While on the subject of church follies, I of course have another. I mean, I grew up going to church 3 times a week. Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night, giving me more than ample opportunities to make a fool of myself. Which I did.
On this particular Wednesday night, the sanctuary at Eastgate Church of Christ almost fell to pieces. Not quite literally, but literally quite close. You see, some of the elder men in the church decided that it would be a good idea if the "young men" began their preparation for churchmanhood. By "young men", I mean boys all between the ages 10-14. We weren't ready for churchmanhood, but we were thrust into the fire of growing up in the church.
What became a gigantic Wednesday night scriptural foodfight began in a classroom. The girls went to their own room to learn how to sew, cook, do laundry, and clean (their womanhood class, had nothing to do with churchwomanhood). Leaving all of us middle school boy punks in a room by ourselves, where the elder men proceeded to tell us that we would be training, over the next few months, to lead a church service of our own. To LEAD a church service of our OWN. (Remember, I was just a few years off from drawing genitalia on Satan during class). I mean, my buddies and I were probably in the classroom before this very meeting seeing who could get the most pencils to stick in the ceiling, and here we were being told we had to lead a service. And we weren't even gonna get paid. All that money in the offering plate each week, and notta dime. Notta dime.
At first, it was exciting. We were gonna be pastors, worship leaders, public prayermen and public scripture readers. Big time people do that, big time churchmen. But, after a few minutes of reveling in the power that the podium would bestow, we began to realize that everyone would be in the audience. Watching us. God would be right over our shoulders watching us from the baptistry. We wouldn't be able to play tic-tac-toe during service, 'cause ain't nobody never gotten away with that on the front row. We were hosed and we knew it.
So, the next several Wednesday nights the girls would go to home ec, while all the boys would practice reading our scriptures, leading songs, yadda yadda. It wasn't so bad, doing it in front of the other 10 of us. We all knew to laugh at whoever was leading, and we all knew that we were going to get laughed at. But lead the whole congregation??? Would they laugh at all of us? No, no they wouldn't. Not all of us, anyway.
Our day finally came. Our day of churchmanhood, the day of reckoning where we leave churchboyhood behind or die trying. We all pouted on our way to church, glowered at our teacher through class, and were petulent as we waited for the service to start. Nobody wanted to do this, it was horrifying. But, sadly, we had no choice, because the elder churchmen (including my father) made sure that everyone's parents were against us. What would become the most poorly executed, but possibly the most memorable, service in the history of the church began.
First was my buddy Jake, the one from Oklahoma at who's house we got attacked by the ticks. Jake is from Oklahoma, so he's not the sharpest gig in the barrel. He gets up to the podium, where he is to read a verse. He has his bible, he has his verse. However, the dork forgot to mark the page in the Bible. Of course, he had no idea how to navigate his way through the Bible. So after telling the congregation "Now, just a second", Jake awkwardly flipped through the book until he found the right page. It wasn't a short matter. It took a while. But alas, he found the page and executed his reading with eloquence.
Then came Jared, one of my friend's older brothers. He drew the short straw and had to lead a song. He says the page number, gives the congregation a few seconds to find it, then belts out singing in his preteen voice. Nobody else sings. Just Jared Bieber up there, singing along thinking that the rest of the congregation is drowning him out. Until he realized he was the only one in the whole building singing, and he happened to be the one with the mic and in front of everyone. Once this realization rushed over him, he gets mad and yells "COME ON, PEOPLE! SING!". Word for word I kid you not. He was embarrassed and ticked. Then, from somewhere in the auditorium, a voice responds "You gave us the wrong page number." And once again, realization flooded Jared's features as he knew the lone voice was right. However, with his bravado and courage, Jared conveyed the correct page number and successfully let the congregation drown him out through the hymn.
Then came my turn. I was to read a scripture, an easy job. Jake had already screwed his up, so I was in the clear. I could mispronounce a few words or stutter here and there, but I'd still be better than Jake. And the congregation didn't have to read along with me, so I didn't have to worry about pulling a Jared. All I had to do was read a few words and I was outta there.
