I DREAMED OF GOD AND FREE WILL

NOW:

Last night, I dreamed of God. I did not realize it was a dream about God until I woke up, but once I came to full consciousness that fact became crystal clear.

I dreamed I was helping a young friend dress. This young lady was about eight years old but very thin and frail. She looked six, but I remember thinking she was a couple of years older than she looked. She could smile and she nodded or shook her head to communicate, but her muscles did not work well and she needed a lot of physical assistance. I was helping her dress and I found a sweater that I had (I thought in my dream) sewed together up the front for her when she was smaller. I had sewn it so it stayed closed. She tended to freeze easily, I thought, and the buttons had not worked very well. But when I pulled the sweater out, I could tell that the child had grown and the sweater, though it might fit her if it were put on as sweaters normally are, would no longer pull over her head without possibly hurting her face. She might even have to wear the garment unbuttoned now.

As I worked to remove the stitches, I asked the child if she remembered when I sewed it together. She smiled and nodded that she did. I smiled back at her, removed the black thread, and held her up while trying to get her largely unresponsive arms (she tried to help) into the sweater. As I did this, I was so at peace, so happy to help her.

When I awoke, I realized that in "real life" when I help others there is a constant dialog of thoughts and ideas washing through my brain. They go something like this:

"Will this person allow me to help them?"
"Will this person help me help them?"
"Will this person appreciate my help?"
"Will this person do good with the opportunity my help provides?"
"Will this person go forth and be a "good" person or will they be a "bad" person?"
"Am I abetting evil when I help them?"
"Am I abetting Goodness when I help them?"
"Can my help influence them toward Goodness?"
"Is this a waste of my time?"
"Is there someone else I could and should be helping that will be more likely to contribute to Goodness?"
"Is this person worthy of my help?"

My mind is full, and loud, and sometimes should be quieted if not entirely ignored.

I realized on waking that God sends us forth with Free Will. Perhaps He/She knows exactly what we will do with that Free Will, but I suspect that the ones that are going forth to do evil get just as much milk from their mother's breasts as the ones going forth to attempt to do good. Opportunities abound for most of us. God Loves us. God sets us on our way and what we do along that way is entirely up to us.

In looking back into the dream, I felt that it was my duty, and my joy, to help this child. I knew that what she did was between her and God, and what I did was between God and me. This dream me believed that what God wanted of me was complete love and assistance for my fellow man - ALL my fellow man! This other me felt that I could not "play God" by trying to read the future, that it was completely wicked to decide whom to be good to, that it was my duty to be good and helpful to everyone.

When I awoke, I wondered if I'd dreamed of BEING God, but no. Though my heart was guileless and my mind was free from wicked thoughts, I had no idea what the child would do with her potential. I did not know and I did not care to think about it. I only cared to do my duty (to the God I was not) by helping my fellow man.

I guess I dreamed of being a Friend (a Quaker.) I suppose I should not be too surprised by that, since I have long said my soul is a Friend soul.

This dream makes me realize that living inside me are two natures. The redneck in me wants to cling to the ways it knows. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. I want to make threats for anyone that may ever hurt my children, my grandchildren, my family at large. I want to follow through with those threats with great abandon and possibly joy if anyone ever tests them. My Scottish and Native American blood reminds me that my passion to protect comes from nature and therefore God, so it must exist for a very good reason. I suspect that I could "off someone," snuff out their very life, in defense of my family and not lose a wink of sleep over it. But the Friend in me, my civilized nature, the part of me that longs to be more like God, struggles to remember that MY children are actually GOD'S children, and that "vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord," and that what happens on this Earth is a blink inside a wink inside the scope of Eternity. I will continue to work on sewing the idea of peace into my heart, my brain, my soul. I will hope I am never tested in this, for I do not know which nature would show it's face. And I certainly will work on doing good with Abandon, doing good with no thought of it as an investment in Goodness, for what do I, a mere mortal, even know of that blessed state?

DADDY'S SURGERY 1980

Photo: Visiting Daddy

THEN:

Daddy had to have surgery on his ulcers when I was in the sixth grade. They were going to take out a large portion of his stomach in order to remove all the ulcers that kept him from being able to digest most of his food. My family did not split up very well (okay, many of us did not split up at all) so he rigged the back of his old pick up into a camper by building a wooden box over it, complete with a flat tin roof and shelves all along the interior walls. Those he stocked full of beanie weenies, vienna sausages, crackers, and other non perishable foods that he bought with our monthly food stamps. He put a mattress in the homemade camper, and had my sister, Sandi, make it up with sheets and blankets, and viola: We were ready for a family trip to the hospital. I thought the camper was magical!

Pop told me that I was to watch the clock on the wall in my room the next day at school, and if they had not called me to the office by 12 noon that I was to get up, walk out of the room without a word, and meet him in the parking lot. I knew I would be in Mrs. Mahan's room at noon, and I was very aware of her potential anger. She was famous for tossing people up against blackboards and for white hot paddlings. But I would not only have gotten up and walked out of her room at noon for my dad, I would have done my very best to beat her up prior to leaving if he had asked it of me. Fortunately, he never did ask me to thrash anyone... Fortunately for me and fortunately for them! 

I spent that morning with my stomach in knots, but before the clock hit twelve, I was called to the office and the secretary also gave the teachers instructions to give me a weeks worth of assignments in advance. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, got my assignments from all three teachers, gathered up my books and supplies, and headed out to meet Dad. 

Sandi and I played our sing-song game when we hit the town of Abingdon over an hour later. We were in the back of the truck the first time we had entered Abingdon, but Dad had yet to put the camper on. The wind pulled our long h air out like sails behind us. Pop was going in for the pre-surgery blood work. Sandi and I had been so surprised when we saw the name of the town on a welcome sign. We had always thought it was AbinTon. That's how all the locals pronounced it. But on the sign it was Abingdon. So, delighted, we practically sang A-BING-DON! And we put extra emphasis on the "bing" because the G and D had been such a surprise to us. Mom and Dad, squeezed into the truck bed with two of their daughters, now laughed as we shared our silly game with them.

The hospital staff took Dad to his room, and Sandi and I looked around the hospital while Mom helped him get settled in. The place had an aromatic little cafe, a gift shop, and a quaint chapel that exuded peace. After a bit, and with my sister's permission, I slipped off to explore a little more on my own. I discovered a beautiful balcony overlooking a grassy yard with several trees. I noticed, with a child's delight, that squirrels were rushing here and there, gathering nuts and whatever they could to sustain them through the upcoming winter. This sweet haven was on the third floor which was under construction and had signs warning that the area was off limits. I, being the rule bender in the family, had ignored the signs and explored anyway. Then I talked Sandi into "just a quick look at the coolest thing here!" After that, she was hooked. She was as taken by the area as I was, and we often snuck up there for a few peaceful moments early in the morning. She would drink her coffee and I would drink a cup of delicious hot cocoa while we watched the squirrels run hither and yon and the fall leaves drift soundlessly to the grass. It was lovely! Though it was closed for construction, there were hardly ever any people on the third floor at all, construction workers or otherwise. The plans must have been halted temporarily for some fortuitous reason. This made the spot a perfect haven for me, and I gravitated there to hide from the crowds, and the people, and the ceaseless conversations that flowed over me nearly everywhere I went. I wrapped myself in my own thoughts and enjoyed that blessed quiet as often as I could without worrying my mother or Sandi.

I also wandered down to the bottom of the grassy yard that surrounded the hospital and discovered an abandoned house. It was dark brown but that might have been from weathering the elements for many years, and ivy clung to it. Rose bushes and other shrubs had leaned up against it and surrounded it to the extent that you might think the area was just a bramble of shrubbery if you looked at it from the right angle. The house looked sturdy enough, though cold and unwelcoming. I thought about sneaking in, but was conscious of the fact that any trouble I got into now could so quickly mean even bigger trouble for Mom and Sandi. I had made it a goal to be as invisible as I could while we were here. I thought about what a waste it was for that pretty house to sit there empty when people like me were living in the back of a pick up truck and freezing much of the night away. Wouldn't that house make a nice place for people to stay while their family members were in the hospital? I sat outside it and dreamed up many a fine story and several good plans for the old home, but I knew it would likely fall down before I was able to actually do anything with it. The stories though, were mine to keep forever.

