Читать книгу Becoming a Counselor - Samuel Gladding T., Samuel T. Gladding - Страница 22

Growing up Baptist was mentally and theologically challenging for me—at least in my childhood church, where the emphasis was on record keeping, recitation, and evangelism. Every Sunday morning, each child present (and the adults too) had to fill out a record form checking such categories as “on time,” “read lesson,” and “brought Bible.” There was a chance to have perfect attendance and to score 100% as well! In addition to the records, there was a focus on memorizing scripture, most of which was from the New Testament, Psalms, and Proverbs. I was never asked to recite anything from the Song of Solomon.

I did fine in the first two categories of being a 1950s Baptist—keeping a record of my attendance and memorizing scripture. However, the third emphasis, evangelism, seemed a bit irrelevant to me until one summer day when the weather and our minister both got hot. I was in sixth grade and seated with my family at the 11 a.m. worship service in the fifth row on the left-hand side of the sanctuary. It was a place our family claimed for years. On that summer Sunday when the sermon ended, the minister gave the traditional invitation for anyone who wished to come forward and join the church as the congregation sang “Just as I Am.”

Several verses were sung, and no one came. Therefore, the minister asked everyone to bow their heads and close their eyes while the choir sang the hymn slowly and with feeling. He said he was sure the Lord was calling someone that day, but he was not sure exactly for what. I was pretty sure the Lord did not have my number, so I relaxed a little bit. However, after the choir had sung and no one had responded, the minister asked the congregation to sing some more. Two, then three, verses were sung. Still there was no one in the front of the church except the preacher. Maybe the Lord had dialed over to the First Presbyterian Church that morning. At least that thought entered my mind.

Appearing to me to be somewhat frustrated, our minister asked for the head-bowing, eye-closing response again while the choir sang softly in the background. When his expectations were not met, he said, to the congregation’s surprise, “I want everyone who has volunteered to be a missionary to the Congo to come to the front.”

“Sam,” he said, “that’s you and Sandra,” pointing to one of my friends who was the same age as me.

I was stunned but began to make my way to the aisle past my parents and siblings, who seemed a bit shocked that I was being called to Africa. Coming down the aisle toward the front, I saw my friend, Sandra, who was a pretty girl with long blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile that could melt the heart of almost any preadolescent boy. But this morning she was not radiant. She was not smiling. She looked as if she were upset, and to make matters worse she was crying. The tears ran down her face in small streams, eroding her makeup significantly and causing her mascara to run down her cheeks. When I asked why she was so distressed, she sobbed with significant feeling, “I don’t want to go to Africa as a missionary!”

“I’m not too wild about the idea myself,” I replied in one of the great understatements of my life. Nevertheless, we made our way to the front where the pastor had us stand in line and be greeted by anyone who so chose to come by after the service.

Well, because of the time that had been taken up with the invitation, most people chose to hurry home to what in the South was a traditional large Sunday noonday meal. Only a handful of the faithful came to shake our hands and wish us well as we stood there in disbelief. Unfortunately, one of the most ardent of the faithful was at the front of the line. It was Miss Thelma, an elderly woman who was in church every time the doors opened. She was a great supporter of foreign missions and shook our hands so vigorously that I found my whole body shaking.

“God bless you children,” I remember her saying while thinking “God is probably the only one who can bless us, and I really wish the Almighty would make us invisible right now.”

Had the story ended there, I would have been humiliated and humbled but happy. However, the rest of my teenage years and into college were influenced by this bizarre Sunday event. For as old as I thought Miss Thelma was, she was not old enough to stop coming to church and asking me how my preparation to serve in Africa was coming along. Every Sunday during the school year I would see her and she would ask me questions about Africa, such as what was the capital of Liberia, where was the Horn of Africa, and was the Ivory Coast a place where there were a lot of elephants. Over time I became pretty good on African geography and history. Also over time I developed to the point where I was able to go off to college and I did—300 miles away!

At that juncture in my life, Miss Thelma had truly grown old and a bit senile. Nevertheless, she kept coming up in my life and would inevitably find me whenever I was home for breaks. She assumed by the time I was 18 that I was in Africa and only home on furloughs (which seemed too frequent and regular in her mind). She asked me how my missionary work was going, and because I was a Georgian at a North Carolina school, I interpreted her question broadly, telling her that I was doing my best to minister to the heathens who surrounded me daily. I assured her the uneducated were being taken care of. She would smile and then walk away.

As the years went by, Miss Thelma became frail and weak. Sandra got married and moved away. I eventually changed denominations and became a United Methodist. Although my awareness of myself and others increased a lot from having been called forward to the front of my church that fateful Sunday, most of what I learned came later. It specifically manifested itself in the form of being able to think quickly on my feet and to memorize a lot of facts about a distant continent. I finally went to South Africa in 2006, but as far as I know Sandra never went any further geographically than Savannah. I doubt either of us will ever be missionaries at this juncture in our lives, but I am sure the memory of that Sunday morning will dwell in our minds forever.

The Lord certainly works in mysterious ways, and what happens, when, and for what reason is not necessarily something that we ever are privileged to know. I doubt I will ever solve the mystery of that moment so many years ago. It does seem to me, though, that when people are allowed to make their own decisions, they enjoy life better and are potentially more spiritual. Not everyone needs to be volunteered for service in a far-away land, and there are a lot of Miss Thelmas in the world!