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| 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.
