As you all know, yesterday was our special midnight prayer meeting. At first, things seemed grim. Calvina, Agatha, Martha, Auntie an I were all present, along with the General, but no one else came. It was half past twelve when we decided it would be best to call off the meeting and, to my dismay, close the Mission.
It was at that very moment that something amazing happened. Thirteen men walked through our front door and sat in the chairs arranged in a circle. Bringing up the rear was, you guessed it, Sky Masterson. I suppose he is a man of his word after all. He made sure everyone had made their appearance, but he promptly said he had a flight to catch and wished us good luck. The General couldn't have been more impressed, and I thanked God - and Sky - silently.
One man, I believe he was the infamous Nathan Detroit, seemed to be in charge of the twelve gamblers. He prompted a few men to make their testimonies. They were hesitant, but I was surprised at their stories and how they actually seemed willing to change.
A man named Nicely Nicely Johnson was the first to come forward and really confess to his sins. He spoke of a dream he'd had, in which he was on the boat to heaven. He offered the passengers to gamble and drink with him. He said the consequences of his sins caused him to fall overboard and begin to drown. I think this is a beautiful metaphor for the course sinful actions can take you on. I am hopeful we can reach other sinners like this man.
Nathan Detroit also testified. He began by admitting that he used the Mission to host his crap game. He then admitted that he had bet a certain guy one thousand dollars he couldn't take a certain doll to Havana. (Sound familiar?) He was going to use the money to rent the Biltmore garage and have the game. He won the bet, so now he can rent it, but, as he told us, he's not so sure he wants to finish the game.
Now, I have no idea why he wouldn't want to finish the game, (perhaps a crisis of faith?)but let's go back to the part when he mentioned he had won the bet. This must have been the same bet Sky told me about, but he won that bet. The only explanation is that Sky told Mr. Detroit he hadn't managed to bring me to Cuba. Perhaps Sky is not as disrespectful as I had assumed. Perhaps he really did love me. No use getting my hopes up, however. I doubt I could handle another disappointment.