Ramblings of a Survivor

The floor of the sanctuary bounced up and down to the rhythm of the movement of the congregation; we were all at the front of the room – 300 or so of us – packed into the small area where the pews had been removed for our usual morning worship service. I had hoped that my stomach flu of the week would have trickled into Sunday, but I hadn’t thrown up since Friday, so there was no staying home. I looked down at my white Mary Janes that I had begged mama to get me from Kmart, and felt the weight of her hands on my shoulders as her body swayed in rhythmic worship. Brother Snyder’s eyes were following the stroke of his bow across the strings of his violin in slow, long movements as the song leader’s hands were outstretched, leaving his guitar to hang from the strap around his neck; his head turned upward as he sang in meditative canticle, “The Lion of the tribe of Judah has prevailed; the Lion of the tribe of Judah has PREVAILED.” Sister Abbott, as usual, stood on the left side of the altar next to her husband, swaying from side to side in her stiletto snake skin shoes, her silk shirt with its bow close around her neck, neatly tucked into her pencil skirt. I glanced to the right of the altar, and there steadfast behind the orange glittery drumset was my father….softly tapping the snare with his drum brush, eyes acutely awake and aware. His jaw was set, and I thought I saw him grind his his teeth, his body stiff and mechanical. I glanced in front of me, the massive air return breaking the flow of the rust orange ledge of the platform – about six feet wide, and as high as the 2 foot rise separating the worshippers from the worship leaders; its black square-grid calling to me: its unknown destination beckoning to me: I was sure it led to the hell that I knew existed – that there were people trapped down there because of their sin. Its appeal and gravity called to me…with the curiosity of a toddler to a flame…to a world that is dark and scary, but full of possibility – maybe that was hell. I shrugged my shoulder backwards against my mother’s grasp strongly, hoping to get her sweaty hands off of my shoulder so I could stand without physical input. She adjusted her grip, a little more firmly, but I repeated my gesture.

“Stop it.” she whispered into the top of my head; I felt the condensation of her breath on my scalp. My skin crawled; I wanted her to stop touching me. I wanted worship to be done. I eyed Dad. His cream shirt sweat-ridden, with a plaid patterned tie constricting against his neck – just like Sister Abbott’s bow – somehow mirroring the sparkling orange of her primness, while holding to his stanch compliant resistance. His eyes were wide open, looking across the altar, across the mini-grand piano where Mike was expertly moving with the lilt of the music – and with the Holy Spirit. Dad’s eyes skimmed across the brass section where Joe was belting out amazing riffs on his trumpet that lifted the swell of the congregation higher and higher, and then, of course, my problematic brother tooting on his french horn – half engaged. Dad looked across to the pastor’s wife across the podium….

I saw their eyes meet.

His gaze immediately fell, the pumping of his foot on the drum stopping for a few beats. He put his drum brush down and grabbed the stick: a slow steady beat began rifting across the congregation. His jaw set harder – no more grinding of his teeth.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The singing of the congregation waned.

Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom.

Dad was staring at Sister Abbott. Their eyes connected again. Dad’s jaw set.

My gaze travelled between these two: Dad with his passively strong jaw set; Florence with her steady sway.

Now a pattern of stomps between each of Sister Abbott’s feet.

Left Stomp. CLAP

Sway.

Right Stomp. CLAP

Sway.

Left Stomp. CLAP

Sway.

Right Stomp. CLAP

Dad matched her step with the kick drum. Eyes never leaving hers.

BANG-BOOM. BANG-BOOM.

The song leader transitioned into a hum: “Ammmmmennnnnn, Hallelujah.” He softly sang, completely and utterly taken into a trance that was wholly beautiful and scary and disgusting and comforting. The rhythmic dance between drum and stilettos continued its hypnotic control of my family.

The congregation slowly ended their repetitious cantation celebrating the Lion that had saved us all from the depths of hell. Murmurs of prayer began to rise: languages and words that while unintelligible were comforting in their predictability – raising both fear and dread while providing a salve to the pounding that had come while watching my father and Florence in their visual and audible dance to hold control between their same . The sounds coming from the adults around me were languages and words that I understood: not because I knew how to translate them, but because they were something I felt down to the tips of my Mary Janes, to my fingers picking at the dry skin of my cuticles, pulling on the hangnails that were forever on my thumbs. The sting of pulling at them, biting them, making them bleed a bit…I’d suck them and taste the little bit of blood and be reminded that I was alone in my thoughts of despondence, I was a devil child. I knew that.

And then: clapping.

Clap. Left Knee Bend. Clap Right Knee Bend.

Clap. Left Knee Bend. Clap Right Knee Bend.

More of the language. “Tongues” we called them. The “tongues of men and of angels”

We were singing and stamping and clapping and speaking in the tongues that only the Holy Spirit could give.

Our leaders – the dear Abbotts: Mama and Poppa: Our saviors! They had come from the mission field in Africa – our hippy parents knew that this was different than the church of their parents, and had given us this amazing gift of methodic rhythm to connect with our GOD! In the most unexpected of places: Salinas, California. Literally the last place you’d ever expect, but God always chooses the least of those among us! But we were in rhythmic communion with our God.

And my father, the outsider, had just been a part of creating yet another moment of communion with our Heavenly Father…

He IS worthy. He IS the dad I know he is. He IS worthy. So I AM WORTHY.

The heat rose in the room, the air conditioning turned on, and the grate pulled air from the space in front of me, and my heart silenced, suddenly rooted back to the carpet underneath my feat, the sweat dripping off of my father’s face so full of tumoil, and my body accepted the hands of my mother on my shoulders rubbing the uncomfortable fibers of my dress against them.

And I smiled.