A Sign From God

Here's another true story from my childhood. The mind-numbing, thankless task of caring for my retarded younger sister during church turned into an adventure of epic proportions the day our congregation got a sign from God.


A Sign From God


My sister Liz was brain-damaged at birth and never grasped the subtleties of social behavior. She picked her nose or dug around in the seat of her pants with as much enthusiasm as plump Mrs. Johnson sang “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” It was as likely that Liz would stand on her head with a huge grin demanding old Mr. Buckalew tell her what color her panties were as it was that musty old men would pass the collection plate right before the doxology was sung.

Though our family never figured out a pattern to her obnoxious behavior, we all knew she’d do something shocking before church was over.

I was assigned to keep her in the balcony and preserve what little social status our family retained after nine years of… Liz. Sometimes I’d give her a pen and she’d doodle on the back of the church bulletin until she got bored. If I didn’t watch, she’d cram the paper in her mouth and choke trying to swallow it. Then I had a situation on my hands trying to quiet down her gagging and convince her to stop moaning. Other times she’d get enthralled by the motion of her legs swinging. She’d stare at her legs and swing them faster and faster until she kicked either the bottom of the pew or the wooden railing of the balcony. Occasionally she’d burst into spontaneous song. You haven’t lived until you’re in the middle of a solemn Presbyterian church service and your sister belts out a monotone rendition of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.” Liz definitely was a show stopper.

Dad chewed us out after every incident. His lectures were infamous in our neighborhood. The same tenor voice that rose above the choir singing praise to Our Father in Heaven screeched blasphemous oaths and berated us children or Mom when Dad was displeased. He was often displeased. As other families sat down to an enjoyable Sunday meal, ours stood quaking in fear from Dad’s vehemently delivered post-church sermon. He’d outline our shortcomings, berate me for failing to keep Liz under control, and despair of ever gaining his rightful status as lord of the Hamilton manor. Eventually he’d wind down and we’d all escape to our bedrooms for the afternoon.

Mom and Dad sat in the choir loft directly across from the balcony where they could cast an evil eye when Liz got too far out of control. Because we sat in the balcony most of the congregation missed the “What will Liz do this week?” show, but the few brave souls who sat behind us enjoyed a circus the rest never knew existed.

It was early in September the day that God gave the congregation a sign. Liz wore her new red Buster Brown shoes. Bought just the afternoon before, there hadn’t been time for Dad to carry out his new shoe ritual. Dad liked to buy leather shoes a little small, then soak and stretch them for "a custom fit." He believed this was better than our shoes slipping and eating our heels.

Liz was fairly quiet this particular Sunday. She seemed mesmerized by how her feet looked in her new shoes. I relaxed my usual vigilance and let my attention wander.

The church wan’t air-conditioned. The sanctuary was muggy and the balcony was stifling. Noonday sun poured through stained glass windows, happy to be in its Father’s house. I made a fan from my bulletin. It created a tiny sultry breeze as I moved it back and forth.

The back of the heads in the main congregation looked like they always did. Most of the older ladies wore pillbox hats which sported various bizarre feather or flower arrangements. The only difference from one old man’s head to the next was the amount of baldness and whether it was a Friar Tuck or a futile attempt at a comb-over.

Old Miss Deskins was sound asleep in the main congregation, her mink stole hanging limp around her shoulders. I figured the heat had gotten to her and I envied her ability to escape the boring sermon by falling asleep. She’d taught elementary school for thirty-five years and was the bane of the local children. Like most of the old ladies at church, she had horehound candy breath and smelled of mothballs. The difference was that once Miss Deskins had you within arm’s reach, she’d imperiously demand that you recite the entire multiplication table before she excused you.

A golden-haired teen boy and his family had recently moved into town from out west. I searched the crowd and found him sitting in a side pew. Somehow I caught his eye and we began a coy exchange of shy grins and fake indifference. I flirted with him from behind my fan. He made one too, and we played peek-a-boo with our bulletin fans.

I glanced at my sister. Liz had unbuckled her shoes and was busy twirling her brown pigtails and swinging her right leg. For once she wasn’t causing a ruckus and I looked forward to one Sunday without a lecture from Dad. I remember wondering if anything noisy or potentially trouble-causing could happen and foresaw no indication of impending disaster. Assured I was safe while Liz amused herself, I concentrated on my fan flirting. I knew the boy downstairs was interested in me when the pink tip of his tongue slid across his lower lip. Feeling flushed, I uncrossed then re-crossed my legs and fanned myself even faster. The heat and the sexual tension were palpable.

