God Being Real

These days I feel as if I can almost reach out and touch God in the every day events of my life. Sometimes it sends a shiver down my spine to think that God is here, in my home, being REAL.  I think the first time I remember noticing God’s hand in my life was when I was about to go into 8^th grade.  And really, I recognized it more after I became an adult.  Back in the summer before 8^th grade, I was creeped out more than anything.  But it was a beginning for me, and as I’ve gotten older, I can look back and see God being active on my behalf.

My Dad was what the Southern Baptists call a Home Missionary.  He started a Baptist Church in Cheektowaga, NY called French Road Baptist Church.  Cheektowaga was 95% Roman Catholic.  We moved to New York from Tennessee.  Everyone in Tennessee acted as if we were moving to Africa.  Come to think of it, when we got to New York, all our new friends acted as if we had moved from Africa. 

I was in 3^rd grade, and it was a struggle for me.  There I was, with my East Tennessee accent, and the daughter of the guy who started that “new church” on French Road.  And by the way, yes, we did go to church Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, and various other times when something special came up.  That right there put me in the oddball category with my fellow 3^rd graders who only went to church on Saturday nights. 

The timing of our move couldn’t have been worse.  We moved in April – just missed the Blizzard of ’77.  It was the end of the school year.  It was just plain weird and hard.  I started having “stomach aches” that kept me home from school.  My Dad finally got a clue when he drove me to school one morning and I pulled out the ol’ stomach ache as he pulled up to the curb to let me out.  He told me I had to chill, and I never used that excuse again.

I eventually settled in, made lifelong friends, and cried like a big baby when we moved back down south when I was in 10^th grade.  But to scoot back to that summer before 8^th grade….

Every summer my parents loaded up us three kids still at home (I am 5^th of 6) and we made a trip to Tennessee to go camping.  We went to my parent’s home town.  We did not camp at the local KOA, or whatever you call those campgrounds with showers, toilets and a plug.  We camped out in the woods.  We carried our toilet paper as far as we thought we needed to go for privacy and did our thing.  When we needed to bathe, we jumped in the water hole to get wet, got out and lathered up, then jumped back in to rinse off.  Real camping.  At this point, I have to say God Bless My Mom.  We camped for up to two weeks, and she had all the food we ever needed while we were there and she cooked everything over the campfire.  What a woman.

That last fateful trip – oh yes, we never went back after this trip – my parents let me bring my best friend from across the street.  She was a city girl all the way and had never done any camping so we were having a lot of fun together.  The only thing that dragged down our trip was my Dad.  He was being weird.  As a 13 year old, I could only think, “how embarrassing.”  He was very detached.  Very emotional, and constantly wandering away from the family unit to go do….ummmmm……what?  None of us knew. 

 Okay.  This is getting long.  I’ll finish this tale soon!