Our little church held periodic revivals. For the benefit of those not blessed with a Southern Baptist upbringing, a revival is a series of nightly evangelical preaching services culminating with a baptismal service on Sunday for converts. There was a good bit of Hell-fire promised, so a quite a few errant souls joined up. Our small church had no baptistry, so baptism was conducted in a creek, exciting business for kids.
Dressed in old clothes, a stark contrast to usual his usual church garb, a stalwart deacon led the candidates to the preacher waiting in waist-deep water. After a few words and a prayer, the preacher dipped the candidates for baptism backwards in the murky water, then raised them up a moment later, gasping, sputtering, and cleansed of sin. It must have been quite a workout for the preacher and an unnerving experience for the baptized. Seeing the redeemed folk led from the water with their clingy garments served as a pretty good anatomy lesson for us kids, as well. Afterwards, the crowd quickly dispersed, out of concern for the soaked.
I chafed, all through the prayers and scripture, awaiting the creek side baptism, anticipating an outing with a picnic and swimming. Verily, there was no swimming for us, only baptism for the redeemed. Though Mother had warned me not to expect such a party, I’d thought perhaps I could engineer the opportunity to fall in the creek, resulting in a swim, after all. Lo, it didn’t happen with the death grip Mother had on me and Billy. My major impression of the day was disappointment.
My brother Billy and Cousin Evil Larry took the opportunity to put all they’d learned in practice the next morning. Our cat had hidden away a litter of kittens, but apparently not well enough. Billy and Evil Larry rounded up those sinful kitties and went to work on redeeming their mewing, little souls. After dunking them in the repeatedly in the water trough, a couple of them straight to Heaven, assuming the baptism worked. Mother caught the boys and saved the rest. I guess she just wasn’t into religion.
heathens
Kids in Cars
I’m sitting in the shade at the grocery store waiting for Mother to finish her shopping. I take her once a week. I finish mine in about 30 minutes, then pick her up at the door when she calls me. It’s 93 right now. As a kid, I remember it being far hotter ,when we waited in the car. Mother let us go in grocery store with her, once we were sufficiently threatened. We always got a box of animal crackers to munch while she shopped, presumably to keep our hands and mouths occupied.
In the parking lot, we smugly passed cars full of hot, fighting kids on our way in. Sometimes, we had to sit in the car if she had kid-free business like banking or bill-paying. What I thought was two hours, Mother called fifteen minutes. The truth lay somewhere between, but I’ll never admit it to her. We started fighting the minute she was out of earshot and lapsed into virtuous behavior as soon as we saw her coming back. Initially, there were threats of “I’m telling,” but usually by the time Mother got back, we’d all have passed enough licks no one could risk tattling. Mother always accused us of acting like heathens. I wonder if heathen mothers accused their children of acting like Christians?
For those of you who weren’t raised in Sunday School, Heathen is a dated term used primarily of someone who is not religious, or whose religion is not Judaism, Islam, or especially Christianity. In our case, it was a disparaging term used disapprovingly to describe one (me)who is not cultured; this use is also dated. Forgive me. I am sure this is not politically correct, but I was lead to believe I frequently acted “like a heathen.” I feel sure most heathen were much more well- behaved.
For the love of God, don’t leave your kid in the car!
Nutsrok 