On being washed in the blood of the Lamb.

As a high school senior, I set my sights on a sophomore who returned the interest. When asked, she told me couldn’t date without her parent’s consent, which pretty much meant first joining with them for a family trial by fire. I said that was fine with me and a few days later she invited me to go on a Sunday picnic with them. I, of course, accepted. I mean, like the man said, I would do anything for Love, and a picnic sounded just right to me. You know, walking hand-in-hand through the park and maybe stealing a kiss or so behind a tree.

When I arrived at their home a few minutes before the appointed hour, she met me at the door and told me in a very hush-hush way that I had to change clothes. Levis, stovepipe Tony lama’s, and an off-white Miller shirt weren’t gonna cut it. I would have to go home and put on a suit, tie, and shined shoes and get back there before they left in twenty minutes. Her father, she said, valued punctuality.

I lived maybe an half-mile or so away and valued making haste in such contexts. So, the costume change wasn’t a problem and, all decked out in our Sunday best, we departed for the picnic grounds near to Glen Rose on time.

The picnic, however was a whole ‘nother thing, It bore no resemblance to any family picnic I had ever been on. At first I thought it to be a multi-family picnic, but it wasn’t that either.

In fact, it wasn’t a picnic at all. It was a Nazarene camp meeting at the now much modernized Camp Arrowhead purchased  by the West Texas District Church of the Nazarene in 1953.

Lunch would follow services, which were being held in the Tabernacle. then a large screened-in shelter reminiscent of a brush arbor. Of course, attendance was mandatory and, being respectful and not wanting to give offense, I joined right in.

For about thirty minutes.

As the amens and hallelujahs multiplied and became increasingly loud and the call-and-response sermons and readings grew ever more heartfelt and enthusiastic, I reached a point at which I could not keep from shouting out “You bet!”, which, of course, they do not, and I was asked to step outside for the duration.

I didn’t know where my party had staked out their picnic spot and couldn’t find them when the services ended. Nor could I get help from any of the other hundred or so people who were there. But for the fact that the then apple of my eye, who sought me out despite that fact that her father was of the opinion that I should find alternative transportation for the forty mile journey home, I’d have been stuck hitching rides in Central bumf**** Texas on a sunny day in July in a black Mohair suit.

In the end, my woes were two-fold. Not only did I not get a date, I got no lunch…

4/25/15