SHE WAS A NEGRO chapter 17

(Parenthetically speaking…

It has snowed off and on all week. No a Midwest kind of snow. Just flakes most days, some hard, none lasts very long, but that brings with it cold weather. We should be stilling on our front porch by now. In addition I have developed allergies this year. I can’t believe it. And coming with that my nose is running like a leaky faucet. When I woke up I began reading about the plagues in Egypt. I feel like I have a plague right now. Yuck!)

I really didn’t understand the question. Yes, she was a Negro. So what? One third of my class was Negro’s. “That’s why your picture is in the paper. You were dancing with a Negro” I really needed more information. Why would my picture be in the paper because I danced with a Negro? She had been my primary partner for nearly two years.

Dad wasn’t mad about my dance partner. He was just trying to explain why my picture was in the paper, but he was mad. He was mad that I was dancing. I had been specifically warned about this sin — dancing was wrong and I was not permitted to do it. “Come with me.” Yeah, I knew what that meant. We were going to the back yard where he would cut a branch off the willow tree and proceed to whip me until I cried. I knew the drill. Cry early and get it over with. That was where I developed some acting skills.

While I was waiting for the switch to be readied, grandpa stepped out on the back porch and called him by name. “What are you going to do to Clyde?” I am going to take this switch to him because he has been dancing and doing it behind our backs. “Humm. Is square dancing wrong?” “Yes it is. All dancing is of the devil.” “Then you think everyone who dances should get the switch.” “It would teach them all a lesson.” “Well then, wait a minute. Way before I was born and even before I met your mother, I went to all the area dances. Square dancing is hard work and a whole bunch of fun. If that’s what you think should happen you should start with me. I nearly square danced my legs off when I was young and ain’t never been whipped for it.”

Grandpa walked down to the willow tree where he and dad got into a heated discussion. I stood quietly for a while and then slowly slipped away. He never came looking for me and the subject was never brought up again, but the dirty looks were enough to warn me that I got away with it this time, but grandpa will go back home soon and the law goes back into effect.

For the life of me I could never figure out all that I did wrong. I knew some of it. I tricked my mother into signing a permission slip (an issue that never came up) and I forged her name the on the permission slip. I did dance against their express wishes. I understood both those things, and being a kid that felt guilty for everything, I was traumatized. But I guess not enough to give up dancing. They never mentioned the permission slips, but disobedience was still wrong and I was clearly reminded of that. I was grounded for a while and told never to dance again. I heard what they said, but I knew I would do it again. I decided I would continue to dance until I got a very good explanation about what was wrong or I figured it out for myself. I still haven’t figured it out.

I know it was always the place. I learned at church that many of these things weren’t that back if bowling was not in a bowling alley, if pool, was not in a pool hall, if skating was not in a skating rink. Weird. I saw kids necking in the shadows at dances in high school, and there were some drinking, but that was nothing my friends and I were doing. Those activities were never a temptation to me. I may have liked girls, but the thought of necking in the middle of a crowd was never my idea of a good time. I couldn’t stand the smell of smoke and I was already aware of what drinking seemed to do to people. I valued self-control way too much. So I kept going. My high school years were filled with dancing and movies. There I go again, off to hell in a hand basket. I just wanted to escape those coming years with some degree of dignity — and fun. I was headed there until fall, but I was already a nervous wreck. High schools were dangerous places. But I had to go. I wanted to go on to college and become and architect.

I CAN’T DO WHAT? Chapter 16

(Parenthetically Speaking

I just about lost it this morning. I went over to Safeway to pick of a few items to make a dish for our monthly potluck. As I am leaving to come home, I turn into the main exit lane. There directly in front of me is a woman pushing her cart in my lane not paying any attention to what she was doing. I beeped as softly as I could to let her know I was there. She turned, frowned, and did not move to the side. Had I done what I thought, I would probably be in jail. A little further down was a woman leaving the parking area with her blinker on to turn across my lane and go the other way. While traffic was somewhat heavy the opposite direction, I was the only vehicle in my lane. She had pulled out half way into my lane so that I could not proceed. I gave her the universal “what do you think you’re doing” shrug of my shoulders with up turned hands and she smiled but did not back up. Since I could not go anywhere, I waved her through at the first opening. Had I done what I wanted to do I would not have a vehicle anymore. I have a $500 deductible).

