One day I imagine my Rambles to be nicely categorized.
Someday I will reveal my site to my oldest grandson and say, “Cricket, fix it!”
Until then… skip the jibber-jabber and move on along if you’d like.
That is my way of saying that this is going to be a hodgepodge of a thought.
I’ve been remembering my early church life. My only grandfather was my paternal grandfather, Clyde Tisdale. He wanted us at church every Sunday. So, we were at church every Sunday. We had our own pew. My mom and dad, me, my three brothers, and Mama and Papaw took up an entire row, right under the mezzanine.
We knew all the Creeds, all the songs and the liturgy. If you asked me as a girl to name one of ‘The Church Fathers’ I probably would have answered, “My Daddy and Charles Westley.”
If you are unfamiliar with Charles Westley, you didn’t grow up as a Methodist.
It was wonderful for me. I learned that God loved me and that I loved Him. I learned that after church we always went to Furr’s Cafeteria and Papaw would let us eat anything we wanted. That was a treat for my family of six. We had a tighter budget, I think.
I knew that if the weather was bad and we didn’t get to go to church, my mom would let me and my brothers play penny-anti poker. (We sometimes prayed for bad weather.)
Then someone told my mom that playing poker for money was a sin and especially on a Sunday.
So we had to start using poker chips, and my mom told us to stop praying for bad weather.
I don’t know what started me on this trip down memory lane.
My family, my mom’s incredible memory, and her unusual life, I suppose.