We weren't hungry while we stayed there, so shoplifting never entered my mind. Somehow I had decided that stealing food was not stealing at all but every other kind of theft was (at that time) beneath me. I had been reading the Bible for myself for a couple years now, and from Proverbs 6:30 which states, "Men do not despise a thief, if he steal to satisfy his soul when he is hungry." and from that and other verses, I had gathered that stealing when you were hungry might be illegal, you might be taking a risk with the law, but that God would not consider it immoral. I did not worry too much about what man thought but concerned myself with what God wanted, and so I had justified my theft of food for some time. I was in the bathroom in that hospital once, though, and thought about how easily one could slip people's purses off those hooks, dash to the third floor and pull out any cash, and then dump the purse somewhere in a trash can. I was a bit aghast at myself for even coming up with an idea like that, but I rolled it into a story about three little girls that resorted to this activity while they lived in an abandoned brown house near a hospital because their only parent was in a coma and the girls did not want to wind up in foster care. It was an enjoyable fantasy, and I played different scenes through my mind repeatedly. 

Visiting hours were a much more strict thing in those days. If you were twelve and under you were not supposed to visit at all. (I was thirteen but was told often that I looked much younger, and I had no identification card to prove my age.) Even guests that were clearly thirteen and up were only supposed to visit during specified hours. I think there was a two hour visiting slot in the a.m. and a three hour one in the p.m. The rest of the time, if I needed to see Mother or Dad, I had to be very slippery about it. One of the security officers wore a name badge that said "V. Bardo," and I quickly learned to skirt her much more vigilantly than the others. She took her job about twice as seriously as they did and considered it a personal insult to her character if I even attempted to sneak by her. I managed it many times, but often I found myself thinking a particular question or situation could wait until visiting hours or until the security officers went through their shift change, so I would not have to deal with V. Bardo. Mother, Sandi, and Lila all conspired at different times to distract a guard and help me slip passed them when it was not visiting hours or when the guard refused to believe the truth about my age. The ladies in my family  were very sympathetic to my desire to check on my daddy and they shared my frustration when the guards would not believe I was thirteen. 

We mostly ate from our store of Beanie Weenies and the like on the truck, but every now and then Mom would spring for a meal in the little cafe or my sister, Lila, who had a home and children of her own to care for, would come to visit and buy me a sandwich there. When people came to check on Dad, most of them fellow church members, Mother would often slip Sandi a little money later that evening, and she would take me to get hot food. I knew our guests were being very generous, and I appreciated that tasty, hot food very much. This type of meal was a big treat for a kid that usually ate school lunches and beans and potatoes. I had my first chuckwagon sandwich there, which was a pleasant surprise. I loved it! I also loved the grilled cheese, the BLT, and the cheeseburger. The nice food helped go a long way toward making up for sleeping in the back of a cold pick up truck and dodging the security guards that were supposed to keep me out of Dad's room except for a few hours each day. 

I had my hair cut very short at that time and one day, an elderly gentleman that Sandi and I rode the elevator with called me "young man". I had on a jersey that looked like the ones our local football players wore, but mother had gotten it at a yard sale so who knew which team it actually stood for, and I was sporting a pair of ratty jeans. There had been a time when I would have puffed up with pride to be mistaken for a boy. This was not that time. About a year or so before, I had developed an interest in boys, so I did not want to be one! The next day I wore a halter top that I had previously written off as too cold for the weather and too revealing for the hospital environment. I thought it had been a mistake to pack it, but the "young man" comment made me reconsider. There was no denying the boobs while I wore this top; there was no denying the fact that I was a girl, and not one little old man called me "young man" that day. My mother and both my sisters saw my wardrobe decision for what it was and got quite a kick out of it.

When the hospital staff took my dad in for surgery, my mother, my sisters, and I clung to each other. What on this Earth would we do if something happened to that man that held us all together? He was our rock, our glue, our strength, and we knew it. 

They brought him out of the operating room and told us everything had gone well. We collectively breathed a half sigh of relief, but the tension still hung in the air. He was not out of the woods yet. Soon he was out of recovery and back in his own room again. He was "loopy" from all the drugs and each time the intercom would call "William? Or "William, come to the front desk, please." Dad would say, "What?" or "What for?" He had forgotten that he was in the hospital and that one of the orderlies that worked there was also named William. Dad became more annoyed with the intercom as the drugs wore off and the pain wore on. He rubbed and pulled at his bandages now and then and that made me very nervous. I did not trust this doped up daddy not to hurt himself.

Lila and Mom decided they needed to go to the store and get something Dad may want when he was awake and few things that Mother needed. Sandi wanted to go with them, but I refused to leave Dad and this left them in a bit of a quandary. I had never been left alone at home, and certainly not out in a public place (except for school) but I could not imagine leaving Pop at all right now. To my great surprise and relief (I was about to panic and risk throwing a hellfit) Mother decided to allow me to stay there with only my unconscious father. As country folk say, "You could have pushed me over with a broomstaw!" I was that surprised, but even more relieved and pleased. 

I sat right beside him and urged, "No Daddy. Please, no!" When he tried to pull at his bandages. He slapped at my hands, and it struck me as odd that I was telling my pop no about anything. I had rarely spoken that word in his direction in my life. Maybe when he said, "Are you hungry?" Or "You too tired to go with me?" 

I tried to refrain from laughing when he became annoyed with the intercom and told it, "Shut the hell up, will 'ya?" When a nurse came in to check on him, I told her that he was obviously in a lot of pain or he would not tug at those bandages all the time. They must have agreed because they came back and gave him some more medicines in his IV just a few moments later. Then he stopped trying to pull of his bandages or argue with the intercom, and he slept gently. I sat in peace, listening to him breathe, Thanking God for every breath and praying to God that Pop would continue breathing as long as possible. I knew I would never be ready to give him up, and I knew that giving him up now would leave the entire family in a really hard place. Mother and Sandi did not drive. We could barely manage to keep wood and coal in for the fire if he went off for a few hours during the day. None of us knew much about the bills or the finances. I shook off my worry, wrapped myself in the comfort of knowing that I had, for once and finally, been able to take care of him for a change. When my mom and sisters returned only an hour or so later, I felt ten years older.

We spent over a week in that hospital. Mother absolutely refused to obey visiting hours. She would not leave Daddy's side, so the nurses had a cot brought in that she could fold out at night and fold up during the day. Sandi and I slept in the homemade camper most nights. One night it rained and we were lulled to sleep by the sound of raindrops on a tin roof, much like we heard at home when it was raining. A cold spell came through and woke us another night. We were too miserable to sleep, even huddled together as we were, so we went inside the hospital and spent much of the night trying to sleep in the plastic chairs in the waiting room. That was a miserable experience and we were extra exhausted the next night. We tried the truck again but it was still icy cold, so we slipped into the chapel, pulled the cushions off a couple of pews, and plopped them down in a corner of the room. We went to sleep on them, thinking no one would even walk in, let alone mind that we were snoozing in "God's house," and surely God, who designed us to need sleep, would understand. But someone did walk in and she did mind. A nurse woke us rudely and said, "Ya'll have to find somewhere else to sleep. You can't sleep in here!" I knitted my brow. I wanted to challenge her right to throw us out. I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her that God would not mind at all that we were sleeping in there. But Sandi has always been all love and no war, and I was aware of her discomfort over any and every confrontation. I kept my mouth shut and followed her lead. We put the cushions back on the pews and left the chapel. We tried again to sleep on the stiff plastic chairs, but it was impossible to do anything more than nod off in misery and then jolt back awake a few moments later. We gave up early and started our morning routine before the sun was even up. 

Later that day, after the hospital was alive with activity again, I was in the elevator with two nurses and one of them was the nurse that had ran us out of the chapel. I was ready to let bygones be bygones and was holding no grudges. The nurse may not have recognized me, but I doubt it. I think she knew exactly who I was and saw an opportunity to bedevil a child. She told her co-worker, "You never know what crazy people around here will do. You know what I found last night?" Without waiting for an answer she went on, "Two country hicks sleeping in the CHAPEL of all places! They had pulled the cushions off the pews and were sleeping in the floor!" She said it with the same about of outrage and disbelief one might expect if she had found someone eating the cushions off the pews. " And I tell you, one of them was this wide!" She held her hands out in front of her to indicate nearly a yard in measurement. 

I was stricken with shock. Cruelty has this sneaky way of coming into your life in such short and brutal snippets. I had forgotten how deeply it could cut. Always before, the cruelty had been directed straight at me. I was amazed to learn that it could hurt even more if it were directed at someone you loved. Yes, Sandi was quite overweight, but she was all light and love. I'd never heard her say a mean word about anyone in my entire life, and for the next few moments I could not breathe, let alone speak. 