As I was saying….

My mind wandered most of the time I was at church, but my ears perked up whenever the word “NO” or some semblance of rejection came onto my radar. I was also sensitive to anything I considered positive or when I might learn of a new rule.

I already knew I was “not to dance, drink or chew nor go with girls that do.” I had already broken part of that law.

Seventh grade was when they began to teach square dancing. None of my four siblings who preceded me where allowed to dance so I was fairly sure it would be a lost cause. But fortune smiled on me. When the permission slip was sent home I had two. One was for the dance class (actually just a part of what they called physical education) and the other for a visit to Joslyn Art Museum. I decided to get into a happy conversation with my mother and lay both permission slips down as through they were routine class outing slips and hoped she wouldn’t read them. The museum piece was on top and the dance one with only the signature spot showing was on the bottom. (I was becoming a deception list brat) . She signed them both.

My next worry was whether she would see me in the class. We lived directly across from the school and the basement class space was straight across from our front door. I always tried to make sure I was not in front of the windows in class. At the times I was near the window I did all I could to keep my back to the wall.

The teacher was surprised I was permitted to be in the class. She remembered that they others had to remain in the classroom (great memory), but the signature was legit so I was admitted. That year went fine so I wanted to do it the next year as well. This time I simply forged my mother’s name and got away with it, but not without a great deal of guilt. It was another fun year, and I was trying to figure out what my church had against this activity. Duh! I never did.

Near the end of the year the teacher announced that she would be selecting four couples to represent our school in the citywide square dance competition at the Civic Center. I was excited and my partner and I were selected, as was Austin and his partner.

The competition was on a Saturday So I did not have to explain to my parents were I was going other than riding with Austin. As long as I was home before the street lights when on, all was fine there were few questions.

There were piles of people in the Civic Center. There was a banner for each school and we quickly found ours. It was a long but fun day. Dancing is exhausting and I still had to ride my bike home. Teams kept getting eliminated and we were somewhere in the top third. Not bad, I thought. We had a great time and went home excited.

After we returned from church the next, we dropped into our normal Sunday routine. Grandpa napped in the rocker, dad read the paper, I lay on the floor reading the comics and mom was getting dinner ready. I have no idea where my younger brother was. Then dad came over to drop the Living section of the paper in front of me. And there before my eyes was my picture — with my partner as big and clear as life. I didn’t know why? We didn’t win. We weren’t even really that good. Why me. I knew I was in trouble. Dad said, “look at her, she’ a Negro.”

To be continued

INTERLUDE: SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF AN ANGRY GOD

I want to give everyone fair warning that I am about to take a position that some may consider heretical. I don’t believe it is, but it may serve as an explanation to why some who grew up in churches now reject the church and in some cases reject God.

At our Tuesday Bible study group a concern was expressed about some adult children who were brought up to attend church and will no longer have anything to do with it. I come from a family like that. There were seven children. Only one of my sisters and I continued to attend church after reaching adulthood. Our experience may not be the norm, but they offer light on one perspective.

I have often used the phrase “If its fun, its sin” to explain my perception of the church I attended as a child. I began attending church in the 40’s and 50’s. There seemed to be an angry, threatening message of condemnation and especially with a controlling aspect to preaching. It felt like everything was wrong and God was determined to trap me and get me and the church knew everything about right and wrong. The interpretation of Scripture went above and beyond Scripture. It added to the Word. The love of Jesus was only expressed in the song Jesus Loves Me.

In Bible College, I read Jonathan Edwards most famous message, Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. It was mentioned as an ideal and powerful sermon. He preached it to the congregation of Enfield, Massachusetts (later Connecticut) in July 1741. An excerpt from The Jonathan Edwards Center at Yale University says:

Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God represents in many persons’ minds the bleak, cruel, and hell-bent outlook of Edwards and his Puritan predecessors. But of course such a representation is only a caricature, for Sinners, if it represents anything, stands for only a small part of Edwards’s view of the relationship between humankind and God. As a specially crafted awakening sermon, Sinners was aimed at a particularly hard-hearted congregation. But, at the same time, the awakening sermon and all it expressed—the awful weight of sin, the wrath of an infinitely holy God, and the unexpectedness of the moment when God will execute justice—were integral to Edwards’s theology.  

