The Passion of the Brittney

I was 11, maybe 12. I liked Tetris and Madeline L’Engle books. And riding my bike. My mother and my sister and I all lived in a teen-insy 2-bedroom apartment in Ashland City, and even though it was right by the highway, I rode my bike up and down and up and down Gloria Circle thousands of times. Sometimes I’d just ride in circles on the porch.

We’d only been in that aparment a little while. We girls made what can only be characterized as an escape from our previous residence. My mother married a really insane individual who was abusive in just about every way, and if you have to leave the house running and stay at your uncle’s place for a few days before you move, that is sorta kinda escaping. So yeah, things were volatile. Part of the abuse that occured was my stepfather hording money, thereby leaving my mother nearly penniless on her own. His way, of course, of insuring she’d never leave. But with immense courage that, to this day, blows my mind, my mother did leave him, and she made a new home for us out of virtually nothing.

Times were tough. We ate a lot of eggs, because eggs are cheap. My stepfather was still stalking my mother, and following my sister and I on our walks home from school with the promise of doughnuts. Amy and I would run the rest of the way to the church, where my mother was secretary.

At Ashland City First Baptist Church. I spent way too many an hour in that building. My Mom was making minimum wage as the church secretary, but I think she felt safe there, where she found guidance from the church’s pastor, and so she worked there for next to nothing. She couldn’t afford day care for my sister and I, and we were still to young to stay by ourselves, so we stayed with her at the church for an entire summer. We got many a lunch from the poverty pantry–food that was supposed to go to the needy. I used to wonder why we were allowed to have it. My mother did a good job of not letting on how very poor we were.

Also, I do not think you know how boring a church is until you spend eight hours a day in one. As a kid. My sister and I weren’t allowed to go into the sanctuary unless we had skirts on, so playing up in the puplit was out. (Though we did sneak in from time to time, grabbing microphones on stage, pretending to be world famous singers.) Luckily there was a small gym in the church that had a basketball net. My sister and I would draw and dance and play in the gym, but with just the two of us there it got old very quickly. The library, which was really just a building the size of a small house, was just across the street from the church, so I was there almost as much. I got an awful lot of use out of that free library card and read just about everything in the “juvenile” section. Sometimes I’d go in the research rooms and read the encyclopedias. I also read a bunch of books from the church library about missionaries and how to keep God in one’s marriage.

God was prominent figure in my pre-teens. My mother, in her absolute desperation, clung to Christianity. In her fear she gave her life over to God in the hopes that He would make it all okay. She gave 10% of her minimum wage earnings away every Sunday when the offering plate came around, despite the fact that she was, in essence, paying herself. I watched her sign that check every Sunday wondering why she’d rather let the church have it than buy me a new pair of shoes. Or some pizza. Pizza trips were very rare.

There was a pizza parlor just a couple of blocks from our apartment. Pizzas and Cream. They had ice cream, too, as you might have gathered. A trip to Pizzas and Cream was a Big Night Out. In order to celebrate I wanted some of that syrupy sweet Dr. Pepper-like cola, Cheerwine. But Mom wasn’t having any of that. Cheerwine had the word “wine” in it, so it was off-limits to us. Because, you know, Southern Baptists don’t want you drinking anything that might even sound like alcohol. My sister and I were incensed. And the torture didn’t stop there. We weren’t even allowed to say “gosh” in case someone misheard us. No pop music unless completely saccharine. The sharpest dagger to the heart came when, inexplicably, we were not allowed to tight roll our pants. That would’ve made us heathens.

So, you’d think that our spending 40 hours a week at a small rural Southern Baptist church would satiate my mother’s need to be in God’s house. But you’d think wrong. We were also there every Sunday morning, naturally, but also Sunday night and Wednesday night. And since we were members of every youth group and choir, we were also there most Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, too. I was in an all-girl group called Girls in Action, which after having it pointed out to me does sound like a porn site. All the girls in that group had been baptized, the public display of one’s becoming a Christian. All the girls had been baptized besides me, that is, and Sally. We were the only two GAs who hadn’t been dunked in the glory of the Lord. Thing is, I didn’t feel it necessary. Being in and around God and his place of worship left me totally fulfilled spiritually. I found it hard to think about Jesus in any free time I had, because it was the Holy Trinity twenty-four/seven. I’d remembered “getting saved” at age six or so (am now, thankfully, completely reformed), and thought my private decision with God was plenty. I didn’t need to go down front and do it in front of the congregation, then get all wet in front of everybody to know what I thought I knew in my heart. But the external pressure was immense. Not so much from my mother as from my youth minister and youth group leaders. Like they had some quota that needed to be filled. I didn’t see why I couldn’t decide to be baptized on my own time, but seriously, they were just not having it.

So finally, finally, after months of nagging, Sally and I decided we’d go up together. For those of you who have never attended a Baptist church service, let me break it down for you. At the end of the service everybody sings boring hymns for 15 minutes while the pastor up front basically begs people to come up and give their life to the Lord. Everybody stands and waits and sings, and most of them are praying nobody goes up front because momma’s making ribs for lunch. But sometimes somebody does. And those somebodies have to cry and get all upset and be presented like a prize cow. A new member of the herd.

Sally and I decided to do it at night, so it would be in front of just 30 or so people. I found the legs to walk out into the aisle and somehow made it to the pulpit. Sally only made a move after I did. We somehow managed a few tears and you could see in their faces that everyone was relieved.

The next week I prepared for my baptism. They make a big production of it in the middle of the service. I remember liking it when we had baptisms because it was something eventful. Sometimes people would gasp for air after being brought up from the tank of water. I think I just always liked seeing what people looked like with wet hair. My own baptism was such a non-event for me, that I hope at least it made the service go by a little faster for some bored 10-year-old. I thought it funny that the pastor was wearing waders under his robe. And that’s about it.

We left that church later when the Old Money ran my mother off. They accused her of sleeping with the preacher, I learned later, and that’s why we left. Neither my mother, nor I, have been back to church since. But you won’t see me worrying about eternal life in Hell. I’ve been baptized, by God, I’ve got a FREE PASS!