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Contributed photo/Fred took up residence in an exterior wall of the Nichols’ home. While not a pet, he certainly contributed to the household and kept down the mouse population.

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Front Porch Conversations: On snakes, discomfort and the grace to change

By STEPHANIE PORTER-NICHOLS/Staff

My husband declared that he screamed like an adolescent girl, and being a middle-school teacher he knows something about their vocal range, so I believed him. He’d encountered a snake, not outside mind you, but on the second floor of our home. The long reptile was stretched out across the old plank floor warming itself. Apparently, the snake was equally frightened and disappeared into the cluttered recesses of our attic.
According to two researchers at the University of Virginia, my husband’s reaction stemmed from a genetic predisposition. After studying both adults and 3-year-olds, the UVa psychologists recently concluded that our brains are hardwired to fear snakes.
This innate alarm would have helped our early ancestors survive the threat posed by venomous snakes.
The in-born concern about snakes certainly makes adrenaline pump through my body when I encounter one, but I also grew up hearing stories about my grandfather’s respect for non-poisonous snakes, especially black snakes. According to family legend, he would pick them up and carry them to his garden and barn to dispatch mice and similar pests. Accordingly, I try to be tolerant of snakes. A few years ago, a six-foot black snake decided to make his den inside one of the logs on the outside of our living room wall. Repeatedly watching his graceful climb up the thorny stems of a rose bush and onto the logs, I developed a fondness for the snake and affectionately dubbed him Fred. I even took his picture.
Nonetheless, on a recent Saturday night, just the subject of snakes was making me squirm. Barter Theatre’s Stage II seats were quite comfortable. My husband sat beside me relaxed and apparently enthralled in the production of The Road Where It Curves Away.
I, on the other hand, could feel tension knitting my brow and building a headache.
While the play examines many aspects of religion, the story centers on one preacher’s passionate belief in snake handling as part of his faith.
Normally, I’d describe myself as appreciative of many religious traditions, a believer that shared graces link many practices.
Yet, there I was, uncomfortable to the core. I didn’t know why. I was no stranger to snake handling. Buried deep in my files are letters that years ago I’d received from a young man purporting to be a practitioner of the tradition at a church not far away. He seemed genuine, but would never allow me to accompany him to a service so I never knew the legitimacy of his claims.
The actors delivered an engaging performance. The playwright offered a production that was poignant and humorous. I stood with other members of the audience to deliver a standing ovation at the show’s conclusion.
I appreciated the careful weaving of a play that examined tense family relationships, the subtle influence of Kierkegaard’s call for present-moment faith, the unnecessary head-butting of science and religion, and the elusive nature of belief.
In his director’s notes, John Hardy points to the lines of one character who declares, “Faith ain’t somethin’ you have, like something to own. Belief is a thing you do. When I say I believe, it means I’m doin’ something. I’m goin’ somewheres.”
If shared more widely, that’s a sentiment that could do much good in this world.
In the busyness of the days that followed, I quit wondering about my disquiet at the play. That is, until this week when a friend and minister commenting on an entirely different subject, said, “That is what we are here for, to comfort the uncomfortable and to discomfort the comfortable.”
The statement didn’t hit home immediately, but rather projected itself into my mind unbidden as I drove home enjoying the day’s sunshine and singing along to the radio.
I’d been foolish to disregard my unease so cavalierly. Perhaps, my hardwiring to fear snakes goes deeper than I like to admit, but I suspect the discomfort was a form of grace, a challenge to experience growing pains that I hope lead to a stronger faith, much like the trials of adolescence can transform high-pitched squealing into a resonating voice.

In the interest of full disclosure, the Smyth County News & Messenger is the media sponsor for The Road Where It Curves Away.
Stephanie Porter-Nichols is the editor of the News & Messenger. She may be reached at or 783-5121.