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<blockquote data-quote="taykair" data-source="post: 169618" data-attributes="member: 9418"><p style="text-align: center">Chapter Two</p> <p style="text-align: center">Gramma's Angel (1975)</p><p></p><p>I had learned to play checkers long before I had turned sixteen, but I rarely played. Not checkers. Not anything. At the time, I didn't believe in playing games. There was work to be done. God's work. And I had no time for games.</p><p></p><p>By the time I was sixteen, I had completely forgotten about Bobby and what had happened. At least, that's how it seems to me now. It wasn't that I purposely tried to forget. In fact, I can now remember how sad I had been for the longest time. Time, though, took the thought of Bobby and the accident away. Gradually.</p><p></p><p>Telling the story of a gradual change is a lot more difficult than telling the story of a sudden one. I can't pinpoint the exact moment, or even the year, that I stopped thinking about Bobby. If I had been older - as old as Bobby's mom and dad perhaps - then I probably would never have forgotten. I'm sure they never did.</p><p></p><p>But I was still a kid, and other things pushed Bobby out of my mind. We moved from Main Street to a bigger house just outside of town. I started school and met and made new friends. Children are resilient - much tougher than they are given credit for. One day, they can experience a pain which they think will always hurt; the next day they are laughing and playing. All pain forgotten. And so I forgot. Gradually.</p><p></p><p>I don't remember laughing very much, though. And, as I've said, by the time I was sixteen, I wasn't playing. I was serious.</p><p>I had been baptized in the local Baptist church at the age of twelve. I had read the Bible from start to finish about a year before that. By the time I was sixteen, I had read it several times, and was teaching Sunday School. Not teaching other children, oh no. I taught the Senior Adult class. There I was, a kid teaching men - most of whom were deacons or former deacons, and some who had been in the church since my Gramma was a little girl.</p><p></p><p>And a little child shall lead them.</p><p></p><p>Lead them I did. And they followed. After class, they'd shake my hand and say things like, "Young man, I've been in the church thirty (forty, fifty) years, but I've never heard teaching like that."</p><p></p><p>"He's gonna be a preacher one day." Gramma would say.</p><p></p><p>I remember (how I wish I could forget) the first sermon I delivered.</p><p></p><p>It wasn't supposed to be a sermon. Our church had a tradition called "Baptist Men's Day" wherein - instead of a sermon from the pastor - two or three laymen would offer their testimonies before the congregation. These testimonies were generally all the same: "I used to be a sinner. I committed sins X, and Y, and Z. Then I found Jesus. Hallelujah! Praise God!"</p><p></p><p>The two men who spoke before me followed the usual pattern. Then came my turn.</p><p></p><p>Our new pastor was a liberal. At least that's how I and some others in the church saw him. He was constantly going on and on about peace and love, and skipping the more important parts - such as hellfire for Christ deniers. He would insist that, even though the Bible contained truth, it wasn't literally true. And he was constantly talking about diversity. Diversity! It was too much.</p><p></p><p>I couldn't stand him.</p><p></p><p>So, as I rose to address the congregation, I pulled the twenty-page speech from my breast pocket, laid it upon the pulpit, and began...</p><p>"I have entitled my talk today "The Case for Conformity"...</p><p></p><p>And so I made my case. The book of Amos. Chapter 3, verse 3. Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. Chapter 1, verse 10. Chapter and verse. Chapter and verse. The congregation was eating it up. The pastor just looked sad. I had won. Lots of handshakes and pats on the back from my friends after the service.</p><p></p><p>"He's gonna be a preacher one day." Gramma would say.</p><p></p><p>I remember (how I wish I could forget) when, at a covered-dish supper at the church, I noticed the pastor and a young man deep in conversation. The young man seemed troubled. I moved closer.</p><p></p><p>"You see, pastor," the young man said, "Elaine and I love each other very much, but my parents are against us getting married. You see, her family's Catholic and..."</p><p></p><p>"The Bible," I interjected, "Says that we should not be unequally yoked with unbelievers. It also tells us to obey our parents and..."</p><p></p><p>"Thank you, Michael." the pastor said. "Why don't you go get yourself some of Mrs. Johnson's fine potato salad, and I'll take care of this."</p><p></p><p>'Darned hippie,' I thought, 'He'll probably advise the poor boy to convert to Catholicism."</p><p></p><p>I moved away toward the group in my church which were more in agreement with my point of view. They all agreed with me, of course.</p><p></p><p>"He's gonna be a preacher one day." Gramma would say.</p><p></p><p>And that was my goal. What Gramma didn't know was that the real reason I studied the Bible so diligently, why I was baptized, why I taught Sunday School, why I focused my life upon heaven instead of earth, was because a five-year old boy wanted to go play checkers with his dead friend.