I grew up going to church - One church, North Springfield Baptist Church. I can’t ever remember not going. Maybe that was because my mother taught Vacation Bible School in 1952 while being 9 months pregnant with me. Going to church was the main event of my week before I started school. Our typical little white wooden church with bell tower was located on 1st Ave. in north Springfield, TN within the shadow of Springfield Woolen Mills where my Daddy worked. We also lived in the shadow of that mill. It’s whistle blew for work to start every morning, it blew at lunch time, and it blew for quitting time when it’s tired employees walked up the hill passed our house on their way home. But our little church had a different way to call its flock to service. It had a bell. Mr. Boissiau faithfully pulled the bell rope that rang the bell every Sunday morning. When we heard that beckoning call we stepped out the door and walked the half block to church. I dressed in my frilly dresses, patent leather shoes, carrying my little Bible. My brother in his white shirt, tie and suit and of course my parents in grown up versions of what my brother and I were wearing. I have thousands of memories of that church and it’s congregation. I remember sitting on dark wooden pews on hot humid Sundays in my little short ruffled dresses with the backs of legs sticking to the pew. I remember pew backs filled with songbooks and wooden handled fans that pictured Christ kneeling in the garden and advertised Associated Funeral Home. I remember the long narrow windows opened wide as possible to let in any breeze that might blow by. I remember singing and music, holding hands in a circle of prayer, old ladies with blue grey hair and Bibles, old men with hands jingling change in their pockets, and offers of chewing gum after service was over. Just up the street from the church on Walnut Street was Woods Grocery Store. It was run by Mr. Robert and Mrs. Nelly Woods. Before they both started attending church, while I was still very small, their store would be open on Sunday morning. One Sunday morning I hadn’t been a very good little girl. My Daddy, at the end of his patience, took me outside to show me the error of my ways. After my tears had been dried and unknown to my mother who was still inside with my brother listening to the sermon, we walked up the street to that little store and got popsicles. This might have turned into a propitious future for me if I had kept my mouth shut. But it seems I bragged about my popsicle on the way home. Dad and I both were in trouble then. And ever after Mom was the one that took me out when I was in trouble. Sorry Dad. I remember the revivals. Sometimes they last 2 weeks but mostly only one. One particular revival made a lasting memory. I had gotten permission to not sit with my parents because we children were going to play our little black plastic flutes. We were allowed to remain sitting on the front row after our performance by promising to be good and not talk. I was thrilled, because I got to sit by my friend Wanda Wooden. It was one of those hot sticky summer nights that promises a thunderstorm. We had kept our word and been on our best behavior. The preacher was preaching like there was no tomorrow. I was concentrating so hard on being good that I hadn’t noticed a thunderstorm had encompassed us. Suddenly in a flash the lightening struck somewhere close by causing the lights to go out. Wanda screamed as if she had been hit. I held her hand. We froze not knowing what to do. The pastor calmed everyone and even make a few laugh with his remarks of “Don’t worry about the lights staying off, I’m not preaching from notes, and can preach just as well in the dark.” And he did. He kept right on preaching and we girls kept right on holding on tightly to each other. Flinching between the thunder, lightening and his warnings of repentance. One Sunday morning after sitting through church service waiting anxiously to go to the rest room as soon as we were dismissed my friend Kay Hand and I finally got permission to go. At six years old we always tried to go to the bathroom with a friend. After all we had to go down the narrow stairs, down the long dark hall, into a classroom that held the huge old furnace, behind a curtain that separated the room, and finally through a door into the bathroom. This dark damp basement room had one small window up close to the ceiling. On this day my friend and I managed to get the door closed and locked, because 6-year-old little girls need lots of privacy. But when it was time to leave we couldn’t get it unlocked and opened. We yelled and no one heard us. We panicked. We had thoughts of being left there until next Sunday, of no fried chicken with lunch, of our parents going off with out us. After what seemed liked hours someone missed us and came looking. It wasn’t easy to get us out. A couple of men ended up having to take the door off its hinges and removing it completely before 2 crying little girls were rescued. It seemed it my family’s special mission was not to miss any meeting. We were there Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. That was OK with me. I liked going to church. Our church had a library. I usually managed to get there early and check out a book. By now I had earned the right to sit by myself up toward the front. Most good Baptist fill up the pews from the back forward so there were plenty of vacant pews up front for me to choose from. This way my parents could keep an eye on me and I could show how grown up I was. What they didn’t know, or maybe they did, was that I would hide my book of fiction in my Bible and look as if I was devoutly studying God’s word. They were good Christian books that I was reading and I’m not sure how much of the sermon I would have understood any way. So maybe it wasn’t so bad. At least that is what I told myself. Christmas was always a wonderful time at our church. There were brown sacks of apples, oranges, nuts and chewing gum, plays and cantatas. But Vacation Bible School was always my favorite time. There was grand marching music each morning as we entered carrying the American Flag, Christian Flag and the Bible. Back then only boys were allowed to bring in one of the flags, but girls were compensated by being the ones honored to carry in the Bible. There was real homemade lemonade, and cookies. There were Bible stories, and crafts. There were parades of cars blowing our horns and carrying banners about VBS with children hanging out the window waving and inviting others to come. And on Friday night all our parents would come see what we had done all week. We would proudly take home white plastic bleach bottles sprayed gold and converted to hold plants, plaster of Paris castings of praying hands to be hung on the wall, and of course Popsicle stick creations. All in all they were wonderful years spent in GAs [Girls Auxiliary], Sun Beams, mission work, revivals, Bible stories, Sword Drills and choir. I wish I could go back and thank all the little old ladies who labored and taught and led. In case there is some way that you have of looking down from heaven today – THANKS. By – Patricia Swallows Carden
Posted on: Mon, 13 Oct 2014 03:13:49 +0000
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