He was clearly upset and angry with his congregation and addressed them like Jesus addressed the Pharisees. Apparently, he had good reason. However, it seems his message became a model for the way ministers should preach, regardless of the needs of any specific congregation and that continued well into the middle 20^th century and in some places still exists. It was almost like no one ever came to know Christ personally and always needed to be reminded that they were going to hell.

I say that to make the point that attending church is not a spiritual end all. The Biblical encouragement to “not forsake the assembling of ourselves together” is used as an encouragement to attend church. Bust should it be? Are there not other ways to assemble? Could it be done in a small group? Could it be one on one? And apart from that, can we come to know and get to know God while alone. Forgive the supposed heresy.

In many ways I consider that inconsequential. Many people grew up being brow beat and manipulated by religion. It was not only done by some preachers, but by traveling evangelists, Christians and even non-Christians who would say, “I didn’t think Christian you could…” finish the line with whatever crossed their mind.

My siblings and I grew up with this angry God. There was plenty of anger in our lives as it was. I (we) wanted love, compassion, understanding, and temperance even the opportunity to have the Holy Spirit speak to us and draw us along in growth and maturity. No one comes to Christ as a mature Christian. I was exhausted by all comments telling me that now that I had accepted Christ I could no longer… (You name it). Who needed God or the Holy Spirit when every so-called Christian I knew was trying to take over Their role. Did no one understand the apostle Paul when he wrote, “When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.” (I Cor. 12:11). Do not people enter into faith as newbie’s? Do they not start with limited understanding as to what it means to walk with Christ? Is there no learning curve?

There are two views of the church that I believe present a better understanding of how the church should function. But first, let me dismiss some false notions. The church is not a legal system where law and judgment is dispersed. It is not a government agency where seniority or longevity has any special rights. It is not a country club where the good old boys gather to party. It is not a social club where one goes to pick up new clients.

It is where the family of God gathers to laugh, relax and enjoy the company of one another and to be accepted by those who love you. As a family there are all levels of maturity from infants to grandparents. Nothing quit functions like a loving family. Yes, I am aware of the many dysfunctional families that exist, and there are just as many as there are dysfunctional churches. But dysfunction is not the goal or the model.

When I was teaching I would often get various surveys crossing my desk. One every survey the number one reason people went to church was for relationships. Their friends and family were there. Yes there were other reasons and many legitimate. Any healthy family welcomes the infants. That means the family is growing and continues. The mature adults love and accept the antics of the younger ones. We revert with them to children’s activities and songs and love what they do even when milk is spilled, things are broken and they won’t share with others. We loving encourage them to do the right thing. We remind them that accidents happen and no permanent damage has been done. We continue to love them through the worse of their problems. Rejection destroys the relationship. Yelling and screaming never accomplished anything. 

When the mature adults of a family want everything done their way, we must first question whether they are mature and it does not take long before the younger members of the family no longer want to come around. It’s boring, threatening, or just plain a pain in the neck. That’s why I don’t want to visit aunt Bertha.

A second aspect of a healthy church is that it is like a hospital. People come to get well. No one rushes the healing process. It must take its natural course and while it can be bandaged, medical personal should know that only God does the healing. Also, the speed of healing is not the same for everyone and some injuries are significantly more sever than others.

I know that much damage has been done in the name of Christ. Wars and murder have been committed because of faith. Believers have hurt one another because of the words we speak. Way to many of us believe the only way is our way and that’s a lie. Jesus is the way, but He deals with us individually, not as a unit.

