The Book Rule

I grew up a preacher’s daughter.

And I know what you are thinking. Good little girl with a particularly ornery streak. Right?

Well, you’d basically be right.

But this story isn’t about me. It’s about my brother, Jeff.

Every Sunday morning, my mom would get us out of bed, stick us in the tub or shower to clean us up, dress us in our best clothes, take us each by the hand and walk us over to the old white wooden church building next door to our house for morning services as conducted by my father.

And every Sunday morning, we were bored, tired and fidgety; just what you’d expect from a five year old girl and a three year old boy.

Mom tried everything in her arsenal (which was considerable and not to be taken lightly) to get us to sit still and behave during the service. There were promises of rewards and punishment from both her and Dad, warnings that we weren’t setting a good example for the other children in church, and the eventual briberies of sticks of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum if we would just sit still for five minutes.

Nothing worked.

So Mom hit upon a plan. If we would sit still, we could bring one toy to church to play quietly with while she listened to the sermon. We agreed. She even provided Jeff with a small metal Band-Aid box the likes of which haven’t been seen since the early 1970s.

Every Sunday morning, after the ritual cleaning and dressing, Mom would check to see what we had decided to bring with us. If approved, the item would be stowed away in Mom’s large and roomy purse and would be taken out as soon as the scripture was read and the second hymn had been sung. Sometimes it was a small toy, army men, Matchbox or Hot Wheels cars, or in my case, a book or my Barbie doll.

It worked beautifully.

For months, my mother thought she’d hit on the perfect plan to keep her rambunctious children quiet for the twenty minutes her beloved husband needed to deliver his message to the congregation.

It was heaven on earth.

Until one very special day.

On that Sunday, we were hurried. I don’t remember whether it was because we were tired, slow moving or whatever but for some reason, my mom did the unthinkable.

She forgot to check our toys.

Now normally this wouldn’t be the end of the world for any other mother. But it was a gross miscalculation on her part.

Here’s where I should add a word or two about the church building where we spent our Sunday mornings for five years. The old church was the traditional type like you see in the small towns featured in movies or television. It had been painted white a few years before and was in dreadful need of another coat or two of paint. It had the usual steeple containing a bell that tolled lovingly to announce the beginning and ending of the service as well as the occasional wedding and at midnight on New Year’s. There were the aging pews, hand made by long dead craftsman and polished with the wear of years of parishioner’s bottoms.

In the basement there was an immaculately kept kitchen, the scene of many church dinners over the years. It was still kept ready even though a new fellowship hall had been built a few years before containing a newer and more modern kitchen.

There hadn’t been air conditioning in the building until after we had lived there for a couple of years. Huge ceiling fans coupled with hand held fans advertising the local funeral chapel were the only way to keep cool on those sultry, hot Kansas summer mornings.

We were Mayberry incarnate.

Oh, then there were the wooden floors. They were all throughout the building, polished, dusted and shiny. They were cold in the winter and did absolutely nothing to help the already poor acoustics in the aging building. They slanted at a slight angle down towards the altar sitting in a corner of the room; the altar where Dad stood behind the pulpit every Sunday morning.

It was those wooden floors that would play the biggest role in what was to come.

I don’t remember a lot about what happened that day, but I remember we got there just as the service was starting, and sat in the overflow seating at the back of the church as was our usual habit. (That was so we could run out to the bathroom if there was an emergency need)

My mother sat between Jeff and me to deter any of the inevitable bickering commonly occurring when a brother and sister sit together in a quiet place and are bored.

The service began and we sang the first hymn, listened to the welcome and announcements, bowed our heads reverently for the pastoral prayer, heard the scriptures from the Old Testament, The Gospel, and The Epistle, and sang the second hymn.

As soon as we sat down, we settled ourselves comfortably and Mom reached into her bag and pulled out the Band-Aid box and my book, handing it to us with the usual warning look before she settled herself for the sermon.

I opened my book and quietly looked at the pictures and read the story to myself.

Jeff opened the Band-Aid box and inspected his toy selection of the day. He silently sat and looked into the box, contemplating what he could play quietly and still be fun. It took a few minutes to decide exactly what he would do.

Now, to this day, I do not have any idea just what it was my younger brother was going to play that day but I do know his choice of toy would not have passed my mother’s inspection on a good day.

My brother had brought a box of marbles to church; about a dozen of them.

Oh, I can read your mind. You know what happened don’t you?

You’d be right.

First, a quick word about my dad.

My father was six foot, eight inches tall, a giant among fathers in any situation. He had straight thick black hair and brown eyes with gold flecks that reflected the light. His smile lit up every room he was in and he had a way with people the likes of which I have never seen since.

I adored him and still do.

Dad was also a good preacher. People listened to him and wanted to know what he had to say about many things. He had a special dignity he carried with him everywhere.

And on that day, he was on a roll.

I couldn’t tell you what he was preaching about, but whatever it was, he was into it. There were points to make and souls to save and he wasn’t about to let anything get in the way.

Nothing except his three-year-old son.

And a box of marbles.

Jeff decided it was time to take them out of the box about halfway through the sermon. He took them out with the intention of laying them on the pew to play something he had his mind set on.

But as you guessed, the good intentions of play were foiled by a three-year-old’s awkwardness. As he stuck two fingers into the box to pull the first marble out, the unthinkable happened.

He dropped the box onto the floor.

One by one, the marbles began to make their escape, rolling down the hardwood floor towards the altar, picking up speed as they traveled.

Faster and faster.

Louder and louder.

Person after person raised their head, their contemplation of the message they were receiving disturbed. And person after person turned to look to the back of the room to find the source of the offending noise.

As the marbles made their journey down the floor, they became so loud my father did something he had never done before.

He stopped preaching; right in the middle of a thought.

Plunk, plunk, plunk.

One by one, the marbles hit the wooden step at the altar.

Plunk, plunk, plunk.

My mom looked down at my brother with venom in her eyes. Jeff thought his life was over as he knew it.

Plunk, plunk, plunk.

I looked up and saw my dad looking out over the congregation and his eyes met my mother’s.

Plunk, plunk, plunk.

When the sounds had died, you could have heard a pin drop in that acoustically challenged house of God. No one spoke or moved, waiting to see what would happen next.

Jeff buried his head in my mother’s lap and began to cry silently.

But my dad? He picked up right where he left off without as much as a word about what had just happened. He finished the sermon, we sang the final hymn, and were blessed in our work and travels for the coming week during the benediction. As soon as he pronounced the last amen, my brother was out of his seat and out the door of the church, running home to his room.

He hid in the closet until Dad dragged him out.

I never did know what was said between them but the Band-Aid box disappeared and books were the only acceptable items allowed during the sermon from that time on.

Jeff never forgot his embarrassment and to this day, the book rule still applies to his children when they attend church.

It applies to my kids too.



PERSONAL NOTE:

The story you just is ABSOLUTELY TRUE! There was no way I could make this one up.

Sadly, may father is no longer with us, having passed away suddenly in my fifteenth year. It is a loss that still hurts but I know that he’s gone to his maker and waits for us to join in him in that white clapboard church where we spent so many happy Sundays. Love you Dad!

My mother is very much alive and still as formidable and loving a parent as you could have. She has five grandchildren and four great-grandchildren to love and spoil with the Book Rule. I have been blessed beyond measure to have such genes. Thanks and love to you Mom!

My brother, Jeff, is married with two young children of his own. He still blushes when he hears this story told even though it’s been 47 years but he never begrudges us of the telling. Love you bro!