My father, a Godly pastor, was a strong disciplinarian. When he spoke, the boys, the wife, the dogs and the chickens listened and obeyed. This rule was set in stone, with few, if any, exceptions. Mom was also double-tough, but wasn't as quick to hit as Dad, but when she decided it was time for corporal punishment, well, that's another blog. Still, those few exceptions to the rule usually surrounded the baby...me!
I keenly recall one particular time when I pushed the envelope far, far, FAR beyond anything healthy. This episode likewise demonstrated Dad's coolness and self-control under extreme pressure. Coolness that I didn't stop him from completing his perceived duty and self-control that I live today to tell the story.
I could not have been more than five or six at the time. Dad was pastor of East Niota Baptist and Mom was the piano player.
It was normal for me to sit in the pew waiting on Mom to complete her piano duties, then return to her customary seat: the third row back from stage left. I would wait impatiently fidgeting and twisting. I imagine someone, a useless older brother, for example, would be assigned to keep me in my seat. It normally worked long enough for Momma to return to me.
It was common for Mom to give me things to keep me occupied during Dad's sermons. I was always fascinated by mom's billfold full of pictures. I'd look through them over and over. They were full of pics of me and the boys, Mom and Dad, etc. There was even a locket of my baby hair, white as snow, from my first haircut. I remember one picture of Dad from the short while that he wore a pencil mustache.
Sometimes, she would have paper for me to draw on and I would while away the hour scribbling little nothings. This was hard to do sitting in the seat, so she'd often let me get down on my knees, turning around, using the pew beside her like a desk. This turned out, on this one fateful Sunday, to be a grave mistake. For some reason, I can only imagine why, I decided that it would be splendid idea to begin crawling under the pews, working my way toward the back of the church. Mom was trying, to no avail, to retrieve me and Dad, who was already behind the pulpit and into his sermon, was, of course, in the perfect observation post to witness the entire debacle.
I'm not exactly sure I remember being yanked from under the pew by Dad, but I do remember being carried, more or less, through the door of the choir room in the front of the sanctuary. There was an exit there that led outside, which is where Dad took me. I vaguely remember a stout beating and a lot of crying. (Then again, there was always a lot of crying from me when the beatings were even no more than threatened.)
What I do remember is Dad carrying/dragging me back into the church house, firmly setting, I like to say "slamming," me in the bench next to Mom, putting that big finger of his into my face and telling me not to move! Me? I sat quietly sniffling. Dad returned to the pulpit, finishing his message. (Knowing him, I'm sure he apologized for the disturbance.)
So, when someone starts bragging about how much trouble they were or weren't as children, I always love to pull out the Big Gun of this little story when I was, if not a fugitive from justice, a fugitive from Momma! I say, "You haven't lived until your Dad has left the pulpit, in the middle of his sermon and..."
Really, though, I blame the one-armed man!
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