I've Got a Bad feeling About This
With
summer fast approaching and the world still existing despite some faulty quack prognoses,
I looked forward to my self-motivated Saturday morning ritual of cereal,
cartoons, and all-day bicycle riding and exploring. The fast track to lazy,
hazy days was upon me... so I thought.
My plans were
harshly interrupted before they even began the summer of '82 when, on that
first Saturday I awoke early for what my parents promised to be an
adventure in the country. It seemed legit as we tossed a few canned drinks
in an ice chest and we all took the 25-mile drive from Hinds to Rankin County
to explore a promising country living development with lakes to fish and woods
to hunt. I remained partially in the dark to what the full plan was.
I suppose the knowledge of packing up our semi-urban lives and moving out to
the woods was on a need to know basis to a nine-year-old boy.
As I put
two and two together, my enthusiasm arose at the prospect as we approached a
clubhouse, lake, playground, and a pool full of other kids splashing and having
fun. Whatever the arrangement, I was warming to the idea.
We met with a
rather charismatic mustached salesman in a full suit. Him and my dad only
spoke for a moment. I got the impression this was not their first conversation.
We piled into
our vehicle and he in his as we then followed him away from the main clubhouse
to a more remote area of this resort-like development. After about three miles
and just one turn to the right, we then headed back down a narrow gravel road. A
short tenth of a mile, and we came to a stop.
Right away I had an uneasy sense as I
looked around to see nothing more than dense woods. I spotted a small camper
trailer with a vegetable garden right outside the front door. It looked like a modest
getaway for a single retiree to just come and grow his tomatoes and drink his
beer in peace. On the opposite side of the road was a small white house tucked
back among the trees with rabbit cages stretched out across the property. But
where we looked... right in front of me… there was nothing. Nothing but woods.
I was under the impression that the
plan involved moving to a new home. Primitive camping was not my idea of
creature comforts. But I watched my dad as he stepped out into the thick
foliage to take a better look. He didn’t gaze into the same nothingness as
I. In his mind’s eye was something more. His dream lay right here, and we were
all included. Despite my chagrin, I found encouragement. My bold and fearsome
leader pointed the way and I invested in his ambition with full intention.
But the summer turned nightmarish and I
wafted on my commitment the very next weekend. Just like the Saturday before,
we woke before sunrise, packed an ice chest, took along a few sling blades,
shovels, rakes, and a chain saw, and headed back out to the country. My time to
sleep late would not happen for a second weekend in a row. Already off to an
ill start, the day would only get worse.
Dad wasted no time barking out the orders and
I was the only who resisted. Everyone else seemed happy pulling limbs, raking,
shoveling, chopping, and doing whatever to clear out a sufficient spot to build
a home. Even my four-year-old sister enjoyed herself.
For me, the whole summer lay wasted. There
would be no Saturday morning cartoons. No bike explorations. No lazy days. It
was all rake and dig and burn and dig and chop and rake and dig....
After several weeks, we ceased visiting. We
were finished. We had cleared the spot, and now it was up to the builders
to come build the house.
One Thursday night as we were coming back
from my parents' bowling league, we stopped in to check progress. There it sat;
a brand-new house. Our time in the trailer park was over and my parents were
home and land owners. I wish I had the same enthusiasm as they, but I
didn't. Change was not what I wished for. Things were fine the
way they were.
It was a shell home meaning there was still
much work to do. The contractor built the water tight exterior complete with
windows, doors, and a shingled roof. It was up to us to provide the labor for
the interior paint, flooring, heating and cooling, and we had to get it all
done before the winter. Again: I was less than enthused.
Picking out new furniture was fun. I would
get the bunk beds I always wanted. My sister got her little princess canopy
bed. Everything was brand new from the living room suit to the dining set.
The prospect of a new school was exciting too
even as I wondered how I would fit in with these country kids. But a fresh new
wardrobe would help curb any anxiety I had.