The other nurse laughed a small uncomfortable chuckle and, when the elevator doors opened, they both exited. One went right and one went left. Just as the doors were sliding closed, I came out of my stupor and jumped out behind them. The nurse that had made the comments rounded the corner to my left, and I took off in hot pursuit. I did not have a plan. I only knew that I would regret it until my dying day if I did nothing at all. 

I caught up with her very quickly and said, "Hey!" She ignored me to first time, so I repeated the word, louder and angrier. 

She turned to me with a smug expression. "What, little girl? Can I help you?"

And then the words trembled from my angry lips, "Yes, you can help me. You can apologize for saying those nasty things about my sister."

"Oh, was that you and your sister in the chapel?" She feigned complete innocence and surprise. "Well, you shouldn't be trying to sleep there, you know?"

"Maybe not, but you shouldn't be saying my sister is this wide either." I held my hands out as she had, and felt, to my shame, my eyes well up with tears that I had no hope of holding back.

She shook her head and laughed. "What? I wasn't talking about your sister. I was talking about the cushions." But when the tears rolled down my cheeks, she looked as if just a bit of the wind fell from her sails as well.

I shook my head and struggled to maintain the ability to speak. "All... those... cushions... are the... same size." I gasped.

"Look, little girl. I wasn't talking about your sister. Okay?"

"Yes... You were!" I nearly shouted. "Just don't... lie.. and make it worse!"

I took a deep, painful breath. "My sister is... one of the nicest people... you could have ever... hoped to meet! ...And you! ...You are a monster that is ... not worthy of kissing her feet!" I was practically screaming now.

"Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. Okay? Just be quite." She was looking around nervously.

I looked at her with complete revulsion. Her motives were clear to me. She did not want a scene. She did not want to explain to a supervisor why some little "country hick" was pitching a fit. There was no real remorse there. It occurred to me though, if I had to explain to someone it might cause more problems for my family than it would for this nurse. Chances were good, it would reveal that we were living in their parking lot and sleeping wherever we could find a bit of comfort and warmth. If they kicked us out, we would be in real trouble. The only person in my home that knew how to drive was doped up and recovering from having two-thirds of his stomach removed. What if they pitched even him out onto the street, and it was my fault?

I shook my head and told her softly, "You aren't a bit sorry. Monsters... don't even know how to be sorry."

And I turned and walked away.

I did not want Sandi to know that anyone had even thought, let alone voiced, such horrible comments. I did not want anyone asking me what was wrong, so I hid in the midst of the blessed third floor chaos and cried my heart out. I did not return to my family until I had washed my face and wandered around until my eyes were no longer noticeably red. I never regretted confronting that nurse, but I often thought of cooler, better things I could have said. I beat her up a few times in my vivid imagination. I made up my mind to simply whisper, "Monster," every time I passed her in the hall, but I did not see her again during our time at the hospital. That was probably for the best.

The time I spent living in the back of a pick up in a hospital parking lot and dealing with issues I'd never had to face before shaped me and aged my soul. I knew coming out of it that I was now stronger and wiser than I had ever been, and I knew my family was a tougher unit than I had realized. Even with my dad, the hub of our family wheel, flat of his back and knocked out much of the time, we had stuck together and made things work. Together we had faced so many new challenges and we made it back home, better than ever. How nice it was that Daddy did not get sick after every meal! How comforting it was to know that when the proverbial leather hit the road, my family stuck together, even those of us that had no idea how to drive in the first place!

SUCK IT UP AND A LACK OF SAVVYING

Photo: Boo Boo Juice

NOW AND THEN:

SUCK IT UP AND A LACK OF SAVVYING: THAT'S WHAT IS WRONG WITH AMERICA

Imagine for a moment the scene that peppered all our childhood days, "I got a boo boo". You fall down and scrape a knee, get your fingers pinched in a door, or bang your head on something hard. There are ways the others around you reacted or failed to react. Physical pain not only hurts your body but there is an emotional pain that comes along with it, especially when you are young. It confuses you. You feel attacked for no reason. You ask, "Why me, God?" even when you are possibly too young to grasp the concept of God. This happens all our lives but is especially overwhelming when we are young and have not learned any methods to soothe ourselves. 

Hopefully, the people around you responded appropriately when you had these minor bumps and bruises. Hopefully, they showed proper concern for your feelings and for your flesh. It's all about empathy. Too much concern and you learn to over react, to think it's all about you. Not enough concern and you feel targeted by Life or God and you grow angry. Proper concern tells you, "Yes, this hurts. Yes, it is confusing. I'm sorry you are going through this, but it is not a big deal in the long run. It will pass. You are not alone. We have been there." They need to know that you savvy what they are going through. In much the same manner, we need to be soothed when the emotional bumps and bruises come along. We need to be told in words and actions: "I know what it feels like to be left out," or "I've had my heart broken too." As social beings, we do not need to feel or think as though we are the only person that has ever had to carry physical or emotional pain, or even the only one to endure this particular kind of physical or emotional pain. We need to be able to think, "That was tough, but WE all go through things like that." And just like that, as soon as a child begins to have thoughts of WE, their family and community have helped that individual see the big picture and be part of our collective humanity. 

Time makes the physical pain go away but the only "treatment" for the emotional pain (that, as I have pointed out, comes alone and with the physical pain) is empathy, and when we are denied that the emotional pain never goes away. It lurks. It hides. It slinks. It grows. It lies dormant for a time and then rears it's head again. But it does not go away.

If those around us do not show enough concern over our emotional pain then we are treated to the "Suck it up" way of life. This leaves someone feeling isolated and targeted. "Why is "Life" or "God" picking on ME?" Their brain continues to ask. "Why is life so hard on ME?" And we have quickly created a self absorbed individual. Unfortunately, many of our adults have been treated to the "suck it up" way of life and are battling vigilantly to overcome it. They are fighting to rebuild a foundation while they stand on it. That, I can tell you, is a tough battle.

Showing proper concern is not as hard as someone might think. Cuddle and comfort them, of course! But take your cues from them. When they begin to quieten and settle, you begin to losen your hug and perhaps to talk and take their mind off the pain. The key is that the child must know they are not alone in this upset. Yes, perhaps you felt it another day, but you have felt it. Sometimes just saying, "I know!" (which is all we usually say to the littlest among us) makes a big difference, but as they grow old enough to understand your words better, a short story about when you fell down as a child or even the other day is very important. I remember when my sons were reluctant to allow me to put hydrogen peroxide or antibiotic cream (termed "boo boo juice" in our home) on their cuts. They were both regaled, more than once, with stories of my own minor cuts as bruises and of the rubbing alcohol, mercurochrome, and iodine that was used in those days. I showed them the bottle of rubbing alcohol that we still kept in stock (to disinfect earrings and so forth) and I offered to let them try it "just once", so they would know what it felt like, know that I was not exaggerating when I said it would burn like fire. They had three choices then: hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic cream, or rubbing alcohol. Something was going to clean the cut and they could choose which of the three that would be. Though I believe they both gave the rubbing alcohol a thought ("It can't be as bad as Mom says, right?") they always opted for the boo boo juice and a clean swab. In the long run, the cut was given attention, the kid was given attention, and they knew knew they weren't the first child to get banged up. They knew that I savvied the pain of a cut and some medication on top of it.

If you know someone that is self absorbed, and I'm betting you do, somewhere down the road that person was not given enough empathy. They were given the "Suck it up" treatment. That might have been when they were little and it was mostly about physical bumps and bruises, or it might have been when they were a little bigger and their feelings were hurt by other kids or even adults in their lives. Somewhere, someone gave them the "Suck it up" cold shoulder, more than once. These adults are not self centered because they are evil or cruel. They are self centered because they still have that firey scrape on their knee or their fingers are still jammed in the door, or their heart is still breaking because they misjudged who their friends were. They were never given the proper empathy, the proper concern to overcome those hurts. When a kid goes bezerk and shoots up a school, yes, possibly they had a mental condition. Possibly they were psychopaths. Possibly they had a chemical imbalance. But chances are just as good that that person's breakdown was because of a lack of empathy in their life. The emotional pain lurked and hid. It was dormant for a time, and then grew, and reared it's head again. 

