Tell me a story

Have you ever heard this little song?

"Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell my a story before I go to bed

Tell me about the birds and bees; tell me what makes a chicken sneeze

Tell me a story before I go to bed"

My daddy used to sing that to us.  Now I have a very dear friend who tells a great story. If only I could get him to put those stories on paper.  The first time I met him he told me someone had told him he should write a book - and said he wouldn't know how to do that - and of course, I told him I knew a little widow woman who could write. . .

In the meantime, this week I read the book,, Chilled in Chattanooga by Deborah Malone.  Ir's fiction and a mystery.  I don't normally read that genre.  HOWEVER. . .

Reading about the place I lived from 1972 to 1979, the birthplace of my children, and one of my very favorite towns made me begin to remember that I have some of my own stories - particularly relating to that time in my history.  And the book I read reminded me. . .

It was May 1976.  Ray Parker had just received his Doctorate from Luther Rice Seminary in Jacksonville and as was our custom we were going part of the way to Chattanooga on Saturday afternoon and the rest of the way on Sunday.  

Sunday - that meant we would find a church.  We were in a small town in south Georgia.  I don't remember the exact location..

Now independent sort that I am, my choice would have been to find a church that was not our "denomination" so the girls (Becca was 5 and Renee was 2) could worship in a different setting.

Oh no.  Had to be a Baptist church.

But -- let's be sure it's not one of those who might be handling snakes as a part of their worship (that's what the story in the book reminded me of - a feisty little grandmother had actually done that. But I digress).

As Ray and the girls and I went up to the front door of the church we met the minister.  He was in his 70's and that seemed elderly then.  He was also a bit frail.

"I've been out of the pulpit for a few Sundays", he said, continuing that he had been ill and that this was his first Sunday back.

Ray told him that he was a minister.

About halfway into the service, the minister cane to the pulpit:

"I'm not feeling well and I'm going to ask Rev. Parker to come up and preach.

I don't know what you know about "preachers", but most of them have what is called a candy stick in their pocket.  This means they have a message they can preach on demand.

It was Mother's Day.  Do you think his candy stick was geared toward mothers???

To Ray's relief, the congregation sang all four verses of "Holy Spirit, Breathe on me".

And fortunately, there were no snakes in the church.

That was so long ago.  Sometimes I forget life as the wife of a pastor.  But all these years later I can remember some of those experiences with a smile.   

Usually what I write on this blog has some sort of a message.  I've been pondering why I thought I needed to tell this story today.  Who knows?

EXCEPT

I know we all have stories. . . and our stories should be told!  

                                               May your life have enough sunshine 

                                               to make you appreciate the shadows

PS - This year marks the 40th anniversary of the time that I stopped being a minister's wife.  It seems appropriate for me to say that the sunshine of those forty years has surely made me appreciate the shadows.  As I often say "Have you met my children?"  Thanks be to God!!!