Moving into a house we had to finish was still
a pain, but by the time November rolled around, it all made sense. The warmth
and coziness of our new home helped me realize that I was more than just a
benefactor in the effort. This was my reward, and I took great pride in it. I
lamented all the whining I did; quite a lesson for a young lad, but one I
accepted. I still have the callouses on my hands I earned that one summer. The
time to relax by the fireplace and enjoy our first Christmas in our new
home happened upon us.
I missed
my old friends, and the summers spent in the Village Apartments where Mamaw had
lived before she came to live with us. Still, I approached the whole prospect
of a new neighborhood, a new school, and new friends with newfound enthusiasm.
School in
the country was far more laid back than the city public education I had
grown accustomed to.
I adjusted
well to free range living out in the county. I can't recall the actual number
of fist fights I got into on the playground. I even found myself enjoying the
occasional skirmish as I would take the place of the aggressor often. It seemed
as if everyone was fighting and tussling. Teachers never even took notice of
the scuffles that took place on an almost daily basis. It's possible they did
and just left us alone to duke it out. Small in stature, I learned to be fast
and furious. I made sure I threw the first punch. And the second. And the
third. I would never give my opponent an opportunity to get a lick in. It was a
dirty tactic, but it's what I had to do. And I found out the hard way that it
wasn’t one hundred percent effective.
County school had a few downtime days, especially around holidays. We would get a special treat of
television time on the end-of-year slow days. Yet where the public school stuck
to educational programming like The Electric Company or 3-2-1 Contact, the
county school took more liberties with programs of entertainment value; always
left to the teacher's discretion without interference from fellow
administrators.
I recall watching The Fighting
Sullivans in fourth grade. Old black and white movies weren't my thing. I got
my fill of war and western flicks between my dad and uncle and I didn't
have much of a taste for such. But I watched this one and found it entertaining.
And towards the end of the year (for whatever
reason) Mrs. Graveless chose to show us a taped HBO special chronicling the
predictions of Nostradamus: The Man Who Saw Tomorrow narrated by Orson Welles.
I still struggle with understanding the
appropriateness of sharing visions of world destruction and a coming nuclear
holocaust with a classroom of nine and ten year-olds. This was the seat of our
learning and at our most impressionable. I’m baffles as to why Mrs. Graveless
thought this was a good idea.
It gave me a timeline to life within
which to work, setting the stage early for a nihilistic approach to being. This
world would meet its impending demise somewhere around the year 1996. I had but
about thirteen years left to experience the pleasures of existence, knowing
doom awaited.
I expressed none of this to my parents. All
of my concerns I kept to myself. They wouldn't believe any of it. I had no
reason not to. I sought comforting answers on my own. There had to
be something bigger than this life to remind me of peace even amid
mass destruction. If it all fell apart tomorrow, I needed something to sustain
me.
The closest Baptist church did not have a bus
ministry as Mamaw and I had grown accustomed to. And even if there was one, she
was convinced she would not even like the church. She longed for worship
and fellowship of our small church back in Jackson as did I.
We went without for quite a while. There was
no need to even give the local Baptist church any consideration. I trusted her
on this. If something in her spirit caused her uneasiness or discomfort, I
found it best to follow her leadership.
We had an interesting family of neighbors
around the corner from us; a family of five with three school age children, two
boys and a girl.
I didn't play with them often because they
were a religious family and the father came off as very rigid. I enjoyed
listening to Prince, Ozzy, and Quiet Riot. Such music was strictly off limits
to them.
I'm not sure when or how the
invitation came, but they invited us to attend a church revival with them. And
though they may not have been the standards-bearing fundamental Pentecostals
familiar to the oneness holiness movement, they considered themselves
spirit-filled and kept no secrets how they worshipped. Mamaw knew exactly what
to expect should we take them up on the offer.
She had taught me that Pentecostals were not
right. There was something askew in their beliefs. The intense and passionate
nature of their worship can be overwhelming, and she was thoroughly familiar
with their liturgical style. I was not. I would walk into this
experience a clean slate.
There was no containing her desire to
worship, and the family was gentle in their persuasion that we should
attend a service with them. It was revival week; a time for visitors.
Therefore, we expected treatment as welcome guests and not as intruders
(although I'm not sure why that would be a concern).
