Not Funny, Bugs Bunny

I have a special affection for the word “vignette.”  I like the way it sounds with that little spring in the middle.  And I like vignettes themselves—pictures of small scenes that tell stories, or written pictures that tell stories.  The following scenes are vignettes from my life—vignettes that happened in my second home: church.

Five years old.  I’ve been reading for two years—every word I can.  Sitting in church, I read the writing on the wooden table under the pulpit: “This do in remembrance of me.”  I’m instantly full of questions.  Who is “me?”  What are we supposed to do to remember this person?  I decide the previous pastor must have left that table there so that he wouldn’t be forgotten.  I ask Dad about it after church, and he tells me it’s from a Bible verse where Jesus is talking about taking communion in remembrance of Him.  Now that I know the who, the what, and the why, my mind settles.

Six years old.  It’s a Sunday night in the middle of summer, and we’re packed together in a stifling hot church listening to a guest preacher.  The heat is making it difficult for me to breathe—I have severe asthma, and Mom and Dad are always watching me for signs that an attack is coming.  Dad sees me struggling and sweeps me out of the pew, down the aisle, and outside onto the front steps of the church.  He pats my back, asking me questions to see if I need further treatment.  My breathing becomes more regular, and we sit on the steps, my head on his shoulder, his hand on my back.  I think Jesus would make me feel just like this—safe and loved.

Nine years old.  It’s another Sunday night at church.  The sanctuary is empty except for my two older sisters and my little brother Adam and me; we’re waiting for Mom and Dad to finish choir practice.  Adam and I are sitting towards the back of the church, bored and restless.  When the choir begins a loud song, Adam decides it’s the perfect time to try out his latest trick.  He has recently learned to burp the alphabet in one long belch.  I find this both loathsome and fascinating—it’s like a horrible accident I can’t stop myself from looking at.  Adam starts by taking several tiny breaths, then one big one.  The “A” is always a quiet prelude, the “Z” a grand finale of noise and air.  As Adam’s “Z” concludes, a rolled-up bulletin whacks Adam on the top of his head.  We turn around to see the oldest lady either of us has ever seen.  She taps her bulletin on Adam’s head again and whispers loudly, “Not funny, Bugs Bunny.”  Adam and I look at each other and start laughing so hard that we can’t stop.  She whacks Adam on the head again and says, at full volume this time, “Not funny, young man.”  Except it is funny, and the more we think about it, the less control we have over our laughter.  We laugh so hard that she whacks me on the head, too. 

Twelve years old.  I’m standing at the baptistry, waiting my turn to be baptized.  I’ve romanticized this moment for years.  I’ve baptized all my dolls, laying a little white handkerchief over their mouths and dunking them in water as I say, “Based on your confession of faith, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”  I’ve gotten past my fear that the white handkerchief is laced with chloroform; I’ve read so many Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew books that I always assumed that was the case.  Mom explained to me that it wasn’t.  As I stand here, I’m wishing it was.  I would like to be knocked out for this.  Because I haven’t gotten over my fears of water and of being noticed.  I’m shifting from foot to foot, so nervous I’m beginning to wheeze.  I know that in mere seconds, I will have to get in the water and I will have to stand at the microphone and give my testimony to the entire church. All too soon, the pastor leads me into the water and I stumble through my testimony.  He says the familiar words, puts the cloth over my nose and mouth, and leans me back into the water.  I come up, my hair clinging to my back, my eyes struggling to focus.  I stand there for a minute, realizing the enormity of what I’ve done—I made the decision of salvation eight years ago; today, I’ve made that decision public.  I want to high-five God—We did it! 

Twenty-nine years old.  I haven’t been to church in years.  I’m struggling with pain and depression and have never felt farther from God.  But my older sister is singing for church, so I’m here.  I realize as I’m sitting here that I shouldn’t have worn a skirt.  My legs are covered with bruises—bruises I don’t remember getting because I was either high or drunk when they happened.  With shaking hands, I lay my sweater over my legs.  The communion plates are passed, and I notice that the purple juice is the same color as my bruises.  I’m overwhelmed with sudden shame as I see myself for what I’ve become.  I shouldn’t be here.  This is one drink I cannot take.  I push past Monty and walk out of the sanctuary.

Thirty-nine years old.  I’m in a new church in a new town.  I’m clean and sober.  I’m sitting between Monty and Dad, listening to Mom play the offertory on the piano—“Come to Jesus.”  Adam is sitting beside her, waiting for the next song when he’ll play bass.  Something inside of me breaks loose, and I start to cry.  With all my heart, I’m receiving the invitation to come home.  To my family.  To Monty.  And to Jesus.  I’m overwhelmed that He still wants me but so grateful He does.  When the communion cups are passed, I drink mine, knowing I’m forgiven and covered with the kind of grace only God can offer.  I look up and see those old familiar words I now understand, and I say them to Him in my own way—May every word I speak and write, and every action I take, be a living remembrance of You.