CODY WHITLOW

Cody Whitlow got saved at 3:30 in the morning, which ain't regular church hours, but Cody wasn't having a regular damn evening. Nobody witnessed it but him. He says that was the point.

He left the Rusty Nail with a clear conscience and a cloudy everything else, walked eleven blocks to First Baptist, and used the side door they never lock because of the Christmas pageant. Climbed into the baptistry in his jeans. Thought on that. Climbed out of his jeans. A man hates to get to heaven in wet denim.

On his fourth full immersion he was telling the ceiling, “I got it, I got it,” when Sheriff Ponder came to check on a light.

“Cody. Son. There's a process.”

“I'm doing the process. Hell, I'm doing it four times.”

“There's a pastor in the process.”

“Well, he ain't here. I am.”

Cody's shirt was never found. The Sheriff brought him in with a choir robe on his lap and the heater going, because salvation is one thing and freezing your ass off is another. God love him, Cody looked relieved enough for both of them.

In the Polaroid he's shirtless, wet-haired, staring straight into the lens. Square with the Lord. Just county bullshit left to handle.

Brother Dale says it counts. He's not happy about it, but it counts.