And the first few words came out fine. And then something deep within me started welling up. I couldn't control it, I didn't know why it was there, but it was boiling over. It stared low in my gut. I frantically tried to fight it. But like a Chinese finger trap, the more I fought, the worse it got. It reached my chest, which constricted like a python on Bambi, and rushed into my throat. I couldn't breath, couldn't read, couldn't think. Then from my throat it came flowing from my mouth. I began hurling... laughter. I laugh puked. and laugh ralphed, and laugh chucked. I laughed until my sides hurt, just standing up there all by my lonesome on the podium. I remember getting out "Jesus was resurrect...." before I exploded into a surreal cachinnation. This wasn't a giggle or a chuckle, I was freaking howling up there. And I couldn't stop it. I tried to read a few more words, and it just got worse. I looked up, and I remember seeing one of the older girls in the congregation, Haley, covering her face in tears. It made me laugh even harder, on top of the laughter that was already killing me. I looked up again and saw old women that I had never seen anything but a scowl out of losing their dentures as they howled along. I have no idea how it happened. One second I was reading about Jesus, the next I was cackling like a demon possessed. It went on, and on, and on. It may have lasted a minute, maybe 5, but to me it seemed like hours. All I wanted to do was finish that stupid verse and get the snot out of there (speaking of snot, I think my laughsplosion shot all the snot out of my head and onto the podium). Eventually, a few words at a time, I did finish. But I laughed the whole time, and could only read a little as I tried to catch my breath and recoup before the next volley of flak-flak laughter. I laughed the whole way down off the podium, and sat there laughing in my seat. I was humiliated and embarrassed the whole time. I didn't think it one bit funny, in fact anything but funny. But I just laughed. It was frustrating, like wanting to punch your sister in the face but kissing her instead. Ick. Yeah, that's the best way to put it.
In the end, we finished our service, and I really don't have any memories of anything that happened after my disaster. I was too pissed off to pay attention, so chances are there were many more errors that night that shall go forever undocumented. I was so embarrassed, and I never wanted to get back up on a podium ever again.
Luckily, though, dad wouldn't allow that, and everyone at church, especially the churchmen, were supportive. Before too many years I was giving prayers and reading scriptures regularly, and even gave the sermon once. One man in particular, Cliff Goggins, I think made it his personal goal to see me succeed. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but boy am I thankful for him now.
I don't know why I laughed that night. It was probably in the top 5 hardest times I've ever laughed in my life. But I think God got his message across. A message of laughter, a message that was never quite put into words in the Bible, but one that none of us should forget. Laugh.
and laugh and laugh and laugh.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Boys, ticks, and the Wrath of God
The last few posts I have purposefull taken shots at my beloved sisters. Though I love them to death, they have found themselves entertainingly in harm's way, and I saw it as my duty as a brother to report to the world their sad mishappenings in childhood. And while I am still the favorite child (by far), the most intelligent and good looking of the group, I am a also a fair man.
Today, I shall tell of one of my own misfortunate experiences as a young lad. A day of boys, woods, and ticks. And ticks on woods.
I grew up causing much trouble at church. Not because I was a sinner, but because I was a boy attending church with a bunch of boys, and God created boys to be troublesome in order to teach adults discipline, patience, and the best means to bruise boy buttocks (Spare a child the rod...). So, I happened to attend Eastgate Church of Christ with several families, all of which had male demon children the same age. I'm telling you, not a Sunday went by without a pencil stuck in a ceiling, church being interrupted by laughter, or crude things being drawn on the announcements card (though we didn't always get caught). We got to all sit together during the sermon about once every few months, where we always promptly lost the privilege by the third hymn.
Every Sunday, one of us would get kicked out of Sunday school and have to sit in the hall. It's not that one of us was bad that morning; oh no, we were all bad. It was usually who got caught or started laughing first.
I think the most I ever got in trouble came during one Sunday morning when I overstepped my bounds by a few giant leaps for boykind. I wasn't a smart child, so of course the day I decide to be really freaking funny happened to be a day that my parents were teaching class. I don't remember what the lesson was about, but I do remember a big picture of Satan, and we each got turns drawing something on him. Of course, I drew his genitalia. This happened to be a "Children's hour" class, held during service, where all the children attend. Yes, on that day many sweet 3-5 year old golden haired sweethearted angels saw their first depiction of a...uh...johnson. And yam bag. In church. On Satan. I wasn't a good artist, but I sure knew how to draw that. It was awesome for about 3 seconds before my mom figured out what I had done. I don't remember my punishment because I think I blacked out in the midst of it.
Anyhow, this tale isn't of all my mischievousness in church. This is a tale of God saying "Listen up, sonny. You've crossed your bounds. And as a result, I am about to punish not just you, but all of your buddies. Fear the wrath of God, 'cause you done pissed me off. To honor beelzebub with a junk that big is a sin against me." I guess Satan is hung like a gnat.
