My most painful childhood memory, part 1

My mom and stepfather were not very big church goers. We rarely went when I was a young child. Like all good Southerners though, we believed in God and The Holy Trinity but we never exercised that belief by crossing the threshold of a church sanctuary. At least not until I was about 10 or 12. That was about the time my mother must have had some sort of spiritual epiphany because we started going to church more regularly. My stepfather tagged along, not unenthusiastically but not with fervor and commitment either.

During this time, my stepfather's aunt would often accompany us to church on Sunday mornings. We usually picked her up on the way to services and dropped her off when it was over. My aunt, a bitter, angry woman, must have decided she needed some religion too.

The church, pastored by one of the city's more popular ministers, was your typical predominately black, Missionary Baptist church. The music, easily the best part of the service, was soulful, spirited and uplifting. It's entertainment value was only occasionally surpassed by the flamboyant choir director's energetic and rhythmic arm movements. The congregation was always lively and vocal and could easily be whipped into a frenzy whenever the pastor yelled in a sing-songy fashion while simultaneously dancing up and down the aisles. The services were long (3 hours or more) but my mother and aunt seemed to enjoy them so we kept coming back.

On one particular Sunday, my Mom, being moved by the message, decided to accept the pastor's invitation. Invitation to what I don't exactly remember but, with tears in her eyes, she went forward for prayer and made a decision to become a full-fledged member of the church.

The church was so crowded that day that our family had to be separated. My mom and I sat in one section of the church while my aunt and stepfather sat in another. Even though I could not see where my stepfather was sitting, when my mom went up for prayer, I immediately sensed the intensity of his disapproval. I knew he would be angry that my mom made such a decision without consulting him. Our unusual seating arrangements coupled with the fact that no one ever plans to be moved by the Holy Spirit would mean nothing to him. His permission was not sought and so there would be hell to pay.

As I watched my mother receive prayer, the muscles in my stomach began to constrict into a large, tightly wound mass. I was concerned for my mother and secretly wished that she had not gone forward. Didn't she know what this would do to him?, I thought.

The ride home was a silent one except for the occasional nervous chatter from my aunt. Could she feel the tension in the air? Was that why she kept talking when no one else said a word? Was she aware of my stepfather's angry state? Did she sense that his wrath was being contained because she was in the car? Did she fear, as I did, what would happen once she was no longer in our presence? My aunt was not a pleasant woman to be around but that day, I wanted nothing more than for her to stay with us for as long as humanly possible. I knew that once she got out of that car all hell would break loose.

(To be continued)