My Sordid History of Faith (Pt. 1)

On the rare occasion that I return to my hometown in rural Oklahoma to visit my father, I am quickly reminded of what seems like a past life when I enter the living room. For many, many years now my father has kept an oil-painting of the three crosses centered among three hills on what would appear to be a multi-colored dawn. Years of cigarette smoke has dulled the brilliance of the colors somewhat but it remains a vibrant item among my father’s otherwise bare walls.

When I was about 8 years-old I was in the first grade in Lindsay, Oklahoma. I hated it. I had an abusive teacher named Mrs. Loman (very dead- I look forward to pissing on her grave one day) and family life was not going too smoothly. It never did.
I attended a small Church of the Nazarene that my godmother would take me and my younger brother to. I admit that going to church was a very happy experience for me then as it was about the best I did at socializing. I have always gravitated towards older people as they usually have more interesting conversations and stories than anybody in my own age group.
The pastor , Brother Cottom, and his wife…umm…Mrs. Cottom(?)…were always very kind to me. I recall easter egg hunts and picnics outside of their home. Occasionally one of their children would come to town and I would see that that they were middle-aged. The very few children in this small church were treated very much like their own children and grandchildren.
Most of the people who frequented services, my family included, were poor. The church itself sat across the street from a trailer park in which we lived. I now recall coming home from school one day to see a neighbor’s house smoking. Within minutes it was consumed in flames and was reduced to cinders inside of 15 minutes.
The Cottoms housed the family and gave them money, food, clothing, and other necessities. They were extremely good people.

I don’t recall giving the actual substance of the church services any amount of intense thought or attention. I really enjoyed singing and was fascinated by piano playing. I remember the steady flow of smokers entering and exiting during the service, yet, I wasn’t allowed to even go to the bathroom. That didn’t seem quite fair or humane but I acquired excellent, almost divine bladder control at a young age.
There was no fire and brimstone; no pointing, yelling, or shouts of condemnation. I don’t recall even being asked if I was saved, baptized, or willing to die for any unseen spirits. It was very family-like there and I really can’t complain too much about my experiences there.

There was a contest. I was one of only 4 or 5 children that attended bible school and services regularly and we were asked to bring more young people in. The child that brought the most in was to win a mysterious prize.
I don’t remember working terribly hard to get people to come but I managed to get a few cousins and maybe a neighbor kid or three to come. That Sunday was the fullest I’d ever seen the little Church of the Nazarene. If memory serves, I managed to muster a swollen crowd of 12 and I had won the prize: an oil-painting of cavalry by Mrs. Cottom.
It was/is quite good. I remember studying the details. I was into horticulture at a very young age so the daffodils in the forefront of the painting fascinated me.
There is a rather incriminating Polaroid photo of me standing on the front steps of the little church with my newly acquired painting that coved most of my little body; only my little head slightly over the top and my two, untied shoes below.
A rare smile on my face was documented as well….

We moved away from Lindsay and to Ninnekah, Oklahoma. It was there that my relationship with religion took a more realistic turn.