Sunday Best

Throughout junior high school (now called middle school) I was a typical latchkey kid. A latchkey kid is one who lets himself in the house after school because no one is home to greet (or care) for him. My dad was stationed overseas in the Air Force, and my mom was a catering manager at a large hotel in Central Florida.

I can't explain it, but I felt the need to go to church on a fairly regular basis. My mother never went, except on Easter. There were two local churches near my home --- one Methodist, and one Lutheran. They were both within bike-riding distance. I seem to remember visiting the Lutheran church and joining the Methodist church, not necessarily in that order. The Lutheran service was stuffy, what I would later call liturgical. It contained a lot of responsive reading, prayers that were read and a formalized communion. I don't think that I went very often.

The Methodist church was more informal, and the pastor was a nice fellow. I even attended some Wednesday nights. I had a best friend, Jimmy D., who would go with me sometimes. Jimmy was a skinny Yankee who had a mouth on him (He used the F-word a lot.), but he was a loyal friend, and we talked about everything. One Wednesday night at the Methodist church, we were sitting in the back, talking lowly, but snickering a bit more loudly --- about what, I didn't have a clue. After a while, the pastor asked us to step outside with him, where he proceeded to explain that, while we were welcome at the church, we would have to behave properly. I was sufficiently embarrassed to where I never misbehaved in church again. Jimmy, however, went on to do time.

The only other "religious" associate in middle school was a Catholic kid who lived in the neighborhood. He, Jimmy and I roamed the community, camped out and participated in my first (and only) experience at vandalism. Back in those days the fruit market owners in small towns were very trusting; they left their goods set out all night, unprotected. During one of our campouts, we roamed the area and came upon the stand. Being hungry, we helped ourselves --- then proceeded to smash fruit --- bowling with cantalopes, launching watermelons and firing tomatoes. (I'm embarassed even now to write about it.)

We didn't destroy many, just enough to qualify as vandalism. Well, Jimmy D. bragged about it to the girls living behind my house. They told their mom. She called my mom. I was called on the carpet. My mother threatened to haul me down to the store owner to personally apologize. She didn't do it because she didn't particularly like the neighbor lady poking into our business. She should have busted me. But I was humiliated enough that my teenage life of crime ended right there.

The purpose of this side story is that, after the incident, the three friends discussed our involvement. Jimmy D. was fine, because he knew just how many times that you could go before the judge before you were finally sent to juvenile detention. The Catholic boy was fine, because he was taught (or so he felt) that you could do anything you wanted, as long as you went to confession and made it right. I wasn't fine, because I had disappointed my mother. And it hurt.

First Impressions

Downey Memorial church was located in Union Park, Florida, just east of Orlando. Interesting thing about "memorial" churches. Their purpose is to provide a place to worship God, but they are dedicated to the people who started them, or who paid for the building, did something heroic or was a pillar of the community. Church wings, pews and hymnbooks are likewise dedicated, thus shifting the focus to man, rather than The Man (Jesus).

Downey was a non-denominational church, and my dad took me there regularly. I was age ten or eleven. My mother rarely went to church, except on Easter or Christmas, and on those occasions she would wear a large, flowery hat that blocked the view for anyone several pews back. My dad taught Sunday School there, and I was in his class. One event I remember in particular was the day he brought saltine crackers and grape juice in order to teach us about communion. He said the saltine crackers were like the unleavened bread that Jesus ate --- I guess because they were flat. I don't think that I was allowed to participate in the real communion until sometime later.

The preacher was a nice fellow with a young family. He lived at the edge of a small lake, and the church would hold baptisms in his back yard. My dad and I went to visit him once, and he was out back, in the lake, taking a bath. He wasn't naked (Thank the Lord!), but was all soaped up and proceeded to rinse off. I remember thinking how icky it was seeing an area that held sacred events now polluted with soapy water.

The small church was quite popular and quickly outgrew its capacity. So I participated in my first building program. Well, not really. I just hung around there. Unfortunately, my dad never taught me how to do things, whether they be fun things (like scuba diving), or work things (like hammering, sawing, etc.). I could only watch. I did, however, enjoy hanging around the work site of the new building after dark, talking with my friends --- boys and girls. I think I was just beginning to like girls, but I wasn't really smitten until high school.

The new building was very nice, but the congregation now seemed small. In fact, they were shrinking in numbers. I remember my dad saying that the cost of construction was so high that more "money sermons" were needed, thereby discouraging folks who felt that more attention was given to their wallets than to their souls. I'm sure that I attended every Sunday, but I can only recall one Sunday in particular, when a fellow two rows up started jerkng, foaming at the mouth and writhing on the floor. It was really quite unnerving, but a couple of guys hauled him out of the building, and he appeared to be fine later. I don't think anyone even prayed for him.

I would return to that church six years later to sing a solo.