But Thank God for Church

My folks left the local Pentecostal church after hearing about a new church called Peoples Revival Center. It was on the hill across town and we would walk three miles there and back as many nights as it was open. It had those comfortable theater chairs with a heavy cushion on the seat and a curved back, not the long hard pews that were at the old church. And the music was good. I even got to play a snare drum and once all of the guitars got cranked up we could whip those people into a frenzy. You knew, the ones that were dancing in the spirit because their eyes were closed and if they fell over and hit their heads they didn’t bruise. If any body fell out under the power we would be quick to put a sheet over their legs so none of us boys would get distracted.

It was a very interesting place to go to church, seldom a dull moment. Brother Gillam was my true to life hero. Before he became a minister, he drove a grey hound bus and as far as I was concerned that was almost as important as being Prime Minister. He was a wonderful and Godly portrayal of every thing I wanted to be when I grew up. If I could just preach like him, and fix a broken down car like him; or build a camp like him, or even let go a fart like him, I would be the happiest person on earth. He would pick us up in that old International and carry us places where dreams came true. We laughed, played, cut down trees, got head rubs, tore down old buildings, set up tents, made maple syrup and traveled the country together. I was the same age as Crock, short for Davie Crocket, short for David, his son. Being his sons’ age gave me a second dad that always was doing something adventurous.

And man could he preach. He would emphasize his point by throwing his handkerchief up in the air at just the right time so he could time it and reach our with a swift jab and catch it on the way down without even looking up. There was a wire strung across the church on which we would sometimes hang a sheet to separate the room in order to have two classes going on at once. One time we watched him throw that hankie into the air and it didn’t come down. It got struck on that wire. It was the funniest thing about the whole sermon. He thought so too. He was a man who loved to laugh.

We had a lady who would visit from out in the country somewhere who had a whole set of false teeth. I remember seeing her lose her teeth and get into a laughing fit that would get the whole church laughing, Holy Laughter we would call it, and Brother Gillam would hold his gut laughing with the most joy you could imagine for a preacher.

We had visiting preachers, usually from the Deep South who sang through their noses and played the fiddle, banjos and guitars. Most of them could shout it out till the Holy Ghost fell. One guy from Australia or somewhere used to wake us all up by throwing his drinking water on us while preaching. And if we got sleepy again, he would smash the glass on the wall behind him. That sure got our attention. He wasn’t mean; he was just long-winded and good at putting us to sleep.

I remember Brother Hardy preaching on hell, all red faced and running back and forth screaming into the microphone. That scared me some. One time he got happy and took off running around and around the church. A few ladies began to chase him and then all of us joined in until we were all out of breath.

The worst sermons were the ones about the rapture. I remember many occasions coming home to an empty house and searching desperately for my mom. Considering what we were up to in our club, I was totally convinced on several occasions that I had been left behind.

It was always fun when Tovio Seppo’s family visited from Port Huron Michigan. All five boys would get up and sing in harmony. They were like stair steps and Tommy, the youngest was the showstopper, much like me in our family. Mom Seppo would play the piano and then it was Tovio’s Seppo’s turn. He was the most fun to watch. He was a big thick man with short stubby fingers and when he sang, it was opera, but not ordinary church opera. He’d take all of his teeth out so he could hit the high notes and then sing on his tiptoes swinging his arms wildly around. By the time he was done the whole church would be in stitches.

And my favorite was Big Norm. Let me tell you about Big Norm. He had to be about three hundred pounds. I just remember it was a long hot ride to Alabama with Big Norm in half of the back seat and Bob, Crock and myself all intertwined on the other half. But he was always a hoot to watch and especially when he got blessed. Every part of his round body would jiggle. He could play that tambourine. I remember one time as he led the song service just jiggling away up there having himself a party. Problem was, his zipper was down and out came the tails of his shirt. Brother Gillam noticed and danced inconspicuously up beside him whispering in his ear. Talk about a deflation. That big old balloon just deflated into a small little ball behind the podium for the rest of the sing along.

We would some times have real Holy Ghost times, but most of the time we would just have a good old hyped up Pentecostal time, rolling on the floors and swinging on the chandeliers. But when God did show up, powerful things happened. I saw demons come out of people right in front of me. I would see Brother Gillam break some bodies’ glasses under his foot and watch them go out of church seeing. He would spit on his finger and stick it into some old ladies ear and she would start to shouting, “I can hear, I can hear.” He would break their canes and they would go out walking.

One time Sharon, the mother of friends close to our age, came in on a mat. She was dying of cancer and when they prayed over her she got up and ran around that church laughing and looking just like an angel. She died a week later.

Another time Brother Gillam believed that a young boy would be healed and the parents decided not to see a doctor. The boy died and friends of the pastor sued on their behalf. I saw Brother Gillam go into a 40 day fast, become skin and bones, wasting away in grief over the young boy. Crock was in my bedroom the night my dad came in and told me his daddy had died while preaching a revival in Alabama. He had a heart attack and died slumped over the pulpit.

This was the first time I experienced death of a vision. Well maybe not exactly the first time. Once we had all dreamed about building a trailer that my dad could pull behind his Hillman. We were planning on going camping and fishing and have lots of adventures. We worked every day building in faith, dreaming, planning, and believing like you naturally do when you are a child. We made the wheels out of wood and finally the day arrived when we had it finished. We planned on pulling it out of the garage and hooking it up to the car and taking it for a spin. The only problem was that the garage doors weren’t big enough for us to get the trailer out of the garage. It was disappointing and the recovery was quick. But when first Sharon died and then Brother Gilllam, so did my heart, my dreams. My hero had died and in his place were the haunting questions, Why? It was an echo of question about mom too, I suppose. Where is God when you really need Him?