What can we, as a society, do about this? The very best thing we can strive to do in our lives is to show empathy to PEOPLE OF ALL AGES. Yes, scoop that child up and hug them and tell them it will be okay. But stop thinking of adults that are self absorbed as being evil or "wrong". Look at them as though their spirit is still a little child standing with their fingers caught in the door, because it is. Talk to them. Treat them like you would anyone that was "kind" or "normal". To do otherwise is the equivalent of picking up a cyring child and saying, "Now you be quiet! You're going to upset someone." These people are still in the middle of their pain -- of course they are self absorbed! It is nearly impossible to think of anything but the pain when you are surrounded by it. They are still hurting and what they often get for finding the courage to share that pain is "Grow up!" "Get over it!" or "Suck it up and move on!" 

If you know someone that seems self centered, try to share stories of your own pain with them. You may not know what sort of pain they are still suffering from, but perhaps you will hit on something they can relate to. That would go a long way towards reaching their humanity. Don't fail to tell your co-worker you understand what they are going through if they share a painful story with you. Share a story that is as similar as you can. Don't make excuses to not listen to and empathize with someone that tells the same broken, awkward tales over and over. This person did not receive the empathy they needed when they needed it and they question the sincerity of what they are getting now. Plus, for every person that listens to them many more make excuses or worse yet, tell them "Suck it up"! They may be taking three steps forward and four steps back. Help them. Do what you can. Because what is wrong with our America today is that too many adults are going around trying to rebuild their own shattered emotional foundation. Too many children are being groomed to do the same thing in twenty years. Too many people are looking the other way, judging their neighbors as "cruel," "self centered," and "wrong". Too many people are too busy to listen to another human being's sob story and say, "I understand." Try to savvy; That's what they need. That's what America needs.

GROWING UP CHURCHY IN THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS

Photo by Skitch: "The Green Waters of The Pound" 

THEN:

When I was very little, probably about three years old, both my sisters were saved and baptized. This is a process which typically includes answering an "alter call". In other words, going up to the pulpit when the preacher asks if anyone wants to be saved from Hell. Most people who answer the alter call go up while the congregation sings, "One Little Lost Lamb, Lord Here I am." Or "Just as I am without one plea,"  or some other beguiling song. Often the one that walks to the alter gets very emotional and tells the preacher and the entire congregation some version of, "I am a sinner, but I want Jesus to save me." Then the congregation members usually smile and are generally very happy for you. There is a lot of praying and crying and usually some shouting. Lots of people say, "Amen" or "Hallelujah. They either make plans to baptize you next Sunday or they take you straight to the river right then and dunk you backwards in the cold green water before pulling you out and announcing that you are a new person, born again, forgiven, and covered in the blood of Jesus. It is a fascinating and beautiful event. After my sisters were saved, I remember going to church one day, possibly for their baptism. My family sat in the back of the church and when I became squirmy my mom cautioned me to be quiet and then let me down to meander a bit.

I ever so slowly wandered all the way up to the front of the church. I was fascinated with the quiet, with the group of people sitting there letting one person speak while everyone else was as silent as they could possibly be. I made my way up near the pulpit or alter, but some sixth sense told me I should not walk all the way up there and stand with the man that everyone was listening to. I was a little put off by the way he was gasping and yelling anyway. It seemed to me that he was trying to make up for the quiet everyone else was making, and I thought, with them paying such close attention, he probably didn't have to be so loud. It was a tad disquieting, so I turned my attention away from him and noticed the people on the front pew. I saw a pretty dark haired lady with two children. One was a little girl about my age and the other was a tiny baby in blue, lying in a baby seat in front of the mother. She smiled at me, and I took great encouragement from that smile. I appreciated that sweet smile. I liked her and her little kids so much that I wanted to do something nice for them. Although I was fresh from babyhood myself, I did not know much about babies. I had heard that they liked to be rocked, however, so I reached down and rocked that little baby nice and hard! All sorts of things happened then: He started screaming, and the nice lady scowled at me and bent to pick him up as though she were protecting him from me! My pride was wounded! My mother dashed up the isle, apologized to the lady, and carried me back to the pew she, and dad, and my sisters were sharing. I was amazed, embarrassed, and annoyed! Someone had lied to me! Babies did not like to be rocked after all and now everyone was mad me and my freedom had been ripped away. I was stuck sitting in one pew because someone had told me a lie! It was not my fault someone had lied to me! Life could not be more unfair!


And that was my first church memory.


When I was seven years old, my mother and father decided that their older daughters were on to something and they became members of the same church that their daughters had been attending, Pine Creek Freewill Baptist Church. My parent's moment of reckoning was much less public than an alter call.


Mother's salvation came as she prayed before bowing her head over the Bible. She had been sad and weary most of her life and now she turned in melancholy desperation to God and asked, "Please, show me what you want me to know." She opened her Bible to Isaiah 40:31 and read, "But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint." She found those to be the most beautiful words she had ever read. She asked God to save her and Jesus to come into her heart and make her a new person. That week she started up the isle long before the alter call was made and they scheduled her baptism for the following Sunday.


During the upcoming week, my dad was out working in the woods and feeling tormented. He found a secluded spot to pray, one where no one could see him. He tells me he knew I would go to Heaven; I was an innocent child. And my sisters would go to Heaven; they were saved and baptized. And now my mother was saved and ready to be baptized, and Daddy felt like we were all getting on the Heaven train without him. He prayed to God admitting that he did not want his whole family to go to Heaven without him, but that he did not know what to do.


The next Sunday, right before my mother was to be baptized, Daddy knew what to do. The preacher made the alter call and Dad walked up to confess his sins and his desire to follow Jesus. This time he was not looking for a spot where no one would see him; he cried and prayed openly in front of the whole church.


As they had faced so many things together since she was fifteen and he was twenty, Mom and Dad were baptized together in the Pound River. I remember it fondly; It was a beautiful day in more ways than one.


My parents made a lot of life changes after that and our family became what is known in our neck of the woods as "churchy", which is just a local way of saying, "religious" or "they go to church a lot". Many of the changes they made were good and made us all happier. My dad stopped drinking. He did not have a drinking problem and did not drink all that often, but anyone with his temper really did not ever need a bottle in their hand. And the temper was another thing that changed for the better. He started working on not allowing his fury to guide him. It was hard at first, but he soon had it under control and is known today as one of the most humble and peaceful people you could ever hope to meet.


Mom started dressing much more modestly; mini skirts were in at that time, but she began wearing longer hems. She read her Bible, six chapters a night, and started trying to follow goodness and peace as much as she possibly could. It was not too long after being saved that she decided that God wanted her to set a better example for the kids at church. She felt some shame about standing outside near the corner of the church to smoke because the children could see her and she did not want any of the kids that came to church to pick up cigarettes. So, she laid her's down and urged my dad to do the same. He did and suddenly I could breathe in the car in the winter time, and I was not stepping on lit cigarettes with my bare feet several times each summer, or bumping into them in my parents' hands. "God bless God," was my thoughts on those changes!


Some of the changes they made were not for the better, but most of those were not horrible and were not lasting. I challenged many of these new rules when I hit eleven or twelve years old and started reading the Bible rather vigilantly for myself. I claimed that some of their rules were "unreasonable" and were not backed up in the pages of the book they said we should follow. I argued against them with as much passion as I dared while still keeping in mind that I must not "back talk" or I would be punished. I asked, "Why were we not allowed musical instruments in church? Did Daniel not play the lyre and even dance for the Lord?" I was told that all the rules changed when Jesus came. So I asked, "Okay, then how could alcohol be so sinful if Jesus turned the water into wine?" I voiced that question as innocently as possible, knowing it had been a hot topic with my mother even before she became churchy. I was then told the wine was not fermented. Jesus would not make fermented wine! "Well then, why didn't He just tell us He made grape juice? That's just grape juice, right?" Was my next question, and I was told, with no small amount of annoyance, that Jesus expected us to use some common sense! I did not buy that theory, but I knew when to back down so that I could live to fight another day.


My parents did not pull these rules out of thin air or make them up from wholecloth, as the country saying goes. These were rules that, while not always in the Bible, were found in the church membership covenant, and following them was pivotal if you wanted to remain a member of the church. People were often "throwed out" of churches if they could not follow the rules, which amounts to having their name stricken from the membership book and being asked to not return to that church. Usually, you could not pay someone that had been "throwed out" to return to the church, though so asking them was often forgone. If you were seen purchasing alcohol, they did not want to hear that your great aunt Martha was making rum balls and unable to travel to the store so she sent you to get the rum. They did not want to hear that you were going to pour it over a bonfire and use it to start a weenie roast. You were disallowed from buying it, cooking with it, touching it, and certainly from drinking it! No excuse could keep you from being "throwed out." At one point, my parents signed a covenant agreeing to not even step foot into a store that sold alcohol. My sister, Sandi, was "throwed out" of church for not attending at least one business meeting in a 12 month time period. The business meetings were all held at night and since Sandi had barely made it home one night, she stopped leaving the house except when she could plan to be home before twilight. She felt the rule was extremely unreasonable and has barely darkened a church door since. 

