You Can't Make Me

I don't mean to seem self-absorbed, and I write this more to set out something I recall rather than based on any presumption that you will be particularly interested in this personal recollection.

That said, I'm thinking Denver. We had moved there after my youngest sibling was born, a time I now understand that Granny was feeling low following a life-threatening event and a move to a new place where she knew no one (she had signed on as the wife of a service man, and fully expected to move at a moments notice; and had to many times).

It must have been 1960 or so; I know I was in second or third grade. We attended an American Baptist Church (as opposed to a "real," Southern Baptist Church like First in Jackson). It provided some degree of theological familiarity, but it was not always the same as what Mom and Dad were used to.

Anyway, it was the church where I walked the isle giving some testimony of my faith and where I was baptized.

I specifically recall being interested in music. I watched the song leader and sang along enthusiastically. He taught me some of his hand motions; I recall him teaching me the exaggerated curve for a song in four-four, and the sort of triangle for the three-four beat.

I also remember sitting in the assembly for Sunday School, making the hand motions as we all sang hymns before breaking into groups.

This group of American Baptists was a little less than tolerant of undisciplined behavior and my song leading from the back of the room attracted the attention of the song leader for the class, who asked, in front of all, whether I would like to come up front and lead.

I took his comment as a reprimand rather than a real invitation, and shoved my hands into my pockets and pouted.

But, never one to be told what I could do, I kept directing the music with my hands in my pockets. It probably would have been simpler to go up front and lead. Later I did.

©2006 David R. Childress. All Rights Reserved