So, the next time we all got together, God had a master plan of torment. We were all at Jake Shelley's house, my good friend who lived across the border in Colcord, Oklahoma. As is natural for all who live in Colcord, his house was in the boondocks, and he had 4wheelers, fields, forests, ponds, coyotes, and cattle. It was paradise. There was a hollar where the old cow carcasses rotted, and we had bb guns that we could shoot at anything. Particularly sparrows, frogs, and old cow carcasses. Pretty much the setting of "Where the Red Fern Grows" (no kidding, that movie was filmed probably 3 miles from Jake's house).
Since on this particular day we couldn't all fit on the 4wheelers, we went trapesing out into the woods on foot. We hiked through the big field behind his house back to the trees, where we commensed to carving our names with pocket knifes into trees. Our names, and I'm sure other words as well. At the end of the day, we were all exhausted after spending an entire afternoon playing in God's wilderness.
Unfortunately, God keeps his creatures of torment in his wilderness.
And like a time bomb, we didn't realize we had been attacked until it was too late. As we were undressing from our outdoor play clothes, we all started itching. And itching, and itching, and itching. Our ankles felt like they were on fire with itch, and after taking off our shoes and socks, we saw that we each had hundreds of new freckles on our feet and ankles. Except they were raised freckles that itched and stuck to us like ticks. Freckles that, in fact, turned out to be ticks. Thousands of them. It was insane. It was bad, very very bad.
We were ticked (pun intended), and Jake's mom rubbed all our ankles with rubbing alcohol and seemed to have taken the situation under control. It was bad, but we thought it was funny and kinda cool, and made for a good story. We had no idea.
We spent the night at Jake's, because it was his birthday party, and went home the next day. All was quiet on the Shelley front.
After getting home my mom made me take a shower because I smelt like boy and manure. There, in that ceramic tub, I saw that those danged ticks had regenerated and reattacked at my thighs. Lower thighs, thankfully, so don't get any ideas. Yet. This kinda weirded me out, because they were all gone the day before, and now they were all back. They were like tiny tick zombies. Finally, I picked them all off, and convinced myself that I had just missed a few from the day before. This time, though, I made sure that they were all gone.
And then the next day came, and God got his vengeance.
Once again, the zombie ticks regenerated, reformed, and reattacked in greater numbers than before. Except this time, they attacked in full force on my... yes, you guessed it, my...uh... johnson. And yam bag. They were everywhere, and I mean I didn't have a square mm on my boyhood that they hadn't invaded. I freaked out, and was using tweezers to cleanse my pride. Yes, as bad as it was, I even had to enlist my mother's help. Before you think I'm crazy, though, do recall that I wasn't that old (probably 6 or 7).
So there I was, sitting on a 3-legged stool in our kitchen bawling my horrified eyes out with my mama tweezing micron sized arachnids off my schlong, one by one by one. It took forever, and it was miserable. Ticks latch on for dear life, and don't let go. In fact, they will hold on until their heads pop off. IMAGINE THE PAIN. It was like being pinched over and over and over all over my family jewels. Every once in a while mom would miss and tweezer pinch my schtuff. I would scream, and she'd continue on grooming her offspring like a mama chimpanzee. Eventually, she got them all off, as only a mother can do. I think she had God's help.
Luckily, mom got a call from my other buddies moms and they were all going through the same thing. It helps to know your friends are suffering too. And that at least you wouldn't be the only sterile one of the bunch. From then on, we all wore jeans when going to Jake's, and we all used bugspray. Ain't nobody gonna risk that crisis again.
And yes, God got his lesson across. Though I was still a problem child, from that point on I vowed to myself that the next time I drew Satan's anatomy, it wouldn't be visible by the human eye.
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," Says the Lord.
Romans 12:20
Today, I shall tell of one of my own misfortunate experiences as a young lad. A day of boys, woods, and ticks. And ticks on woods.
I grew up causing much trouble at church. Not because I was a sinner, but because I was a boy attending church with a bunch of boys, and God created boys to be troublesome in order to teach adults discipline, patience, and the best means to bruise boy buttocks (Spare a child the rod...). So, I happened to attend Eastgate Church of Christ with several families, all of which had male demon children the same age. I'm telling you, not a Sunday went by without a pencil stuck in a ceiling, church being interrupted by laughter, or crude things being drawn on the announcements card (though we didn't always get caught). We got to all sit together during the sermon about once every few months, where we always promptly lost the privilege by the third hymn.
Every Sunday, one of us would get kicked out of Sunday school and have to sit in the hall. It's not that one of us was bad that morning; oh no, we were all bad. It was usually who got caught or started laughing first.