I have great compassion for those hurt by “us.” by religion. I was one of those hurt but I began to read the Bible and then met the real Jesus. I can’t correct the evils of organized religion. Its a man made structure run by weak and sinful men (and women). But most are seriously listening to God and trying to do the right thing. Most want you to know the God they love. Most want you to experience the love they have and are experiencing. Most really care and are trying to express the best way they know how. Lets give one another a break, Give us weak and fallible leaders a break. Relax your demands for our perfection and we will (hopefully) relax our demands that you be sinless. I do not expect perfection in the loving family. I expect understanding and the more mature you think you are, the more understanding and compassion that needs to be demonstrated. 

AND IN THIS CORNER chapter 15

Ronnie was a short little kid, but the only one I knew in the entire school that seemed to have some muscle definition. Unlike others, his upper arm muscle didn’t just slightly rise up like the rest of the boys, there was clear definition of where it bulged and where it went down and the connection to his shoulder was sharp with skin folding tightly over the top of his shoulder defining every little muscle. He made sure everyone noticed his muscles. He walked around pumping his arms up like a body builder. To make his position even stronger, he pushed kids, tripped them, threatened them and challenged them to fights.

Ronnie was a year behind me. Of course, I noticed him. He was hard to miss, but I didn’t really know him. He had already worked his way through the younger kids and his own class by scaring or beating up on all of them. Then he began working his way through some of the upper grades. When he got around to me, he was in fourth grade and I was in fifth.

He had already tried to take on David. He just lived two doors up from the school. The problem with challenging kids who lived so close to the school was they never walked past the killing field — the place were all fights were staged — 28^th and Burt. I guess all the adults who lived in that house worked. None of us ever saw anyone around so the corner of their lot was used as a boxing/wrestling ring. While David was tempted and tormented, he never gave into Ronnie’s threats. Besides, he could be home and safely inside in 2-3 minutes after school. He did that for a long time before Ronnie gave up.

When he could never get anything going with David through pushing, shoving and hitting him on the shoulder, he moved on to the twins. They were the smallest boys in my class. Greg and Craig were identical twins. They may have been small but they were both wiry and very fast. The brothers rarely hung around each other at recess and it appeared that Ronnie many have been confused as to who he was challenging. One or the other finally agreed to accept his challenge and meet him at the foot of boot hill.

When the appointed day and time arrived, both brothers showed up for the fight. “Wait a minute. I only wanted to fight one of you.” Greg (or maybe Craig) said, “you challenged both of us and told us both the same time and date, so here we are.” Ronnie immediately cried foul. “It not fair, cowards, chickens, have to team up on me, huh!” and on and on. Needless to say, all parties when home without a scratch.

He tried threatening Jack. When I heard about that I thought he was really stupid. I guess he saw Jack sitting along the wall alone and slumped over when he came up and punched him in the arm. All Jack did was look up, slowly stand up and said, “Are you looking for a fight.” Jack towered over the poor kid who said no, and moved on.

When he got around to me it was the same old thing, Pushing, shoving, tripping, threatening, anything he could do to get a rise. I had decided early I was not going to fight the kid. I loved to fake fight and wrestle with my friends, but I had never hit anyone in anger (except maybe my brother). He quickly added all kinds of derogative terms and name-calling. Those get under your skin pretty quickly. The saying was always, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” Wrong. That wasn’t true. The names dug into your psychic and gnawed away until you were about to explode. Since we lived in Omaha I always that that kid should be stuck in Boys Town – the detention part.

Austin and others encouraged me to take the brat on. I didn’t want to tell them I had never been in a fight and frankly, had no interest in this one either, I could run out the school door and be home quicker than David. I could avoid the fighting but not the taunts. Friends said, “Just do it and beat the crap out of him.” Right! I wasn’t sure I would even get a good swing in. But I gave in and we agreed on a day.

I had to walk a block away from home to meet Ronnie and he was there waiting for me when I arrived. He started the name-calling and screaming obscenities before I even got to the corner. By the time I mounted the rise my face was red and steam was coming out of the top of my head. We circled a couple of times then without warning I charged and flatten him on his back. I immediately got on top and began pounding away at his face and chest. When people could see blood coming from his lip they pulled me off. I was angry that it had come to this, and I wanted him to know to leave me alone.

