One of my earliest memories takes place at the First Church of the Nazarene located in a small mid coast town in Maine.
Mom had dropped us children off at Sunday School (this was before the old blue bus began providing pick-ups at the corner of our street).
It was a particularly windy and cold day and I for some reason had second thoughts about going to Sunday School at all.
I watched as mom’s Chrysler’s taillights rounded the bend onto High Street and then I quickly darted beneath the thick shrubbery surrounding the main entrance to the Church. Oh how excited I was at the very thought of escape, ah yes, no Sunday School for me this day. I sat quietly beneath the brush until no more voices could be heard.
Poking my head from beneath the bushes to be sure the coast was clear, I dug my too tight saddle shoes into the soft ground and bolted full steam ahead. My peach colored dress billowing against the wind I was sure sweet freedom was mine – when suddenly a hand reached out from nowhere and grabbed my right arm.
I looked up to see the face of my Sunday School teacher Mrs. Clark. Even on an average day I found her appearance, facial expressions, skin tone and most definitely demeanor to be disturbing. She even had a distinct smell – she most definitely reminded me of ‘orange marshmallow peanuts’, yes, for some reason Mrs. Clark carried the scent of orange marshmallow peanuts. To this day I am not even sure the tasty treat even has an aroma.
Her grip on my arm was so tight that it threw me off balance as she dragged me up the six or seven steps to the front door of the Church. Crying out for her to let go I begged for my freedom, but she pulled me inside and forced me into the nearest cold metal black chair. Her shrill voice admonishing me while she frantically looked for the Minister and fumbled through her paperwork to find my parents phone number.
Now I could hear her breathlessly explaining to my father (mom had not even made it back home yet) that I had attempted to flee and that I was unruly and that he/they should be very ashamed of me and my actions. This child could have been struck by a car, this child is not to be trusted ever, she told him how I fought against her grip and how she had to struggle just to get me inside the building. Finally, Mrs. Clark returned the phone to its cradle.
Oh, the long minutes ticked slowly by as I waited for my parents to retrieve me. The thoughts of corporal punishment I would surely endure as a result of my shameful defiance.
Finally, mom retrieved me. Without speaking a word she put me in the car and headed for home. Once there, we silently entered the house – even mom seemed worried, unsure of the outcome.
Dad was sitting in front of the television. He turned and faced me directly as I entered the living room, his face was quite serious, but I sensed some forgiveness might be coming my way and he quietly spoke these words: “I know that you will not behave in that manner again”.
I have always been thankful to the actual Mrs. Clark and subsequently all other like-minded people with their overly ambitious vitriol. For it’s their overzealous ridicule that leads to decent people to rethink punishments and consider second and maybe even third chances before harshly condemning their loved ones.