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The church pew smelled like damp wood. There was also a hint of the lemon scented furniture polish the sisters of church used every Friday evening as they cleaned and polished the sanctuary, getting it ready for Sunday service.
I remember breathing in this scent as I heard the preacher invite anyone who wanted to be saved to come to the altar. I had accepted that invitation many times since my birth, more times than I could recall during my eleven years. Confessing my sins and asking for forgiveness was the easy part. It was the living “free from sin” that got me everytime. I just couldn’t do it. There were so many sins to get caught up in...sins I didn’t even know existed until my parents told me and by then it was too late. I had backslid and needed to be saved again. So on that Sunday morning, my head resting against the pew, my fingers tapping on the top where a line of dirt had escaped the eyes of the sisters cleaning, I contemplated. It was more serious this time. My grandfather laid on a hospital bed, fighting for his life. They had found a brain tumor and it wasn’t looking good. “Lord, I promise this will be the last time. If I get up for prayer today, I will make sure its the last time if you would just let Grandpa live. Please Jesus. I won’t sin anymore, please please please let him live.” I got up and walked towards the altar where some of my cousins were already standing in line. I stood behind the last one and bowed my head until it was my turn for the preacher to lay his hands on me. What if it didn’t work? What if it wasn’t enough? What if I messed up and couldn’t keep my vow? It was finally my turn. I took a few steps toward the preacher, lifted my hands towards heaven and bowed my head, tears pouring from my eyes. My grandfather died that week. I kept my vow. I didn’t get up for any more altar calls to be saved. Growing up in a Pentecostal church where your grandfather is the pastor in a small town with less than 6,000 people gives you a unique perspective on the world...a perspective shaped by fear and responsibility. Since I can remember, I was told we were a chosen people, separated and called to be used by God. We were what they called holy rollers, we spoke in tongues, danced around the church, and beat tambourines during the worship part of the service. We lived in preparation for life after death. For an 11 year old girl who believed with every fiber of her being the things she was taught, the concept of fear, that unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, became a foundation for the choices I made throughout my young adult life. Determining if something was a sin predicated every action and choice I made. {Complete the chapter, what would you write next? I would love to read your responses. Let's see where this writing prompt takes us. Words connect worlds; welcome.} |
ConnectionsOne word at a time. The journey to writing begins with the first word. Writing connects us in ways that unifies our thoughts in ways that define our view of ourselves and others, our world and the world around us. Join the conversation as we find connections in our words; our worlds. Archives
February 2024
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