Reading the end of F. O'Connor's "A Good Man is Hard to Find" bore striking similarities to being punched in the abdomen.
All through the final encounter with The Misfit, I kept waiting for everything to turn out OK. But it didn't. In fact, it got worse. And the story began to feel like a bad dream.
Salvation never came as I expected it to. But it did come.
The moment before she dies, the grandmother looks into the face of the man who has killed the rest of her family and suddenly feels clarity.
"Why you're one of my babies. You're one of my own children!" she says to The Misfit. And as she reaches out to touch him, he shoots her three times in the chest. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
She offers the Misfit acceptance and redemption, and is redeemed in the process. She dies smiling toward heaven.
Perhaps there is something beautiful buried within this horrible, bloody story. However, it continues to leave me with my jaw on the floor, holding onto my stomach.
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