Southern Baptist Side-eye: A Christmas Tale

Opening the passenger door of the maroon Jeep Cherokee, I yelled, “Hey Sissy!” to my sister.  She laughed and yelled back, “Hey Spencer!  Welcome back to the boonies!”  We are visiting Amarillo, Texas, for Christmas. Amarillo is a town I never lived in and it is so far north in Texas, that if states were actual squares, it would be considered part of Oklahoma.  However, do not say that to any of the residents of this part of the state. To say no les gusta, Oklahoma, would be an understatement. 

My sister moved here from East Texas when her daughter (Bailey) married a rancher (Rowel) who manages 50,000 acres just outside Channing, northwest of Amarillo. Since my mother died, I have considered wherever my sister lives to be “home”, as in I’ll be home for Christmas.  Of course, Amarillo isn’t really the boonies; it’s an actual town of almost 200,000, mostly cowboys.  My sister resides in a teeny-tiny town of about 900, situated about 30 miles west of Amarillo.  I joke that it’s about 15 feet from New Mexico, but it’s so close you can see the border as there isn’t much to block your view, the occasional six-foot tall tumbleweed notwithstanding.

                My husband (Tam) and I took the redeye from Los Angeles and we are more than ready to have breakfast at Cracker Barrel, something we don’t have in Southern California.  Sissy had promised queso, grits, iced tea, queso, shopping, then more queso and finally, buttermilk pie followed by just a bit more queso.  For me, home (Texas) is for visiting, eating and shopping, in that order, and the visiting had already commenced.

                Although I grew up in the South and spent several extremely influential years (ages 12-16) in East Texas, I haven’t lived in these parts for almost 20 years, so to say I am “from here” is inaccurate.  However, I would confidently say that I know these people and how and why they think and act as they do.  Tam does not and is somewhat apprehensive, although he visited the first time a year ago. 

Watching the news and hearing people talk about The South, he is concerned about racism as he is from the Philippines.  I have explained to him that Texas isn’t truly a Southern state, but that he shouldn’t worry.  Most small-town Texans don’t have a frame of reference for recognizing the ethnic gradations of Southeast Asia.  They recognize Black, White and Brown.  “If they notice that you’re dark-complexioned, they’ll think you’re Hispanic and other than possibly expecting you to clean something, they won’t give you a second look.” 

As we ate, Sissy reminded us that her little church (First, and only, Baptist) was having their Christmas Service tomorrow and that Victoria, her best friend and the preacher’s wife, was hoping we would attend.  I had assumed this would be the case and had planned our wardrobe appropriately.  I would avoid wearing my brightly colored chinos; not need to frighten the villagers.   Once we exhausted ourselves shopping, laughing and eating everything we can’t get in LA, including introducing Ben to the wonder that is a Fried Twinkie, we headed to Vega and crashed at Sissy’s new house, a scant half-mile from the Dairy Queen.

The next morning, after a breakfast of sausage biscuits (with mine dipped in cane syrup), we started getting dressed.  I had brought an argyle turtleneck in a very heterosexual navy, gray and winter white, with coordinated winter white chinos and grey suede loafers.  It was the least gay cold-weather ensemble I owned, purchased specifically for this trip. I didn’t want to startle the townsfolk at Jesus’ early birthday party.  While I was chatting with Sissy, Tam walked in and asked, “Which sweater, orange or pink?”

I turned to look and said, “I’m thinking orange is less gay than pink, but bright colors are always suspect.  What do you think, Sissy?”

“Oh, orange is fine.  No one is going to say anything.”

“True,” I said.  “Plus, you look great in orange.  And there is only one other person in America who looks good in orange and I feel pretty sure that Lupita Nyong’o won’t be at First Baptist.”

We piled into the Cherokee and made our way literally one mile down the street, traversing the entirety of the commerce in Vega, including the aforementioned Dairy Queen, Dollar General and Allsup’s gas station and deli.  We wheeled into the parking almost knocking down a woman with weather-defying hair, carrying a cake plate.  Bailey rolled down her window and said, “So sorry, Miss Vonda, I didn’t see you there!”  Miss Vonda laughed and said, “The Lord’s protecting me and this cake.  Don’t you worry.” 

We crossed the parking lot and Bailey’s cell phone rang.  She answered and as she talked, she rolled her eyes and said, “Well hurry up.  We’re going inside.”

Turning to me she said, “Bailey and Rowel and the girls are gonna be late.  They just left their house and it’s a 20-minute drive.”

Matching her eye roll, I said, “Good lord.  I thought Bailey was always on time, like me or Mother.”