On a Wednesday night during spring break,
Mamaw and I hopped into their mini-van with the rest of the gang and headed off
to church for the first time in months. The only thing I knew about their
beliefs was that they had an ability to speak in another language simply known
as Speaking in Tongues.
Knowing they were familiar with the language
of the spirit, I asked if they could teach me a few words. Amused, the mom
replied: "It does not work that way."
This confused me. How could someone profess to
speak a different language and not communicate simple words and phrases? It
made no sense.
Mamaw jittered with nervous energy. I
could tell she was rethinking her decision to visit this unfamiliar house of
worship. I couldn't understand why. Church was church.
As we arrived, it mattered little if I knew
anyone or vice versa. I liked being the good church boy. I loved the favor of
pastors and deacons and little old ladies who would smile as they would tell
others, "That boy will be a preacher someday."
As per my custom in any and every church I
attended, I took myself a seat down on the front row. The sanctuary was the
right size to accommodate around a hundred parishioners. Traditional wood pews
padded and covered with a burgundy textile provided comfortable seating to all attendees.
Fresh flowers complemented the communion table in front of the pulpit. Nothing
at all struck me as out of the ordinary until I noticed a drum set in the
musician's corner. This was my first time to ever see percussion in a church.
Amongst our host parishioners, I couldn’t
help but notice more younger to middle-aged families than I was used to.
Churches I was accustomed to had a majority of seniors. Not this one. Elders certainly
attended, all right. But even they seemed different. They were in charge, but
only as guideposts of integrity. They were not insistent on running the show. Every
collective body has its measure of politics. But this governing structure was
less of a democracy and more of a theocracy. That was my impression, anyway.
Many friendly faces greeted me before the
service began. Yet the kids I came with shied away from the front pews. This
puzzled me.
Once things kicked off, it didn't take me long
to realize we would not sing just three stanzas of Bringing In The Sheaves and
sit down. Despite not recognizing many of the songs at all, I had never
witnessed such a level of energy in worship. As believers clapped along, raised
their hands, shouted, and danced in their pews, I second guessed my decision to
sit down front. It made sense to me now why my friends avoided this area.
In between songs, I would look around to
witness a crowd who, with shouts of "Glory! Hallelujah!" seemed to
convulse as if possessed. If their eyes had not been closed, I would have sworn
they rolled into the back of their heads.
I stood, frozen, amazed, fascinated, and a
little frightened. Yet all my anxiety would melt away as the home Pastor called
the entire congregation down to the front to join hands in a circle for a
moment of solidarity in prayer. Astonished at the energy of such a group, I
realized how small the congregation really was.
My mind
was set at ease when a couple of elders of the church took my hand on either
side. It was also the first I had seen of a church praying audibly all at the
same time. The Pastor led with the microphone, but all others affirmed his
petitions with "Yes!" and "Amen!" even before the prayer
ended. Some babbled incoherently by opening their mouths and allowing whatever
nonsensical utterance to roll from their lips. I realized: This must be the
language of the tongues. No wonder I struggled to understand it before. Even
now, it still made little sense.
Despite my slight disinclination to fully
accept all that was going on around me, I was in no danger. The next surprise
was the biggest of all as the pastor called the visiting evangelist to the
podium. From the moment he opened his mouth, I followed along with his
references, phrases and parabolic style. Church always seemed like one
unending business meeting from week to week. In this setting, I was more than
just an observer, but a participant. His words electrified me. The message
was relevant. And I found the freedom to shout along should I choose.
Mamaw might have objected if I had done so.
As he made an altar call, he
also petitioned the entire congregation to kneel and pray. This was an
easy one for me. I wanted to. Excitement shot through me as the man of God
came to lay his hands on me and pray. I never looked up to see Mamaw’s reaction
as I remained in that moment.
I recall little concerning the ride home.
It was dark. Mamaw appeared uncomfortable with the whole experience. I
sensed her resistance. It just was not her thing. But I was
quite alright with the shot of adrenaline I received. My fervor was
palatable. I hoped to witness this again. But as long as my Mamaw would be my
spiritual guide, we would not be returning to the Pentecostal church and I knew
it.
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