Back in the 1980s, (I feel like I should just say, “the olden days!”) I took a “Reminiscence Writing” class in a nearby town, taught by a delightful lady who was a historian and columnist. Several of us from Centerville drove over together, and I can truthfully say it was a couple of months of the best times of my life. I ran across this piece while cleaning out some drawers – it’s one of the stories I wrote then, and our instructor thought the story was good enough to print in their daily newspaper. Teen age years are filled with angst, and this was probably one of the most embarrassing events of those years. That the place where it happened remains one of my favorite places in the world is amazing – I think about it every time I go there.
Life has its embarrassing moments, and those occasions can be particularly awkward for a teenager. On a warm summer night in a small country church, the presence of a basket of lilies and an impassioned minister gave me an experience I will never forget.
The discovery of my violent allergy to lilies came when I began playing piano at my church on Sunday mornings, placing me in closer proximity to the flower arrangements than I had ever been before. The flowers were huge, beautiful lilies, expertly arranged by an older lady of the congregation. But their beauty to me was overshadowed by my reaction to them – sneezing, coughing and copious tears. The tears were the worst; they made it difficult to see the music in front of me.
Since my talent at the keyboard was questionable to begin with, it made for some interesting moments in the musical portion of the worship service. I never discovered a way to play and wipe my nose at the same time. Finally, in sympathy for my predicament and because they didn’t have anyone else to play the piano, they replaced the flowers with artificial arrangements.
In the summer, my boyfriend and I made the rounds of the Methodist revivals in the county. This was not so much from any special religious fervor on our part; it was simply one of the places we were encouraged to go on weeknights. Since friends of ours in other congregations had the same idea, we usually sat together near the back of the church. I enjoyed the services. There’s nothing much more pleasant than sitting by an open window on a summer-scented night, listening alternately to the voice of the speaker or to the chorus of katydids and crickets outside. We sang enthusiastically to music from a slightly out-of-tune piano out of battered Cokesbury hymnals and endured the uncomfortable pews with only a minimum of complaint.
For some reason, we did not get a seat at the back of the Little Lot Methodist Church on this night. We made our way up to the third or fourth pew and took our seats. We had been seated only a few minutes when I spotted it. The biggest basket of the biggest lilies I had ever seen was sitting proudly in front of the altar. I hoped at first that we might be far enough away to avoid their effect on me. However, the brisk breeze blowing through the open windows wafted the troublesome pollen right into my face.
By the time the minister was halfway through the sermon, my nose and eyes were streaming. I used all my tissues, as well as those of every person in my pew. By the time I started on those from the helpful folks behind us, I felt that everyone in the building was looking at me. Along toward the end of the sermon, I noticed that the preacher was glancing over at our side of the church with increasing frequency. I am sure he had a profound message that night, but I confess that I never heard a word of it. I was too busy hunting tissues and wiping my eyes.
At last, it was time for the closing hymn. “Just As I Am” was announced as the selection and a fervent invitation was given. Was it my imagination, or did the minister look at me as he issued his plea for lost souls to repent?
Probably more converts have walked down the aisle to “Just As I Am” than any other song, but no one answered the call that night. The song has five verses and we sang each one, the preacher pausing at the end of each stanza to reiterate his invitation. By now, I knew beyond doubt that he was looking at me, apparently in tears because of the great emotion evoked by his sermon. When we reached the end of the song, he said, “Let’s repeat that last stanza. I feel that the voice of the Lord is speaking to someone here tonight.” I figured that everyone in the building knew who he was talking about.
Off we went again, repeating that last familiar verse. At that moment, I would have welcomed the hand of the Almighty if it had reached down and plucked me from my pew. I halfway expected that the preacher would walk down and address me personally to ask why I was ignoring the call of the Lord.
I never knew a song to last so long. We reached the conclusion for the second time and the minister reluctantly pronounced the benediction. I didn’t waste a moment getting out of the church. I thought later that perhaps I should have explained to the minister what happened, and my mama fussed at me for not just getting up and leaving before things got so bad. But I guess it might have been a letdown for him to discover that my emotional response to his sermon was, in reality, a reaction to a basket of lilies.
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