Many young people were asked to not even come back to church if they could not find appropriate clothing to wear, something other than tight jeans and low cut tops. When they did this to my friend and neighbor, Gloria, I was irate! How could they? Did they not know that rejection is from the Devil? Gloria was wearing the only clothes she had! Why couldn't they have taken up some donations of modest dresses from the Sisters in church and given them to her and fixed the situation without hurting the poor girl? Did they not know that God looks at your inside and not your outside? But, no; they did not know, and Gloria did not come back to church with me. 

Some churches "split" over disagreements about which rules should be in the churches own rule book. Part of the members would go off and start their own church and part of them would stay with the old building and carry on, business as usual. Churches "splitting" was fodder for the gossips. It was whispered about and most everyone agreed it was shame when Christians could not get along well enough to worship under the same roof. But, a few years after we started going, our church "split" as well, over the subject of musical instruments. Part of the members left and formed their own church so they could have a piano and play guitars. If I had been head of the household, my family would have probably left with them. I certainly did not think the Bible backed up the "no music other than singing" rule that our church put forth. But my parents agreed with it and we stayed on at Pine Creek. 

By the time I was an adult my family and even my church had given up most of the rules that, as a kid, I had followed under duress. Things certainly got stricter after the baptisms, though, and considering the words "jackass," and "fart," and even "snot" were already "bad words" that might get your face slapped, stricter was pretty strict! For a time, I was unable to braid my long hair, as my sister and I were want to do before bed. We liked plaiting it because that kept our waist length hair from twisting around us, making our sleep uncomfortable, and it kept the hair from becoming a tangled mess that we had to fight with in the mornings. I was disallowed wearing make up or painting my nails. I was not very good with make up, anyway, but I loved painting my nails and braiding my hair. If they wouldn't allow me to braid it, I'd just as soon get it cut short, but that was considered a sin too. I was not overly comfortable with my sexuality and had longed almost all my life to be a boy. Now it seemed as though they took the only fun things about being a girl out of my life just when I needed to find something positive about being a girl!


I was not allowed to go see any movie that was not rated G. According to their new found religion, PG movies were a big sin! By the time I was thirteen, I'd seen only a hand full of films at the theater and all of them were rated G. I had, in utter disappointment, missed "Star Wars," and "Grease," and "Jaws". My niece, Tanya was seven years younger than me but had seen "Jaws", and Lila said I would have loved "Grease", (When I finally saw it years later, I did love it.) and everyone at school talked about "Star Wars" almost non stop. It sounded wonderful and the toys and lunch boxes and stickers and coloring books looked lovely! I was not allowed to go even when we had money or Lila offered to take me. Mother was insistent, I was only allowed to see rated G films, PG was “dirty” and “sinful”. I wanted to see all those movies so badly, but none more so than Star Wars! Finally, Lila took great pity on me. She stopped asking permission and started being sneaky. She took me “riding around” and we wound up going to see the movies that I would not otherwise be allowed to see. She took me to see "The Villain" and "Windwalker" and "E.T. The Extra Terrestrial", all of which were PG films, all of which were thrilling to me. She even took me to "Conan the Barbarian" which was rated R. But I felt no guilt over sneaking to those movies. I loved movies. I loved Conan, and I had been reading about him in comics for years. Though it was surprising to see him on the big screen, there was nothing any more shocking in the film than there was in the comic books, and I was convinced you did not sin by reading a book or watching a film. Maybe if it were a film about how to sacrifice children to Satan or something horrible like that, it might be a sin, but I was convinced that normal story-type films were not sins. I was happy when my school did a play based on the movie "On Golden Pond," since I had not been allowed to see the film. Now, I could at least watch the play and find out what the movie was about.


I was not allowed to go to swimming pools but I was unclear about the reasoning on that one. Was it because my parents felt the swimsuits were sinful, or because boys and girls went there to be sexual with each other, or because they considered us too poor, or because my mother was afraid of water? I heard all of those, so I guess it was a combination bad thing, in their eyes. They took me to Pound River a few times in the summer to "play in the shallows" and sometimes they allowed me to wade the creek near our home. That sort of play was a welcome relief from the heat and it was fun in it's own right. Still, my first trip to a swimming pool when I was sixteen (and with the guy I would marry and have two sons with) was so much more than I anticipated that I felt bitter about all the summers I had not gone swimming. I longed to get all those summers back and go to the pool, and go to the pool, and go to the pool!


I was also told it was a sin to even step into a store that sold alcohol and forbidden to do so. I did not feel that the Bible backed up that rule either, though, and so once we moved to town, I would slip in to stores and buy a pop and sit in the floor and read their comic books straight off the rack, whether they sold booze or not. My parents never caught me and the store owners never fussed at the quiet girl sipping a Coke and pouring through all their Marvel, DC and Harvey comics. God bless you store owners!


I was supposed to wear dresses year round, but it turned out that I was not very good at hiding my underwear when wearing a dress. I loved climbing tress, and leg wrestling, and so many other activities that threw my skirt up. So, they caved on that idea faster than any of the others. Better the sin of wearing pants and shorts, they decided, than the sin of showing undies!


After my family became the "regular go-to-meeting" type, Saturdays evenings, Sunday all day, and Friday nights were never the same again. When a revival was being held at some Freewill Baptist church in the area, every night became church night. If someone wanted to go to church but they or a loved one had trouble getting out then service would be held in their home. We were churching it lots of the time and all over the area.


On Saturday evenings we each had an "all over bath" as opposed to a "pan bath". The glaring exception to this was my dad's best friend that was sort of an adopted uncle to me: Crit, who largely avoided church, possibly because it inspired people to bathe so very often. He was never a big fan of bathing. Some places we lived in allowed for more than one all over bath a week, but when we carried our water uphill from the spring or caught it in rain barrels and heated it up, one all over bath a week was considered enough. My mother would tell me that the pan bath was also called a "whore bath" but she did not use that word. She hinted until I knew what she was getting at. "It's called a floozy bath, you know? Only they don't use the word floozy. They use the bad word!" And she grinned at me when I said, “Mom! Yuck!”


Saturday night would find our hair being shampooed, slathered with "cream rinse," rinsed well and then put up in curlers that were miserable to sleep in.


Sunday mornings were a blur of "Who wants coffee?" and "Don't get gravy on that dress!" and "Where are my tan panty hose?". Even when we did not paint our nails for fear of offending God or fellow church members, we kept clear nail polish to extend the life of those panty hose. If you had a run, a dab of the clear polish would stop it in it's tracks. I remember how grown up I felt when I went from tights to hose. They felt so silky smooth. When I put them on I was painfully aware of how expensive they were and how careful you had to be with them. It was very hard to ruin a pair of tights and you probably bought them at a yard sale or got them as hand me downs anyway. They cost a dime and would last until you outgrew them. But panty hose came brand new from the store, cost more than six dimes, and one little slip and you would cause your daddy to have to buy you some new ones. Clear nail polish could not save a pair of hose forever. Still, I loved my panty hose and secretly rubbed my knees until I had made numb spots. Finally! Something cool about this being a girl stuff!


I had the best Sunday School teacher in the world. Her name was Sister Katherine. She taught with a gentle heart and a questing mind. She brought things to my attention in the Bible, things that I would have missed without her guidance. She helped me find an interest in the Bible and then helped me find any answers I sought. She was and is a sweet woman that made me suspect she had a core of strength about her that could not be shaken. I brought her roses from our pink and red rose bushes every Sunday that a rose could be found. Sometimes I brought her one of Mother's Dinnerplate Dahlias or some Gladiolas in an old mason jar. I loved and love Sister Katherine. She came to visit me when I was in the hospital with Meningitis. I sat with her almost every week at church and sometimes the congregation sang, "Tell me how did you feel when you... came out of the wilderness, came out of the wilderness, came out of the wilderness. Tell me how did you feel when you... came out of the wilderness, working for the Lord." I would watch her for signs that she was ready to rise up, sing, and move toward the front of the church. She and I always went up together. We would answer, "Well, I felt like praying" (Or singing, or praising, etc.) "When I came out of the wilderness," While we trooped to the front of the church, hand in hand. Sister Kathrine and I were a singers by heart and nature, and we often stood with the motley and random group in front of the church singing, "Farther Along" or "Just like a Tree That's Planted by the Water I Shall Not be Moved!"