I think the most I ever got in trouble came during one Sunday morning when I overstepped my bounds by a few giant leaps for boykind. I wasn't a smart child, so of course the day I decide to be really freaking funny happened to be a day that my parents were teaching class. I don't remember what the lesson was about, but I do remember a big picture of Satan, and we each got turns drawing something on him. Of course, I drew his genitalia. This happened to be a "Children's hour" class, held during service, where all the children attend. Yes, on that day many sweet 3-5 year old golden haired sweethearted angels saw their first depiction of a...uh...johnson. And yam bag. In church. On Satan. I wasn't a good artist, but I sure knew how to draw that. It was awesome for about 3 seconds before my mom figured out what I had done. I don't remember my punishment because I think I blacked out in the midst of it.
Anyhow, this tale isn't of all my mischievousness in church. This is a tale of God saying "Listen up, sonny. You've crossed your bounds. And as a result, I am about to punish not just you, but all of your buddies. Fear the wrath of God, 'cause you done pissed me off. To honor beelzebub with a junk that big is a sin against me." I guess Satan is hung like a gnat.
So, the next time we all got together, God had a master plan of torment. We were all at Jake Shelley's house, my good friend who lived across the border in Colcord, Oklahoma. As is natural for all who live in Colcord, his house was in the boondocks, and he had 4wheelers, fields, forests, ponds, coyotes, and cattle. It was paradise. There was a hollar where the old cow carcasses rotted, and we had bb guns that we could shoot at anything. Particularly sparrows, frogs, and old cow carcasses. Pretty much the setting of "Where the Red Fern Grows" (no kidding, that movie was filmed probably 3 miles from Jake's house).
Since on this particular day we couldn't all fit on the 4wheelers, we went trapesing out into the woods on foot. We hiked through the big field behind his house back to the trees, where we commensed to carving our names with pocket knifes into trees. Our names, and I'm sure other words as well. At the end of the day, we were all exhausted after spending an entire afternoon playing in God's wilderness.
Unfortunately, God keeps his creatures of torment in his wilderness.
And like a time bomb, we didn't realize we had been attacked until it was too late. As we were undressing from our outdoor play clothes, we all started itching. And itching, and itching, and itching. Our ankles felt like they were on fire with itch, and after taking off our shoes and socks, we saw that we each had hundreds of new freckles on our feet and ankles. Except they were raised freckles that itched and stuck to us like ticks. Freckles that, in fact, turned out to be ticks. Thousands of them. It was insane. It was bad, very very bad.
We were ticked (pun intended), and Jake's mom rubbed all our ankles with rubbing alcohol and seemed to have taken the situation under control. It was bad, but we thought it was funny and kinda cool, and made for a good story. We had no idea.
We spent the night at Jake's, because it was his birthday party, and went home the next day. All was quiet on the Shelley front.
After getting home my mom made me take a shower because I smelt like boy and manure. There, in that ceramic tub, I saw that those danged ticks had regenerated and reattacked at my thighs. Lower thighs, thankfully, so don't get any ideas. Yet. This kinda weirded me out, because they were all gone the day before, and now they were all back. They were like tiny tick zombies. Finally, I picked them all off, and convinced myself that I had just missed a few from the day before. This time, though, I made sure that they were all gone.
And then the next day came, and God got his vengeance.
Once again, the zombie ticks regenerated, reformed, and reattacked in greater numbers than before. Except this time, they attacked in full force on my... yes, you guessed it, my...uh... johnson. And yam bag. They were everywhere, and I mean I didn't have a square mm on my boyhood that they hadn't invaded. I freaked out, and was using tweezers to cleanse my pride. Yes, as bad as it was, I even had to enlist my mother's help. Before you think I'm crazy, though, do recall that I wasn't that old (probably 6 or 7).
So there I was, sitting on a 3-legged stool in our kitchen bawling my horrified eyes out with my mama tweezing micron sized arachnids off my schlong, one by one by one. It took forever, and it was miserable. Ticks latch on for dear life, and don't let go. In fact, they will hold on until their heads pop off. IMAGINE THE PAIN. It was like being pinched over and over and over all over my family jewels. Every once in a while mom would miss and tweezer pinch my schtuff. I would scream, and she'd continue on grooming her offspring like a mama chimpanzee. Eventually, she got them all off, as only a mother can do. I think she had God's help.
Luckily, mom got a call from my other buddies moms and they were all going through the same thing. It helps to know your friends are suffering too. And that at least you wouldn't be the only sterile one of the bunch. From then on, we all wore jeans when going to Jake's, and we all used bugspray. Ain't nobody gonna risk that crisis again.
And yes, God got his lesson across. Though I was still a problem child, from that point on I vowed to myself that the next time I drew Satan's anatomy, it wouldn't be visible by the human eye.
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," Says the Lord.
Romans 12:20
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