“She’s a little slower these days, since she had Macy.  Don’t forget Olivia is just three and Rowel can only help with getting Olivia dressed in her gown for bedtime.  It’s one and done. Actual clothes with the hairbows and the leotards and the shoes are not his cup of tea.  Saddling a horse?  Sure.  Dressing a wiggly toddler, not so much. 

“Come on, I see Dakota’s Mom walking in the front door and she wanted to meet you.  She was sick last year when y’all were here.  She loves your books.”

“Oh yeah, I see her.”

“How do you know which one is her?  Y’all never met.”

“Well, that woman right there looks exactly like Dakota, but older.  That’s some strong DNA.”

We slipped into the sanctuary and sat on the next to the back row, on the end by the back door.  I always have an escape route; I don’t trust America.  We were right in front of Dakota’s mother and as I didn’t see anyone’s coat or Bible saving their spot, we appeared to be in the clear.

Victoria came over to say Hi, with her three kids (Nehemiah, Ariel and Noah).  She gave me a hug and said, “Why are y’all sittin’ so far back?”  Hugging her right back I said, “Once a Baptist, always a Baptist.”  Preacher’s wives have to sit on one of the first two rows as they are theoretically interested in what their spouse if preaching.  The wife of the Chairman of the Deacons sits on the next row back.  These are just the rules in a Southern Baptist Church. 

We turned around and said hello to Mom of Dakota (Marjorie).  Sissy said, “Hi, Miss Marjorie, this is my brother Spencer.”  Turning to Tam, she said, “And this is my…Tam.  Our Tam.”  She looked panicked as she almost said, “Brother-in-Law”.  I laughed and said, “Yes!  Our Tam is just the best” and gave him what I thought was a manly punch on the arm. 

We hadn’t discussed how to introduce Tam and we didn’t realize it until Sissy was in the middle of the introduction.  I know that we should have just been honest but there is no need to bring up all that stuff when we are only at their church for an hour every year.  You never know if people are open-minded or not, so I don’t feel the need to poke the bear, as it were.  However, I noticed Marjorie look at my wedding band and look at Tam’s matching wedding band and give herself that knowing nod and us a sweet smile.  No flies on her.

We sat down, and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, what I thought was my mother.  I knew it wasn’t her as she died almost 19 years ago, but the woman looked so much like her that my breath caught in my chest. 

I turned to Sissy and said, “That woman looks just like Mother!”

“I know,” Sissy said.  “The first Sunday we were here, I hugged her before I could stop myself.  She was so flattered when I told her why, so she hugs me every Sunday.”

“I totally want to hug her, too.”

“Right?” Sissy said as she called her over.
                “Miss Libby, this is my brother Spencer, from California.  I just love your sparkly sweater.”

“Well thank you, sweetie.  I find that the older I get, the more glitter I need,” Miss Libby said, laughing.  “Turning to me, she said, “Do you want to give me a hug, darlin’?”  I really did and so I did.

Tam didn’t understand what had just happened and when I was trying to explain, he said, “Don’t most people simply say hello to someone they only just met?”

Sissy and I laughed.  I said, “If they’re not Baptists.” 

Once we sat down and the service started, we were treated to a Christmas song or twelve. I swear, I think everyone at the church besides Sissy, Tam and I either sang a song or played the piano.  Sitting between me and Sissy were Olivia (they had finally arrived with Olivia interrupting the preacher by yelling, “Hey GiGi!” as soon as they saw us) and Victoria’s daughter, Noah and their kiddie accoutrement, consisting of toys, books, snacks and other Sunday School debris. 

Once we sat down, they had passed out candles for the Candlelight Ceremony that would end the service.  Unfortunately, in a rookie move, I laid mine down with all the kid stuff, so when the lights were turned off, I had to go on a treasure hunt, just to be able to participate.  Church is like the movies, so I didn’t want to turn on my phone, so I started picking through the things on the bench and lifting them up to the little light coming from the narthex behind me.  It took me a few minutes to sort through a water bottle, coloring book, candy cane, toy horse, a second toy horse, the rider of the first toy horse according to Noah, a children’s Bible and finally my candle.

Right when they started lighting the candles, I remembered a service when I was in high school where one of the kids accidentally caught her hair on fire with her candle and my mother hurdled over two pews like she was Gail Devers in the Olympics, to put out the hair-fire.  As soon as she did that, all the kids handed their candles to their parents. 

For some strange reason I got the giggles and before I could stop myself, I let out one quick snort.  Although it was dark, I could feel Bailey cut her eyes in a very judgmental way, just like a Mom.  Nothing says “Happy Birthday, Jesus” like candlelight, stifled giggles and a dash of Southern Baptist side-eye.

Happy New Year, y’all.