Sister Katherine had a contest in which her students would sell things to raise money for the church. The more you sold the more points you earned and there was a book full of Biblical based prizes you could get with your points. I am not sure who I sold to, other than the people at our church who had no children or grandchildren in our Sunday School class and my own family (just a little, due to our poverty) but I easily earned my very own Bible. Mother helped me pick out a pretty white one. Then I continued to raise money and earn points mother and I chose a necklace set that was supposed to be shared between boyfriend and girlfriend. It came in two sections and said, "The Lord watch between me and thee while we are absent one from the other." Genesis 31:49. Once I had it in hand, I was perplexed about what I could do with it. Upon my mother's suggestion I gave half to Daddy and kept half myself. She said the necklace did not have to be for boyfriends and girlfriends, that it would work just fine for a daddy and daughter. After that, I continued to earn points and, again on my mother's suggestion, picked out a Bible for Sandi. Mother and I had picked out a white Bible for me, but I had sometimes wished that I had gotten one with a blue jean cover. So, I got that one for Sandi. All my mother got out of the contest was a few pretty wall hangings, that she bought from me, and the chance to influence me about how I spent my points. But she taught me a lot about gift giving during that contest and I still give her pretty awesome gifts today, so I like to think that it paid off for her in the long run.


I would have been impressed with my salesmanship abilities but, honestly, I thought everyone was good at sweet talking people into buying things. I also sold well for the sales clubs that advertised in the comic books I loved: Sales Leadership Club and Olympic Sales Club. For several years I earned some sweet cash selling some gorgeous cards and so on, and I think it's a shame that kids cannot experience that opportunity today. I wanted my sons to have that fun and excitement, the joy of receiving the catalog, the thrill of earning a dollar (or more) for each item you sold. I had so enjoyed with those clubs, and they funded many a trip to the skating rink or the movies or bought me more comics. But both the companies had gone out of business by the time my sons were the right age to sell the cards, and I could not find any other companies that did the same sort of thing for kids.


Fridays were church night days and also the day that my two best friends in all the world would usually show up to spend the weekend with me. My cousin Ramona, and my niece Tanya were practically my sisters on weekends and during school vacations. We were thick as thieves, but my mother would not allow me to go to their house, so most Friday evenings Mom, Dad, and I would drive to our mailbox (Sandi would not go out at night and Crit did not often go to church period.) The mailbox was about two miles of steep, rough road from the house, and there we would sit waiting on Lila and Barb and Elmer to pull up. Lila would drop off Tanya, and I would get a quick hug from my sister before she left again. Barb and Elmer would drop off Ramona, and I would hug my cousins in a happy “thank you” gesture before they left. Then Ramona, Tanya, and I would hop in the back of the truck and Dad and Mom would take us to the Friday night church service. If it was still daylight, we would stand, holding on to the rails Dad had built into the truck, and let the wind make it hard to hear each other talk about our school week. If it were dark we would settle down on quilts spread out in the truck bed. We would cover up with a blanket and lie there looking at the bright stars above us as the wind howled by and the tree branches flew past. We would do the same thing on the way home from church, and often they would ask me to tell them stories about the stars and planets far away. I would make up names for the stars we could see, and tell them about the planets that revolved around those stars, and the sort of creatures I imagined living way up there. They had family, and friends, and adventures. Ramona and Tanya were easily entertained and the night sky would drip with magic. Surprisingly, my mother allowed this even late in the autumn as the nights slid down earlier and cooler. It is one of the most magical memories of my childhood.


Our church was big on shouting, singing, and preaching so hard you gasped for breath with every third word. When I was growing up, they believed in talking in tongues, and they did not believe in musical instruments, or clapping in church. I was astounded when I went to church with my parents last year, for the first time in about fifteen years, and the church had a piano sitting tall and proud up front, a guy got up and played the guitar, and the congregation clapped in a luke-warm manner after he played. (In my opinion, if you're going to clap then CLAP! But I was still impressed.) Music in the church, clapping, and a woman's role in the church were some of the issues I argued about when I was eleven or twelve and first started reading the Bible for myself. Maybe they will have less fear of women in the future. I do hope so! I think God loves us every bit as much as he loves men. The church has, over the years, taken a new look at speaking in tongues and regard it with suspicion now, which my dad says is not a great idea. They have always rejected snake handling and the anointing of cloths, pointing out that no one in the Bible picked up a snake on purpose (“thou shalt not temp the Lord thy God!) and that, though Paul's clothing was anointed and sent out to the faithful, no where are we told to pray over pieces of clothing and send them out to others. They do firmly believe in the “laying on of hands” (the power of one Christian to be used by God to heal another.) They believe in being anointed with oil, and they faithfully believe in miracles, in the healing power of prayer and supplication. I have seen a few miracles, so I stand with them in that belief.


My parents started singing, sometimes individually but mostly together. They were quickly appreciated for this and often requested to sing, "I see a Bridge" and "The Old Model Church". My mother is to this day asked to sing "Come and Dine" on a fairly frequent basis, and she has even written a few original songs that I love to hear her sing.


If there was a revival going on at our church or one of the homes or churches that my parents liked to frequent then it would mean meetings each night for a week, or nine days, or three weeks, however long they felt led to keep coming back the next evening. Just as they did in Sunday meetings, great joyful voices would lift up the words, "Amen!", "Hallelujah!", "Praise the Lord", and "Jesus. Jesus. Jesus!" And just like at Sunday meetings, handshaking was a happy and spiritual event. But these services often ran longer and seemed more joyful. I liked and like revivals. The congregation would sing "Amazing Grace" and when they ran out of lyrics they simply sang, "Praise God. Praise God. Praise God. Praise God," to the same tune and with such emotion and spirit that you could nearly feel it crackling in the air. Someone would start singing, "Lord Send a Revival" and the church would join in.


Every so often, our church or another one we frequented would have a ground dinner. During these events everyone brought a covered dish, usually a tried and true signature dish that others would ask about, "Sister Carolyn, did you bring your pork roast?" After a normal type service which included prayer requests, prayers, songs by group and then by random volunteers, a lengthy sermon, and an alter call, which included more singing – after all that, everyone would get in line to eat the delicious food. Sometimes these meetings were memorial services and they would also call out the names of the dearly departed from the church and from congregation members families. More than once, I was certain I was going to starve. But, at last you could fill your plate up and pick a spot outside on the ground to sit down and eat it. Thus, they were called ground dinners. After several years, our church, and most every one we attended, added a kitchen and an area for long tables and "ground dinners" became simply "dinners", but the days of trying to find a relatively clean and bug free spot out of the sweltering sun to enjoy your plate heaped with ham and potato salad and chocolate cake are still etched in my mind and quite dear to my heart.


A couple of times a year, they held what was called “Foot Washing Services”. During these services the men washed each other men's feet, and the women washed other women's feet, and everyone partook of stale crackers (I tried one once) and approximately four drops of grape juice that was supposed to represent the wine Jesus passed around at the last supper. These services were less fun for the kids and always made me just a tad uncomfortable, but the Freewill Baptist found them crucial to their faith. I did point out that Jesus washed Mary Magdalene's feet and she his, but no one wanted some other man washing their wife's feet, so that was that.


Christmas services were extra special, especially on those days when Christmas fell on a Sunday. Sometimes I would be able to draw names with the other kids in my Sunday school class. I usually got a boy's name and we would buy him a model car or some sort of board game. If I got a girl's name we usually bought her a Barbie or a game. One year I was given a Diana Ross doll and thought she was a gorgeous Barbie doll. The congregation would all sing extra songs at the Christmas service, trying to squeeze in "Away in a Manger", and "Silent Night", and "Joy to the World", and all our other beloved Christmas carols. All the kids at church would be given a treat bag, filled with one orange, one apple, some nuts, a candy cane, raisins, and sometimes a small toy or two like you might find in cracker jacks. Sometimes the treat bag included cracker jacks as well. Occasionally it was the only orange and nuts I got that year, but most years Dad would find a way to buy a big bag of apples, a big bag of oranges, and a bag of mixed nuts in the shell. Sandi, Crit, and I would spend many happy hours cracking nuts and peeling oranges to munch on while we played cards, or listened to Christmas music on the radio, or watched Christmas shows on television. Most of the treat bag, Mother would make me keep to myself but, because I did not much care for candy canes and they weren't good for me anyway, she allowed me to largely give them away to our other family members. (I sometimes ate a very small piece.) My sweet tooth has (regrettably) grew over the years and I actually like candy canes now. Fortunately, I can now afford boxes of them, so I can still share!