I hung out at the corner for a long time with my friends as they congratulated me and patted me on my back. All I could think was that I had beat up a poor arrogant little fourth grader.

When I got home, mother jumped all over me. It seemed that Ronnie’s mother had called mine and complained that I had beaten up her poor defenseless little boy who only wanted to be friends with everyone and he had a black eye and a bloody lip and it was my fault. Huh?

When dad got home I was to be switched. I tried to explain why and how it happened, but to dad there was never any excuse for fighting let alone a bigger kid picking on a smaller one. I was angry with dad as the switching was unjustified, but even through the punishment I had a smile in my heart that I had stopped that little brat.

MY BROTHER, WHOM I SLEPT WITH chapter 14

Anyone who ever had to sleep with a sibling, especially a brother had to have been doubled over with laughter when they first heard Bill Cosby’s “To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With. The routine was recorded in 1968 in the Cleveland Public Auditorium, and released later that year, on a 12" vinyl record. I was not only doubled over, but tears were rolling down my cheeks because I was laughing so hard. I could not follow the whole story the first time I heard it because of my laughter. I had to listen to it several times because I was identifying with all of it.

Dean was the brother I slept with. We shared a tiny little room right off the living room. Any noise we made could easily be heard in the living room. Since there was no insulation and the house was tiny, you could ear any thing in any room.

We slept in what was called a three quarter bed, smaller than full and larger than a twin. The mattress was about 4” thin with buttons all over the place holding the stop and bottom together. Since we were little, our weight didn’t do much denting, but that did not stop the old wire springs from squeaking with every turn. The bed was just inside and to the right of the door. It touched three walls. For the one sleeping by the back wall, they had to climb over the one on the front edge. The climber was my brother. I often let him get in bed first.

It was not unusual to draw an imaginary line down the middle and divide up the territory. I could escape from my side, but he needed a passport to even get out of his country. I was not about to give him permission — ever. We fought over the line like Arabs and Israel — every night. The line continually shifted with each of us attempting to claim more territory, Our parents were usually sitting in the living room and when they could take it no longer, “I’m gonna come in there.” That was always the first warning and we knew instinctively that we had more time to settle the dispute.

Each would attempt to occupy any newly acquired land, as possession was 9/10’s of the law. That resulted in a shoving match back to back, and then the leg-to-leg and finally pushing and shoving with hands. Then came warning number two. “Don’t make me come in there.”

It would get quiet for a while with only whispered disagreements. It rarely stayed quiet, but we were not touching as we had retreated to the outside edge of our territory. But gradually, someone’s foot would brush against the other one and a scream could be heard at the neighbors, “He’s touching me.” The third warning had mom standing at the open the door with hands on her hips, “This the last time I’m gong to tell you. One more time and your dad is coming in here with the strap.”

This always became a touchy situation. She didn’t necessarily mean what she said. It took some careful calculating on our part to figure out if dad would be next and if he was, would he have “the strap.” The dispute would often continue in whispered negotiations, “I’m gonna kill you if you cross my line.” If a doubled up first hit a shoulder it was back to screaming and dad was in the doorway. If he was not holding the strap, we were safe, if it was in his hand we were both going to get a swat or two. As a prelude to the swat, each proclaimed their innocence and blamed the other. When hit with the strap is was always best to cry immediately then he didn’t use it as long.

I am nine years younger than our sister Gladys and Dean is three years younger than I, She eloped when she was eighteen or nineteen so I was nine or ten at the cease fire. Our bed sharing ended when she got married. There were only two children left at home and three bedrooms. The bed wars ended.

Not long before the truce, mom caught me with several large pieces of cardboard attempting to build the Berlin wall between east and west. I was having a very hard time getting it to stay in place. She stood at the door watching for a while and then asked, “What are you doing.” “Building a wall to keep HIM on his side of the bed.” “I don’t thing it is going to work.” “If I could borrow some thumb tacks and string I could tie it to the ceiling.” “If you did that, either one could roll into the wall and it would move at the bottom. You would be right back where you started.” I thought about it for a while and then said. “I’ll get some boards from the basement.” “No you won’t.”

