Of the Baptist faith
Lakeside Baptist Church was excommunicated from the Southern Baptist Association for allowing new members to join without being dunked. During the 1960s and early ’70s, we were considered radical. I remember two pastors, a beefy guy who lived down by the Tar River, and Gaylord Lehman, an acne-scarred nebbish who modernized the gospel by parable-izing current events.
My earliest memory of religion is my father saying Grace at supper: “Thank you oh Lord for these our many blessings, forgive us our sins,” and something about doing works — mumbled quickly so that we could eat as fast as possible and get back to his veterinary practice.
My earliest memory of church is Vacation Bible School: playing on the sun-baked church grounds among brown pine needles; coloring Jesus and other Bible figures; and snacking on Saltines slathered with peanut butter, washed down with Kool Aid.
The church picnics were another highlight, because Church Ladies could cook: fried chicken; mashed potatoes with giant boats of gravy; green beans; potato salads; sweet potato casseroles topped with toasty marshmallows; country ham with red-eye gravy; fluffy white biscuits; coleslaw heavy with Duke’s mayonnaise; chicken livers fried with onions; sliced tomatoes; fried okra; gelatin salads with fruit, vegetables, and hard-boiled eggs; deviled eggs sprinkled with paprika (the only childhood spice other than salt and pepper); moist, thick cornbread still warm in cast-iron pans; black-eyed peas; stewed greens flavored with ham hocks. The vegetables came from the cooks’ gardens. All homemade, desserts included: lemon pound cakes drizzled with syrup; banana pudding topped with Vanilla Wafers; Angel Food Cake with neon icings; fruit cobblers and crumbles adorned with sugary flour; homemade ice cream made with locally grown fruit before local was hip; Dutch Chocolate Cake with fudge icing; Pecan Sandies; sticky cinnamon buns as big as a catcher’s mitt; butter cookies; pecan pie topped with pecan halves; and zesty lemon squares.
At the end of each sermon, Dr. Lehman called to anyone who wanted to be saved everlastingly. It sounded good, but I was terrified of that long walk down the aisle, in front of Jesus — but especially my neighbors. I knew I would be persecuted on the playground at JCB Elementary School, called a Bible-Thumper or an Angel-Ass. But when my younger sister jumped up one Sunday to head for salvation, I was right behind her in the aisle.
We chosen studied scripture for a few weeks, and were dunked in the baptismal pool concealed by a pocket door behind the choir loft. Wearing long white robes and tighty-whities, I walked down the pool steps and floated across the cement pond to the waiting arms of Dr. L. He prayed out my sins, cradled my head, held my nose, and dipped me into the chlorinated water, which turned to blood when I went under. I saw red. For about two weeks, I studied my Bible religiously, but got stuck on the begats and went back to baseball.
We took communion once a quarter. Ushers passed circular golden trays inlaid with tiny glasses of grape juice down each row. I put my glass in the wooden holder attached to the back of the pew, beside the cards for visitors and backsliders to fill out. Ushers pass around a golden tray sprinkled with hard white wafers. Good thing Jesus didn’t opt for cremation, or we’d be eating ashes. After Dr. L intoned, “This is my blood, or this is my body, eat in remembrance of me,” I would tuck the wafer under my tongue to spit out later and down the shot of grape juice like Marshall Matt Dillon showing off for Miss Kitty in Gunsmoke.
My favorite Sunday School teacher was Mr. Rushing. He was a tanned professor who kept our attention by shocking us with pronouncements about society.
All women are bitches — to each other, he said one Sunday morning.
We glanced at each other and snickered. Offended, the girls argued that their moms were certainly not bitches. Mr. R leaned back in his chair and grinned. As long as we were listening, he didn’t care what we thought or said. Later, as a teacher desperate to keep my students from killing each other, I got in trouble with many a parent and principal from trying to jolt my students into attention.
Once a year, the congregation would raise money for the Lottie Moon Missionary Fund. I never understood who Lottie was, or why she needed our money, something about converting Chinese heathens to Christianity. We had to go door to door with clipboards, leaflets, and a speech — trying our best to save those Asian souls. The experience gave me empathy for the Mormons and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who showed up at our door from time to time — until word got out that Mom would drag them into the living room and make them read from the Bible.
I always pictured Lottie Moon as a wizened crone, standing on a stool behind a plain wooden lectern, mesmerizing heathen masses with her sermons until they flocked to the altar to embrace Jesus.
On Wednesday nights, we got our booster shot to last until Sunday at Bible Training Union, held in the Fellowship Hall. It was mostly youth trying to get laid and the youth minister, trying to keep our attention long enough to slip salvation into our souls. We played games, churned ice cream, flirted with sin and forgiveness, and told our parents how boring the whole thing was.
The older I got, the more I came to dread Sunday mornings. Dad woke me about 6 am for breakfast and a ride to Allen Animal Hospital, with its kennel of dogs and cats.
We’d shepherd the dogs into concrete-and-chainlink tunnels while we mixed up a hearty stew of Purina Dog Chow mixed with USDA cans of surplus mystery meat. We’d slide the metal pans of food into the tunnel and clean their cages while they ate and voided. Then, we’d hustle them back into freshly newspapered cages and water them for the day. Finally, we’d scoop out the tunnels, rinse them with hoses, and scrub the concrete with disinfectant soap. While I was doing the feeding and cleaning, Dad would examine the injured and ill. The whole process took more than an hour, and we had to do it 365 days a year.
One hot summer day at the veterinary office, I led a teenage girl back to pick up her dog. When she bent down to pick him up, a thick stream of dark blood gushed from her short shorts down her leg.
Mortified, she stared at me with wide blue eyes.
Are you all right? I asked.
She burst into tears and fled back into the lobby, leaving a trail of menstrual blood for me to clean. I replayed that scene dozens of times, wondering what had happened and whether she had to have her leg amputated.
Amen.