Easter Sundays were always an event but somewhere in my teens they went from a church day where people came to church that only came twice a year, the sermon was always about the resurrection, and flowers were worn on many dresses, to services that include all of that but that happen at six am in the morning and are followed by a huge delicious breakfast. They call them Sunrise Services and my parents still go almost every year. I go with them if I'm in for an Easter visit and they are both feeling well enough to be up and out that early.


These days, my mother wears make up on a daily basis. She and Sandi both have really short hair, and Mom keeps telling me I would be so much happier if I would just cut my own hair "nice and short". I am convinced that I look chubbier and less feminine when it's short, and since I now like being a girl, I'm in no hurry to chop off all my hair and look less feminine. Still, she insists it would look and feel so good! She no longer thinks God will send her to hell if she wears pants, but she and Dad compromise on the dresses. He loves her in a dress and Mom loves to be warm, so she wears dresses in the warm months and pants through the cold ones. She now agrees with me when I say things like "God looks at our inside instead of our outside," and, though she and Dad personally eschew alcohol they no longer try to tell me that Jesus made grape juice or that I will go to hell if I cook with it or have one beer, etc. Since I better understand my mother's hatred of the stuff that her parents drank in great gallons, though, I generally don't bring up the subject. She still prefers rated G movies, but has broken down and watched several "clean" PG films.


Mother and Dad go to church every Wednesday night and Sunday morning. I remember church members complaining that their fellows could go to ball games every Friday night and scream their heads off for some team, but they could not warm their pew on Friday nights for God. I always assumed they eventually gave up and moved the weekly night service to Wednesdays so as to not compete with football, but I do not know for sure. Nearly every Sunday afternoon, Dad goes to a home service, to the radio station, or to some neighboring church to preach. Momma goes with him whenever her health allows. Revivals still happen but it seems like they are much less often than they used to be. They are now asked to sing, "I hope we Walk the Last Mile Together." No matter how many times I hear them sing it, it still brings a tear to my eye and joy to my heart.


Mother called me about the time my eldest son was born, 1988 or 1989, and said, "Your daddy has heard the call to preach! He's going to be a preacher, so what do you think about that?"


Without missing a beat, I said, "He's been preaching at me for years. It's about time someone else took a little of the heat." Mother laughed and Dad did too when she told him what I had said. Then I added, "Seriously though, I think that's great. He'll make a fine preacher."


And I was right. He's the finest preacher I've ever seen or heard tell of.


My parents are more fun to be around than they have ever been, and even when they disallowed so many things, they were fun people to hang out with.


Church and religion brought a lot of changes to my life, some painful, but most of them were good, and interesting, and colorful. Looking back I know, I would not give up my churchy childhood for all the make up and nail polish in the whole wide world.

SCHOOL DAYS: MUSIC, PLAYS, AND PERFORMANCES

Photos From LFE Costume Contest 1978

Taken by Mr. Dotson

THEN:


  One of my favorite things about school was music class. The elementary schools in my country were very fortunate in that we had a very passionate and fairly patient music teacher named Mrs. Deel, but we did have to share her and life would have been even better if we'd had much more time with her, studying music and drama. She taught us dozens of folks songs and allowed us to play with the musical instruments in her room upon occasion, always with direction and supervision. I remember many of the songs she taught us to this day and find myself humming or singing them as I go about my happenings. I taught most of them to my sons as they were growing up. They can belt out Erie Canal and Go Tell Aunt Rhody with the best of them!

  Mrs. Deel somehow also found the energy to produce and direct many plays throughout the school year. In the second grade we did a play based on nursery rhymes and folk songs. I had a part singing with a group of other kids and at first, I must confess, I wished for a larger/better role. My classmate Cindy H. was "Sweet Betsy From Pike" (one of the songs we sang) and I thought it might be fun to be the famous Betsy and have the limelight completely on me for a bit. I can still remember the look of horror on her face, though, when Mrs. Deel told her to roll around on the stage floor while we sang the lines:
"They soon reached the desert, where Betsy gave out,
And down in the sand she lay rolling about.
Ike in great wonder looked on in surprise,
Saying, "Betsy, get up, you'll get sand in your eyes."


  In the same play, my classmate Kevin M. was "Little Tommy Tucker Who Sang for his Supper." Cindy had to roll around on the floor, but Kevin had to sing "Tra la la la la la laaaaaa!" at the top of his voice. I watched them struggle, balancing the embarrassment of their roles with the wish to please Mrs. Deel and our teachers, and suddenly found that I was quite happy with my insignificant part in group choir. I'd do my tra la la-ing at a nice normal level along with several other kids, thank you very much!

  When I was in the fourth grade we took part in a Halloween play, and I was a ghost that sang and danced to "The Boogie Woogie Ghost". This was much better because there were only a few of us (four or five girls) and the song was fun, and we had sheets over our heads, so there was nothing embarrassing about it as I'd feared. But I might have been concerned about that for nothing because, for all my times on stage and in short films I've never suffered a moment of stage fright of any kind. I think perhaps when you are as silly, by nature, as I am, you have nothing to fear about performing. I'm an extreme introvert and probably spend more time alone than anyone you know, but I don't fear or at all mind being in front of crowds or performing. It's just not something I can enjoy as often as I do silence or the sound of the keyboard clipping under my fingertips.

  The Boogie Woogie Ghost song was so much fun that I find myself humming and singing it every year when Halloween starts creeping up. When the song was over, we were supposed to stand quietly against the side curtain while other acts were happening center stage. I was happy enough to do that, but they had this hinged black cat hanging from the wall or curtain (I don't recall which) near my head. You may or may not have seen decoration like this in your school. He was made of thick paper and his limbs were attached with little round pieces of metal which made them hinged. Thus he could be arranged however the decorator liked, kicking up one foot, standing straight and tall, swinging his arms over his head, etc.

  Everything went off without a hitch in the countless practices and for several rehearsals, of course, but when the play itself was happening and at our final show, the one we performed for our parents, that cat's leg slipped down and bonked me on the head! Very surreptitiously, and with "good girl" intentions I put it back exactly where it had been. A few moments later it bonked me in the head again. This time I heard a few people in the audience snicker. I smiled, glad that at least the annoying cat was entertaining. I was pretty sure the play was losing them. I put the leg back approximately where it had started out, but less than a minute later it bonked me on the head again. With great frustration and not the least bit of stealth, I shoved the cats leg up much higher than it had originally started out, and I took the largest step forward that I could take. Considering there were other children almost directly in front of me, that was a very small large step. Several people in the audience laughed outright at my newest antics, and I realized that the cat must look funny now. He or she was really kicking up the heels, or paws, as it were. I felt my original frustration melt away as I imagined how the whole scene had looked from the audience's perspective. How entertaining! I watched as the kids on the stage and the teachers back stage looked around in confusion. Nothing center stage was intended to be funny and yet the audience kept snickering. I had to contain the desire to whisper some not-so-quiet explanation about that danged hinged cat. I could hear the adults in the audience whispering to one another and saw many of them pointing at me. I watched them and realized I did not mind one bit that they were looking my way. Once again the hinged cat struck and still managed to bonk me firmly on the head, despite my stepping forward. Without stopping to think it out, I turned and angrily shoved the cat's foot all the way up in front of it's own face. The audience roared with appreciation. I felt my anger melt away completely. This was great fun! But when I turned back around, I could see Mrs. Deel scowling and shaking her head at me. I understood, the show must go on and it was not a show about Dee Dee and the Danged Hinged Cat. I resolved to do absolutely nothing the next time that leg fell, but I had finally put it up well enough that it did not bonk me even one more time. The cat stared at his own toe claws for the remainder of the play and I'm certain Mrs. Deel breathed a sigh of relief.

