Funny Stories of A Bad Ass Kid In Church

In my next life I’d like to be a stand up comedian.  Not just because I think I’m funny with how I tell stories, but because I am observant and humor is how I deal with things.  I like to take my pain and laugh about it–usually with me being the target of my own jokes.  I wrote yesterday about how I read the wrong scripture at my grandmother’s funeral and how that was kind of our dynamic.  I figured I’d share a few of the stories with you guys.

When I was about nine years old I was in my prime of getting into trouble (Well, I’m gonna just lie and say that since trouble finds me a lot these days).  My grandmother was very active in the church that our whole family went to.  I was singing in the children’s choir Sunday and hers would sing the same services that we did.  One day during alter call I went up there to pray.  I must’ve had a rough night or something because I fell asleep at the altar.  I woke up because the song that was playing stopped.  I looked up and was the only one there.  My grandmother leaned over from her seat and gave me a look like “I’m gonna kill you!”

Another Sunday when I was either nine or ten my grandmother’s choir and mine was singing one Sunday.  The children’s choir used to sit in the front rows in these wooden pews with no cushion while the women’s chorus sat up in the stands.  Once again it was prayer time at Grace United Methodist Church.  Everyone’s head was bowed and Rev. Barton was giving thanks to God on behalf of the congregation and asking the Lord to meet our needs.  It was the end of the prayer and my stomach was beginning to hurt.  I tried to hold onto what felt like gas for as long as possible.  I knew that following the prayer was a song from the hymnal so everyone would be standing and singing and I could let this off with no one noticing.  Rev. Barton was closing his prayer.  He said “And let the church say…” in preparation for his flock to say “Amen.”

My stomach couldn’t take it anymore.  It let itself out.  It was loud and obnoxious.  The wooden pews didn’t help the cause at all and sanctuaries are known for having pretty good acoustics.  So it carried.  Once again my grandmother leaned over, looked at me, and I just knew I was about to die that Sunday afternoon.  

We got home to my mom’s apartment.  And my grandmother told her what happened.  I was so embarrassed and started crying.  She knew the whole time it really was an accident.  That’s why she didn’t turn up on me and turn me out in the bathroom at church.

By this summer when we talked about life in general she seemed to think that I was alright and she no longer really worried about me.  I was always the kid that somehow got into trouble.  She knew that I marched to the beat of my own drum and I always do.  As I told her my future plans for Cydney and I, who I’d been seeing, and just my overall outlook on life she was happy.  I told her I wrote a blog post about our conversation and I read it to her in July.  I asked if what I thought she was implying in our conversation was correct and she said yes.  She even told my sister that she talked to me and it finally sounds like I have some sense.  We recapped one more time almost three weeks ago right before she got really sick and that was that.  I knew it would never happen but I said “I think y’all should meet,” and she responded “I’m not going anywhere.”  That was Stine and I coming full circle.

…Well, me messing up the scripture was me coming full circle.

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