That ended construction on the great wall of the bed. The fights continued until I got moved to another part of the world. Some nights were quiet. It always took someone to fire the first shot. I’m sure it was always him.

2862 WEBSTER STREET chapter 13

We lived in the oldest house on the street. Never owned it, but rented it for the entire 20+ years my parents lived there. The rent was $45 a month and it was never increased. I always believed that was because no one else would ever rent it, but it may have been because dad took care of all the necessary repairs.

When I was little, my brother and I used to race marbles from the front room to the kitchen. The floor slanted just enough it would pick up speed for the great race. All we had to do was release the marbles.  I don’t know if it was because of the marble races or what t was, but dad decided to level the floors.  I guess it wasn’t possible to level the entire house, so he leveled each room individually, When completed there was a step from one room to the next and they weren’t all the same height. One had to be careful when moving from one room to the next.

It seemed obvious that the neighborhood had dramatically changed some time after our house was built. All the others were reasonably nice homes. My friend David lived in a house with servant quarters up stairs and a narrow set of back stairs down to the kitchen. They never had a servant, but the house was neat to play in.

Rumor had it that our house used to be a neighborhood store (convenience store in current terms). That looked right. The largest room in the house was the first one from the sidewalk. It has an outside entrance. You entered the main part of the house by following the porch around to the right. We used that front room as a bedroom and combination storage space. I know Dean and I kept bikes in there.

Since nearly all of the family seemed to move around to different bedrooms, I eventually slept in each one. Dean and I started in the middle bedroom, I then moved to the back when I first got my own room and in high school I moved to the largest bedroom, in front. I can’t remember why.

There was no furnace, or wall heaters or any kind of central heat. Dad put a coal burning stove up in the early fall and took it down in the early spring. The thing put out enough to heat the entire house, if you didn’t close a door. While that was strange in our neighborhood, it was more surprising that there was no hot water tank. All hot water was heated on the kitchen stove. The more you need, the larger the pots or more of them. Baths were taken in a round galvanized tub that hung on the wall in the bathroom. Baths were taken on Saturday night and everyone used the same water — from youngest to oldest. Dad was the biggest and dirtiest so he was last.

The house entrance & Oak tree

      I seem to remember starting out with a coal-burning kitchen stove. I was still in elementary school when we converted to electricity. The first icebox was exactly that, a box that held ice. The ice man would deliver a large block of ice carrying it in with a big pick like clamp and dripping through the house. The first washing machine we have was the galvanized tub and a scrub board. We then moved on to a wringer washer. Mom would feed the clothes through the wringer and I would pull them out on the other side. She was constantly worried that I would get my fingers caught in the wringer. The dryer was always a close line in the side yard.

Dad grew up on a farm and had the farmer still in him. Several neighbors had small gardens, but out entire back yard had been turned into garden. Us boys were expected to turn the soil over in the spring, weed during the growing season and harvest at the right time. I didn’t mind the harvest. I loved shucking corn, snapping beans and shelling peas. I don’t know why we grew strawberries. What few we got were terrific, but the birds ate most of them. We had two kinds of potatoes and carrots, beets, lettuce and a few other things. Mom canned just about everything. Once we bought a freezer, corn on the cob when right in there. The basement was cool enough to store potatoes all year. It was most likely originally a root cellar. The only entrance was from the outside back of the house.

That was the only house I remember living in while in Omaha.  I was told I was brought home from St. Joseph’s Hospital to an apartment. We moved to Webster Street while I was still an infant.

 I returned to Omaha about 1998 and drove through the old neighborhood. Creighton University’s School of Dentistry now sits on was our property. I could still see the slope of the land that was part of our sledding run. St. Joseph’s Hospital relocated right across the street where Webster school used to be. Webster dead-ends at 28^th and over the wall is a freeway going I don’t know where. 28^th Street looks more like and alley. While there is an entrance to the hospital on Webster, the main entrance is on 30^th.

