High Heels on Wood Floors

I remember how much comfort I got from hearing high heels on wood floors of Austin Creek Missionary Baptist Church—turning in the pew to see Sister So-And-So click-clopping down the aisle, Bible hugged to her chest, bee-lining for the spot that was just as clearly marked “HERS” as any plaque or seating chart could authorize, her consistent attendance being the clearest—though not the only—token of ownership, belonging:  a coloring book for the grandbaby, perhaps a toy car or baby doll left behind from the last service where she no doubt resided in the EXACT same seat.  

Few things gave me a better understanding of worship than the ringing of those voices against the rough-hewn wooden walls—a hymnal firmly planted in my hand, the spine a li’l broken from the back-and-forth to keep it open between thumb, palm and pinky if I got to direct the singing (a privilege offered to and enjoyed by THREE generations of us Bullard men) from the front of the church by the piana’, the right hand keepin’ time so the congregation could stay together, though nobody really minded if folks held that last whole note a little longer than “necessary.”  You’d wait for somebody’s little white-haired granny to finish that fermata before you picked up the next verse.

Sunday School was a treat but not one that was as reliable as Sister’s attendance.  If testimony service ran a little long, or the singin’ got particularly rambunctious, well, we figured the little ones could benefit just as much from big folks’ church as they could by gluing cotton balls to the sheep on Noah’s ark or cuttin’ out loaves and fishes for the parable of Jesus feeding the multitudes.

The sermon was sweaty and loud, the Man of God bringing the message in waves—first he’d lose the glasses after the scripture was read, then the tie (folded neatly and placed in the Good Book) once the main idea was distilled and administered, then usually the watch would find its place on the pulpit by the rest of it when the preacher hit his stride.  By the end, there was a whole lotta AMEN up in the building.  The call to the altar would be made, and sometimes we’d bring another lamb into the fold.  As folks made their way out of the back of the church, there was something so HOLY in the damp hug you’d get from the pastor, A-shirt visible under that short-sleeved button-up.  He’d worked hard for the Lord and you could see it, FEEL it.  And the humility, the love, the compassion these men would show—it was an inspiration and an aspiration:  to be willing to work so hard for your faith and the family you made in it.

Now, something I’m coming to realize as I get older and learn to open my eyes, ears and heart while trying to keep my mouth shut:  not everybody had that growing up, so what I consider to be holy, good and right isn’t always the way everybody sees it.  OK, fine.  But being willing to break a sweat to show others the love you have in your heart for them?  Because you have faith in their goodness and know their need to feel it?  That’s when it becomes less about the building and more about the spirit.  

I realize this isn’t going to speak to everybody, but it’s what’s on my heart today.  I am feeling ENORMOUSLY blessed and this is where it landed.  Love y’all.