When I was growing
up we had two sets of clothes; school and church and never the twain met. That is until the fateful night we attended
the Jay Strack Youth Revival in Paris, Texas.
We were going to listen to Brother Strack talk about Jesus on a personal
level specifically for the teens. It
was to be at the football field of Paris Junior College where we would, just a
year later, watch Kerry Von Erich wrestle. It was also where, two years later, I would
take Driver’s Ed with a teacher who taught me very important and specific
skills like how to maneuver the Braum’s drive-thru and how to independently
practice parallel parking at the post office while he was inside mailing things
for his wife.
I was unsure what
led me to do it but I was feeling a bit rakish when I decided to pair my
only-for-Sunday-school pink oxford button down with my Wrangler jeans. I also used the only-for-Sunday-school belt that
had come with my only-for-Sunday-school light gray dress pants; a striped
number with shades of gray, blue, pink and white. I still wore my grey fake ostrich boots as
these were the only other shoes I had save for those shoes that, while called
tennis, were never used for such an activity.
To say this caused
quite a scandal is to overstate it in respect to the adults. I don’t remember anyone noticing much of
anything, but the siblings and cousins who were near my age were shocked and
thought I was straight running crazy.
Especially since I had taken the belt and for some reason turned it
around to where the buckle was in the back; thinking, I suppose, it looked
cooler. I have since seen that in a
number of magazines and fashion shows, but I can assure you I invented that
look in 19 and 83, people. Seeing as how
the only magazine I was privy to at that time was the Bogata Baptist Church Sunday Bulletin,
I feel sure I didn’t copy that look. It
must have been divinely inspired.
I can tell you I
received quite a number of looks when we presented to the stands to take our
seats. I feel pretty sure it was my
outfit and not the fact that there were so many people disembarking from one
vehicle. My mother, brother, sister, two
aunts, five cousins, a grandmother and I all fit in the Chevy Suburban back in
the days when seat belts were unused and as many children as could fit would be stacked in the “back end”.
During the sermon,
I felt a tug at my heart. Jesus was calling,
y’all, and I was determined to answer.
During the call to prayer, I began to stand to move down the bleachers
toward the prayer leaders when my sister grabbed me by my fashion-forward belt
buckle (you remember it was in the back just above the Wrangler patch) and
wouldn’t let go. I quietly asked her to
stop pulling on me as I was simply heeding the call of Jesus, as sinners should. She told me to sit down as I was not leaving
her sitting by herself on the row; we were behind the adults as this was not
our first rodeo, both literally and metaphorically. One cannot be thumped in the back of the head
for whispering or giggling or doodling (not that we did those things) if the
thumpers were in front of the intended thumpees. No flies on us.
Using all the
strength I could muster while trying to walk sideways, I wrenched myself from
the black-hearted grasp of my sister and fled down to where the prayer warriors
were waiting to talk to those who felt Jesus calling. Well, not so much fled as walked as quickly
as you can in cowboy boots on metal bleachers without disturbing anyone in
communication with the Lord. Baptists
have been led to believe that while Jesus is both omnipotent and omnipresent,
He is apparently hard of hearing as we don’t make a peep in church, y’all. Not a peep.
We leave all that hollerin’ and whatnot to the others, which is
everybody else from Methodists on down.
To clarify, hollerin’ means any noise outside of the one Deacon who is
allowed to say “Amen!” but only at the appropriate time in the sermon, which I
assume had been agreed upon prior to Sunday morning. I always imagined that Deacon and the
Preacher practiced on Saturday nights.
And I only refer to color of my sister’s heart as I had been taught in
Sunday School that your heart is “black with sin” prior to giving your life to
Christ; after that you heart and soul are as white as snow. I had to assume my sister was in
the throes of the devil himself to try to stop me from meeting Jesus down front,
which is what we call the altar.
Once I made it
down front, I remembered that I had already been saved in the 4th grade after
watching the movie “Like a Thief in the Night” at Parkview Baptist Church in Tallulah, Louisiana.
With that revelation, I simply re-dedicated my life to Him and after a
number of teary-eyed hugs, much like a sorority girl on bid day, I made my way
back to my family. They were gathered around my little brother who was upset. Apparently he
had also felt led, at whatever tender age you are in third grade, to follow me
down front. However, he had been unable
to break my sister’s grasp and was therefore resigned to an eternity in hell so
my sister wouldn’t have to sit alone on a row that contained at least a dozen
other souls, but none she "knew".
My mother
assured my brother he would not perish eternally and scolded my sister who did not feel led to apologize. While that was happening, my
grandmother, Mama Dot, noticed my outfit and said, “Look here, son, you’ve
prayed so hard you turned your belt around!” and proceeded to move it to where
the buckle was in the front. Then she
gave me little side hug and we piled back into the Suburban. What could I do? Back then angst cost money and I was broke,
plus I loved my Mama Dot to Reese’s Pieces, so I left the buckle where it was
and decided to focus on more pressing matters. I had to figure out how to save my sister's soul. I looked over at her, sitting in the middle seat sulking and eyeing me condescendingly, her black
heart beating away as if it was as pure and white as mine.
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