There is one neighborhood house sitting in the back parking lot of the hospital where it is surrounded by cement. I understand the owner would not sell to the hospital so they bought up everything around him hemming the house in. His street is gone. To leave his place he drives through St. Joseph’s parking lot. If he were to change his mind now, I doubt they would want it. It is nothing but a postage stamp to them and could only be added to their parking lot. That would be expensive. He missed out.

Things change and the world moves on. I have no regrets about the old home being removed. It should have happened before I left. I am surprised it never fell down. The shale siding had several broken pieces where the tarpaper poked through. It was sad to lose the giant Oak tree. We has various swings there through my entire childhood. Even had a trapeze for a while during the time I dreamed of being in the circus. My niece, Wanda and I, did all kinds of tricks on that thing. I was the holder and she did the tricks. I did enjoy that I learned to fall backwards off the trapeze and catch myself by my legs.

In spite of the condition of the house, it has good memories. I remember when I first left that I would never again climb up on that roof and over into the Oak tree. To bad. That was neat.

THE SINNERS PRAYER chapter 12

The summer after eighth grade, dad took the family to the last revival meeting I would ever attend. It was in a tent with sawdust on the ground and only a few blocks from the Union Pacific repair yards where dad worked.

Preaching had a different focus in the 50’s to that of 2012. At least it did in my church. I had never heard that God loved me, other than in the children’s song we sang, but I sure knew I was in great danger of going to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. God was a mighty and awful judge. Slip up and you were doomed. I lived in fear of being doomed. I never felt forgiven and never believed I could be forgiven.

Our church had shown a movie earlier that year about what it would be like in the end times. The moon would turn to blood and the rivers would turn to blood.  I saw all these things turning red and there were forest fires and one awful scene after another but the voice over was the most frightening. God was an angry God and He would judge severely. That was followed by a very long sermon on God’s eternal damnation. I already knew I was destined to hell in a hand basket. The revival meeting was the final straw. I was terrified. I wanted some fire insurance.

After a full week of the evangelist pounding away at us sinner, I finally raised my hand at the alter call. I believe it was during the 17^th singing of “Just As I Am.” I no sooner raised my hand before I regretted it. I was afraid of walking to the front f that tent. I had no intention of going forward, but they had spotters. There were people standing at the back watching for raised hands and one approached me and asked if I would like him to walk with me to the front. I wanted to say no, but I turned and looked up at my dads face on my left and saw tears running down his cheek and the joy in his eyes so I went forward.

We no sooner got the front then I was surrounded by three or four more men all gathered around landing hands on ma and holding me down while screaming to God to save me. I was creeped out and scared. I began to cry. When I started crying, they started rejoicing and then one of them moved on to praying in tongues. That frightened me even more so I cried louder. The louder I got the happier they got. When I ran out of tears they began thanking Jesus and the rejoicing went on and on. When they finally let me go I went back and stood next to dad. He reached down and gave me a hug. I was just thankful I had escaped from the angry men at the alter, but was I “saved.” I wasn’t sure. I didn’t feel differently. I didn’t feel thankful no did I feel like I was avoiding eternal damnation.

I thought it was over. I was saved as far as they were concerned and they would now leave me alone. If they thought I was saved, maybe I was. I didn’t know. The next Sunday I was surround by people at church congratulating me. You would have thought I had won a lottery. My Sunday school teacher wanted me to teach the lesson the next Sunday. As she said, all I had to do was tell the story of Joseph being sold into slavery. Easy. I could do that. I had gone to Sunday school my whole life. I knew the all the kids stories of the Bible. Having taught my class I was even more of a hero to the adults. The kids weren’t too proud of me. What they didn’t know was that I had not known if I was sincere or serious at that alter. I only knew I was a frightened 13-year-old boy. The preacher and the prayer scared the living day lights out of me. I didn’t want to be a sinner any more, but nothing in my life changed. I had heard that there would be a dramatic change when we accepted Jesus. I was pretty sure I was the same ole guy.

However, as far as the church was concerned, I was saved. I was one of them. I was heading to the great kingdom in the sky. I was sure that meant the questioning looks and the constant questions about my salvation were now over.

Wrong. The concern for my spiritual wellbeing only increased. More was expected. More was being demanded.