</p><p></p><p>Of course, by the time I was sixteen, I had forgotten that as well.</p><p></p><p>So much for gradual change.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="taykair, post: 169618, member: 9418"] [CENTER]Chapter Two Gramma's Angel (1975)[/CENTER] I had learned to play checkers long before I had turned sixteen, but I rarely played. Not checkers. Not anything. At the time, I didn't believe in playing games. There was work to be done. God's work. And I had no time for games. By the time I was sixteen, I had completely forgotten about Bobby and what had happened. At least, that's how it seems to me now. It wasn't that I purposely tried to forget. In fact, I can now remember how sad I had been for the longest time. Time, though, took the thought of Bobby and the accident away. Gradually. Telling the story of a gradual change is a lot more difficult than telling the story of a sudden one. I can't pinpoint the exact moment, or even the year, that I stopped thinking about Bobby. If I had been older - as old as Bobby's mom and dad perhaps - then I probably would never have forgotten. I'm sure they never did. But I was still a kid, and other things pushed Bobby out of my mind. We moved from Main Street to a bigger house just outside of town. I started school and met and made new friends. Children are resilient - much tougher than they are given credit for. One day, they can experience a pain which they think will always hurt; the next day they are laughing and playing. All pain forgotten. And so I forgot. Gradually. I don't remember laughing very much, though. And, as I've said, by the time I was sixteen, I wasn't playing. I was serious. I had been baptized in the local Baptist church at the age of twelve. I had read the Bible from start to finish about a year before that. By the time I was sixteen, I had read it several times, and was teaching Sunday School. Not teaching other children, oh no. I taught the Senior Adult class. There I was, a kid teaching men - most of whom were deacons or former deacons, and some who had been in the church since my Gramma was a little girl. And a little child shall lead them. Lead them I did. And they followed. After class, they'd shake my hand and say things like, "Young man, I've been in the church thirty (forty, fifty) years, but I've never heard teaching like that." "He's gonna be a preacher one day." Gramma would say. I remember (how I wish I could forget) the first sermon I delivered. It wasn't supposed to be a sermon. Our church had a tradition called "Baptist Men's Day" wherein - instead of a sermon from the pastor - two or three laymen would offer their testimonies before the congregation. These testimonies were generally all the same: "I used to be a sinner. I committed sins X, and Y, and Z. Then I found Jesus. Hallelujah! Praise God!" The two men who spoke before me followed the usual pattern. Then came my turn. Our new pastor was a liberal. At least that's how I and some others in the church saw him. He was constantly going on and on about peace and love, and skipping the more important parts - such as hellfire for Christ deniers. He would insist that, even though the Bible contained truth, it wasn't literally true. And he was constantly talking about diversity. Diversity! It was too much. I couldn't stand him. So, as I rose to address the congregation, I pulled the twenty-page speech from my breast pocket, laid it upon the pulpit, and began... "I have entitled my talk today "The Case for Conformity"... And so I made my case. The book of Amos. Chapter 3, verse 3. Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. Chapter 1, verse 10. Chapter and verse. Chapter and verse. The congregation was eating it up. The pastor just looked sad. I had won. Lots of handshakes and pats on the back from my friends after the service. "He's gonna be a preacher one day." Gramma would say. I remember (how I wish I could forget) when, at a covered-dish supper at the church, I noticed the pastor and a young man deep in conversation. The young man seemed troubled. I moved closer. "You see, pastor," the young man said, "Elaine and I love each other very much, but my parents are against us getting married. You see, her family's Catholic and..." "The Bible," I interjected, "Says that we should not be unequally yoked with unbelievers. It also tells us to obey our parents and..." "Thank you, Michael." the pastor said. "Why don't you go get yourself some of Mrs. Johnson's fine potato salad, and I'll take care of this." 'Darned hippie,' I thought, 'He'll probably advise the poor boy to convert to Catholicism." I moved away toward the group in my church which were more in agreement with my point of view. They all agreed with me, of course. "He's gonna be a preacher one day." Gramma would say. And that was my goal. What Gramma didn't know was that the real reason I studied the Bible so diligently, why I was baptized, why I taught Sunday School, why I focused my life upon heaven instead of earth, was because a five-year old boy wanted to go play checkers with his dead friend. Of course, by the time I was sixteen, I had forgotten that as well. So much for gradual change. [/QUOTE]
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