  In Mr. Dotson's 5th grade class, to my great delight, I was selected to play a witch. I loved Sabrina the Teenage Witch and Wendy the Good Witch both of comic book fame and Bewitched was my favorite television show of all time. I had a real love for witches! Mr. Dotson and his assistance (forgive me I do not remember that lovely ladies name!) helped many of us make our own props and/or costumes pieces for the play. For me that meant they helped me make my witch hat. On the last day before Halloween the school had a costume contest. I was selected as a finalist but probably the school made hat and the witchy dance I did when I had to walk for the judges got me that far. My "costume" itself was just a black dress and black stockings and black shoes. As a finalist, I spent several hours sitting on the bleachers with a lot of other kids that were waiting while the contestants were being chosen and then slowly eliminated. I spent a lot of time getting to know a very nice guy named Shane, even better than I'd already known him, and I had already thought he was one of the coolest and nicest guys in school. I remember thinking though, that it would have been better if this break from class had happened last year or even next year. It was not be too bad to be in the room with Mr. Dotson and my classmates. Mr. Dotson was by far my favorite teacher ever.

  In the witch play I did my part and was rewarded with Mr. Dotson's and Mrs. Deel's appreciation and warm words. It was a fun play and seemed a success to me. Though I don't remember if Rose said, "It," once we had an audience in front of us. She was a classmate that had an awful time saying her lines. Rose was a deep country girl and was supposed to say, "It's come," or "It's here." I don't remember which. I do remember that she usually pronounced "It" in the hillbilly manner which my mother discouraged from her girls. Still, I was very familiar with it because my adopted uncle, always, and my dad, sometimes, said, "Hit," instead of "It." Poor Rose was forced to approach the stage over and over, struggling to remember to say, "It" instead of "Hit." Many of her classmates laughed at her, including, I am sad to admit, myself. But I did approach her later and tell her I didn't understand why they wouldn't just let her say "Hit." She smiled warmly at me, and I knew she was too sweet to hold grudges, or perhaps was not even offended when we snickered when she was told repeatedly, "No. No! Rose! IT, not HIT. Go back off the stage and try it again."

  The next year I had traded schools and was going to CES instead of LFE, and Mrs. Deel selected me to play the lead in a play called Mrs. Frosty February. I was possibly selected because I had failed two grades and was older than all the other kids, thus looking more matronly than the other girls. But, given my short stature and baby face, I can hope that Mrs. Deel was suitably impressed with my witch performance. Perhaps she remembered that hinged cat and felt I was going to steal the limelight anyway so she might as well give it to me. (I'm assuming not since I was on my best behavior as the witch, but it is possible.) It was fun being the lead in the play and memorizing more lines than the other kids was not a problem. I've always been pretty good at remembering words when I want to, it is numbers that leak out of my brain like an unstanched wench. Maybe they slip out my ears while I am sleeping? I do not know. The only lines I remember from the play, however, were my friend April's lines. She had to recite the poem: "Afternoon on a Hill" by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950) who was born in February. The poem went:


I will be the gladdest thing
  Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
  And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds        
  With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
  And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
  Up from the town,        
I will mark which must be mine,
  And then start down!


  I fell in love with the verse and asked April to write it down for me. She did and I memorized it along with my own lines. As she spoke it in front of the audience I could have quietly fed her her lines if she'd lost her grip on them. Later all the miscellaneous lines I had to learn drifted out of my head, but because I still repeated that one to friends or family or to myself, it remains in my head for my enjoyment. I still have the paper where April wrote the poem down at my request too. It's in a cherished scrapbook.

  I don't remember any issues with Mrs. Frosty February; Everything went smoothly. And years later, when I first became a mother, in that same grand month, I looked down that the baby and thought of that play. Here is another, and the very best, reason to love February. I was Mrs. Frosty February indeed then, and will be forevermore.

  In the sixth grade, Mrs. Deel herded us through a rather elaborate Christmas Play. I was elected as part of the choir once again and was fine with that role. I enjoyed standing near my very good friend, Stuart and singing, "Winter Wonderland," while that magical white stuff drifted down outside making it more and more likely we might get to head home early for the day. The most memorable bits of that play were when one of our teachers, the formidable and sometimes even frightening Mrs. M. said, "Another one Bites the Dust!" right after another glass Christmas ornament was accidentally nudged off a garland they had strung up behind us. It crashed to pieces on the hard wooden floor of the stage. The class had no idea she even knew what modern songs were. I suppose we all thought she listened to dirges in her dungeon. We erupted into laughter when the normally hard-assed teacher quoted Queen for our amusement.

  Another time, they had the kids line up along the stage. Trying to fit all three classes in one row (almost 100 kids) on the stage proper, they had us stand sideways and scrunch up pretty tightly. My pal, David V., was snug against me from behind in a manner that we were forced into. I was pretty sure this was not the best position to force a bunch of sixth graders into and was grateful (for once) that I was a girl and also grateful I had a girl standing in front of me. I was trying to not feel David behind me and striving to survive this embarrassing experience when he made it all better by saying jovially, "Gee your hair smells terrific!" He quoted it from a commercial for shampoo with that same long name, "Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific!" I started giggling and turned my head so Mrs. M. would not see me and impale me on a bed of nails or feed me to the pet alligators she kept in her mote. Soon the teachers realized we were too many to fit across the stage in such a manner and separated us into two lines, to my great relief.

  The last memorable thing I held onto about that Christmas play was learning a new song. This was in the days when you could do the full out Nativity scene in a school play and it was part of this one. We also sang several "religious" songs including "Joy to the World", which I already knew from singing it every Christmas at home and at church, and "Children Go Where I Send Thee," which was brand new to me and helped make that play a very happy one indeed. I loved that song and loved to learn new things!

  Due to my mother not allowing any after school or outside of school activities (other than church related ones, and my church never did a play or anything cool like that while I was growing up.) I enjoyed being part of 4H activities and competitions, forensic contest (speech and debate) and talent contests at school. I was the happiest 4H member in the world. I studied one subject after another, going through several books in one year when some of my classmates studied the same thing all year and might not even finish it. I could tell you everything you wanted to know and more about horses, dogs, cats, whales, dolphins, gardening, and more. I jumped on every school related activity that did not require money. I sang "Love is a Rose" with my friend Cindy D. We practiced until Sandi was so sick of the song she said she hoped she never heard it again in her whole life. I danced to Queen's "Body Language" with Nancy and Michelle. I heard that song on the radio the other day and the images came flooding back in a happy rush. I remembered a couple of the moves, how we all helped choreographed our dance, debating who should stand in the middle, the blonde (me) or the tallest (Michelle.) I think we wound up putting me in the middle, but I am not certain. I nearly blushed at the lyrics. I found myself astounded that we did not meet with more resistance when we danced to that song on a school stage. Perhaps the teachers could not clearly understand the lyrics. There was little to no micromanaging in those days, though we kids certainly thought grown ups were in our business way too much. We picked out a song and practically pole danced in school and no one said a word other than, "Good job!". It is probably thanks to kids like us, that kids these days  have to get their acts and songs approved. We just marched up there and surprised them with our gyrating hips and the forthright and sexual lyrics. "You've got the cutest ass I've ever seen." Though some of the words left me scratching my head back then, and I still do not know what they mean. "Knock me down for a six any time."? I do remember some of the teachers looking surprised. I do not remember being embarrassed. I only remember thinking the act might be a hit, especially with the boys. Now, I find myself wondering why we rather conservative and usually "good little girls" did not hesitate in our choice. It had a fun beat, and it was a neat new song, that was all we cared about.

  In forensic contests, I read "The Raggedy Man" (in honor of Crit, our own Raggedy Man) and "Elisabeth Blackwell" (at the formidable Mrs. M.s suggestion and because I loved the idea behind that poem.) I learned and loved "The Cremation of Sam McGee" when my friend Daniel S. read it and "Casey at the Bat" when some other schoolmate read that one. Each time I participated in these events I felt enhanced. I wished for more and more of them. Why did we have so few of these activities throughout the school year? Each time I fell more in love with words and poetry, with music, with dance, and with all the performing arts. And every time I marveled that I did not have the "stage fright" most of my friends spoke of. I was there to read to the audience, to dance, to sing. This was a gift I was giving them and they could listen and watch or they could get up and leave the room. It mattered not a whit to me. But I had learned so many cool songs and more from these events, I felt they would be fools to get up and leave. Besides, would they rather be in the classroom? I figured not. And if they left, I knew I would still be enhanced by the experience, by the act of giving. Yes, this was my gift to them, but in giving them something I gave myself a gift too. I strengthened my connections and made myself more present. Such is the way of giving, of all of life, most all the time. Give, and it shall be given unto you. Luke 6:38. I decided that the Bible for sure got that one right!