The minister quoted from a passage declaring that our sins would be revealed. He proclaimed what was done in the dark would be exposed in the light. A dazzling sunbeam suddenly pierced the stained glass windows and fell directly on Old Lady Deskins. Simultaneously Liz swung her leg and one of her shoes came off. The red Buster Brown sailed over the balcony and struck Miss Deskins on the head, waking her up. As she rubbed her head it was apparent that all two hundred worshippers were staring in her direction. The sunbeam had drawn their attention but once the shoe fell down from heaven, well, it was evident to all that this was a sign from God. A murmur spread through the normally silent congregation.

My father glowered at us from the choir loft. Mom rifled in her purse to retrieve her inhaler, suffering an asthma attack trying to keep from laughing. As news of the miracle spread throughout the choir loft, I could see each individual's face reacting. Dad was clearly furious but Mom and most of the choir members were amused. After I realized the choir found it funny, I too saw the humor in the situation and began to giggle. Giggles soon became laughter. Dad continued to glower. Desperate to contain my laughing, it seemed the harder I tried to stop the more impossible it became. Soon tears streamed down my face as I gasped for air trying to compose myself.

The minister continued droning on. A crimson-faced Miss Deskins held a red Buster Brown shoe in one hand and felt her head with the other. Mom’s inhaler wasn’t helping; she coughed violently and her face turned a dusky shade of blue. A blood vessel on Dad’s forehead pulsed so hard I could see it from the balcony. Miss Deskins craned side to side intent on identifying who’d hit her with the shoe.

Liz bobbed over the balcony rail like a child’s toy bird bending for a sip of water. Her lacy pink panties showed each time she leaned forward. I lunged to keep her from falling over the railing and jerked the hem of her skirt down to cover her bottom. Once she was safely back in the pew and aching from laugh-crying, I clutched my chest and rocked in my seat. An old man with a full Friar Tuck sitting nearby must have thought I was having a fit. He took it upon himself to slip downstairs and call for an ambulance.

Usually so much as a whisper or the accidental rattling of a bulletin drew disapproving glances but this was a singular event and the whole congregation was abuzz. People twisted in their seats, turning to look around or speak to their neighbors. Some pointed at the stained glass window or the balcony or even toward Heaven. With their mothers distracted, several small children broke away and raced around the sanctuary.

Soon two men in white uniforms arrived and wandered around the sanctuary with a stretcher, seeking casualties. Nonplused, Reverend Laney abandoned his sermon and stood slack-jawed, gazing around the church.

It was now a disaster of biblical proportion.

The old man who’d called the paramedics directed them to the balcony. I waved them off and pointed to Mom in the choir loft. Her face was dusky and it looked like she might stop breathing at any moment. The paramedics clomped down the stairs and jogged to the choir loft where they strapped Mom to their stretcher and administered oxygen. Slowly, her color returned to normal.

Reverend Laney folded his notes and dismissed the congregation. No one was paying attention to him anyway. Liz broke away and galumphed down to the first floor to search for her shoe. For a moment I considered blocking the balcony door with a pew rather than going downstairs and facing Dad’s wrath. The man who’d called the ambulance returned. He gallantly held my arm and led me down the stairs so the barricade option was lost.

Damage control became my highest priority. I grabbed Liz and we wove through the milling crowd of excited church members to search for Miss Deskins. When I saw the boy I’d been flirting with my cheeks burned like they were on fire. We looked away from each other and didn’t speak. Mortified, I never flirted with him again, and eventually his family moved away.

When we found Miss Deskins, she had a golf ball-sized flesh-colored lump on the top of her head. Her sparse lilac hair had parted to make for the bump. She glanced down and saw Liz’s sock foot. Miss Deskins brandished the shoe at Liz and the minks on her stole jiggled with each wag of her hand. Fascinated, Liz gaped at the dancing minks and ignored Miss Deskins.

Old Purple Hair Lumpy Head Miss Deskins insisted on an apology. Elizabeth refused to apologize, insisting "I didn’t do it on purpose so I don’t have to apologize.”

Thank God, Dad was still occupied with Mom and the ambulance crew.

The Buster Brown shoe standoff ended once I explained the situation, apologized, and pledged my first-born child to the old woman. Miss Deskins relinquished the shoe with a haughty admonition to be more careful in the future. Liz and I escaped without reciting our times tables. My sister stared at the glassy-eyed minks while I buckled her Buster Brown shoe.

Soon after, our parents collected us. Not a word was spoken during the long drive home. Dad disappeared into his workshop. Mom suggested we stay in our rooms until dinner. We took her advice.

We ate our dinner in an unaccustomed and eerie silence. After dinner Dad and Mom called a family meeting. Instead of chewing us out as usual, Dad explained that Miss Deskins was a harsh, judgmental person and he felt the incident may have been God's way of humbling her. He cautioned us to keep our shoes buckled in the future and dismissed us from the table.

Dad never mentioned the incident again.

To this day, I keep my shoes on when I’m in church. No matter how they pinch. I still shudder when I see a mink stole but I’m always ready to recite my multiplication tables.