Today, I am unable to keep myself focused on completing any project I have started. I am all over the place. I filled three totes with books to deliver to our local shelter; if I don't remove them from the house soon, I will slowly, book by book, place them back on my shelves. Books are extremely hard for me to give away.
I have a load of clothes in the washer and one in the dryer waiting for me to get inspired and fold them. I am a long, long way from inspired right now.
I stopped the laundry to make a sugar free dessert for dinner tonight. The only reason I did this, is because the ice cream in the fridge is talking to me. I am desperately trying to ignore it. It is just a matter of time before I cave. I know me!
I had a random conversation with Tommy about frogs. There was a story running through my mind and I needed some first hand information on frogs. Somewhere in the midst of that conversation, the subject of "Hell" was brought up. How we went from frogs to hell I cannot remember, I think it may have been when Tommy asked, "Why in the hell are you writing about frogs?" All I know for sure is, that by the time I walked back to the computer the frogs were gone and this true story was waiting to be told.
I was a little girl about seven years old, living in the midst of a humid Kentucky heat wave. Our church was having a week's revival. The revival would start at 7 p.m. each night and would usually last about a hour. A guest minister was always invited to preach, trying to rouse the congregation with a new desire to serve the Lord. This minister preached "Hell Fire and Damnation." We weren't used that kind of preaching. The church was full, waiting to see what would happen next. Some people were eager to hear the sermons, others were annoyed by the shouting. I kept waiting for someone to burst into flames!
I usually slept during the sermons. Since the church wasn't air conditioned, the heat seemed to have been stored up during the day, to explode on the congregation at night. Every pew had several old hand held fans featuring pictures of Jesus at various stages of his ministry, stapled to long wooden handles; they could be found among the songbooks. Almost everyone had a fan. The breeze from the fan was a small help, but better the sweltering heat.
That night I wasn't sleepy. The minister had caught my attention. I hung on every word he had to say. The visiting preacher was talking about the 12 virgins and the oil they needed in their lamps. His voice rose, his hands waved the Bible in the air. He walked and paced the podium, sweating profusely, while I sat mesmerized. I didn't know what he was talking about BUT I knew we did not have any lamp oil at home....AND I was worried.
I kept trying to ask Mama about the oil and she kept telling me to be quiet. The more he talked, the more unsettled I became. When the service was over, we strolled out into the night air and breathed in a slight, cool breeze and maybe a sigh of relief. The stars were circling us in every direction. Ordinarily, I would have stood outside for awhile, looking for a falling star to wish on, but that night my mind was far from wishing on stars.... it was on our missing lamp oil.
We lived close to the church, one house separated us belonging to Mrs. Klapp. By the time we reached our house, I was crying. I wasn't crying silently. I was crying out loud and my knees where knocking together. I thought I was going to throw up. I finally told Mama what was wrong with me. It was hard for me to put it into words. Her response was no where, even remotely close, to what I was expecting; she was mad at the minister for scaring me. Mama seldom lost her temper; that night she was livid. She couldn't make me understand what the minister had been talking about.
Mamamae and Mama put me to bed, although I was still crying and scared. They walked back to the kitchen and began talking about me again. Mama picked up the telephone saying she was, "calling THAT preacher to come and explain this whole mess to me!"
I pulled the covers up over my head. Not only was I going to hell for not having any oil, THAT preacher was going have to get out of bed, walk down Beeler Hill and make me stop crying. I uncovered my head long enough to say "Please don't call him, he is gonna be so mad" Mama said ,"Good, I hope he is as mad as I am."
My knees were still knocking, I was crying when I turned my face to the pink bedroom wall and asked God "to not let me die without Him". That was all I said, my knees grew still, the tears stopped and I fell into a deep sleep, all in a matter of seconds.
Thank God Mama noticed that I was asleep! That fact saved the preacher a trip down the hill to our house: saved embarrassment for our family, saved a lot of things in general, and me in particular.
It also showed me Someone out there, who has the time to listen to a very scared, curly headed little girl, with a potty mouth cry and pray. Someone in a split second calmed all my fears. To me, that kind of Power should never be dismissed lightly or taken for granted.
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