s gettin’ too big fer ‘ur britches, that little lady is! 

The word of God says his name, so why can’t I? For such a low-rotten, dirty fellow, this guy sure has a lot of names: devil, Satan, Lucifer, Evil One, and that’s just a start. Mama calls my Uncle Frank the Devil. Even the man of God yells his name every Sunday, while he preaches and sweats, 

“Satan is like a roaring lion runnin’ to and fro, seeking whom he may devour!” I’ve never seen a lion or a roaring one at that, but apparently the man of God ain’t heard the ruckus my little brother makes. I heard Mama question Daddy.

What are you going to do when my brother visits? 

My uncle smokes and Daddy won’t allow him in the house. I held my breath, Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of him! 

From my room at the door, I heard her let out a big sigh, and stomp her foot. I had to defend her. 

“Why don’t ‘cha just move my little brother out then Daddy?” I stood in the kitchen, glaring at Daddy. 

That would save Daddy and the Lord a whole ‘lotta trouble. Then the Glory could move in and we’d all be happy I thought. 

Go to 'ur room! 

Again. I wanted to let out a big sigh and stomp my foot. I knew what would happen if I did. Being sent to a room is hard enough, but lying in the bed with a sore backside-not-but was worse. 

I pouted all afternoon, mad as the You-Know-Who. 

I know I’m not supposed to be mad. I’m saved and baptized. Getting’ saved and baptized' was not as fun as I thought it would. I can’t keep up with all the rules and I sure can’t keep the “D” words from coming out my mouth. 

In my room, lying on the bed watching my yellow rosy curtains flutter that Mama had sewn for me, I caught the smell of something sweet on the breeze. I sat up in bed and recognized the scent. It was my favorite dessert. 

Mama opened the bedroom door and walked in. She was holding a large plate. Yer Daddy’s gone down to the barn to feed the cows.

She smiled as if she knew a big secret. I peered out my bedroom window. Across the yard, through the garden and beyond, I could see Daddy walking along the path beside the pasture fence, with the cows following him towards the troughs for supper. I turned back and looked at Mama, smiling. She held a large plate in her hands. I inhaled the warm scent of chocolate. 

The dark chocolate, sweet cake was still warm and fresh from the oven. 

Smiling, Momna handed me the large plate. The slice of cake was big enough for two grown men to share! I thought I was dreaming. Speechless, I looked up at Mama, Well go on, it’s all for you, she nodded. 

The cake’s frosting made my mouth water. I had watched Mama mix up batch after batch at the kitchen stove. I knew the recipe now almost by heart: the cocoa, butter, sugar, and vanilla. And for some reason, she always tossed in a pinch of salt. 

The melted frosting dripped down the huge slice of cake onto the pretty plate. The plate was from Mama’s special plates we only used for company! The fork was from her special box that contained all of the “family silver.” I wasn’t mad anymore. I was company! “What do I call it now Mama?” 

Well, 'ur Uncle Frank calls it d’ …. 

“Stop, Mama!” I yelled. 

Why? 

“We can’t say that word either.”

DeLane Phillips is a southern writer, former teacher, empty nester, and dog mom of Mac the Dachshund and Lovey the Terrier. Much of her writing is inspired by rural life from her childhood on a farm in Monroe, Georgia and the various characters of the small southern towns she has traveled through and lived in. She continues to reside in Georgia.