I have the tendency to be a bit over-earnest, a bit serious, about things. So, to balance out this tendency, I'm going to include in my blog some humorous stories of my life growing up as a PK (preacher's kid) in rural Saskatchewan (which is mostly prairie land for those of you unfamiliar with Canada).
One Sunday morning as I entered the front door of Trinity Baptist Church (where my father pastored for over a decade), Aida D. arrived in her navy blue Chevy Nova. Most of the congregation had arrived in cars but none of them in quite the manner Aida did in hers. As she blasted into the parking lot, gravel sprayed from beneath her spinning tires, zinging and pinging off of parked vehicles. The Nova fish-tailed, swaying widely, and then, like an arrow shot from a bow, darted straight toward the large decorative boulder set in the front lawn of the church. The few of us watching Aida's arrival gaped in horror as she drove her car directly into the enormous flower-ringed stone. There was a terrific impact and someone cried out, "Aida! Ahhh! She's killed herself!" Dust billowed up around the car obscuring it from view. There was a general rush toward the boulder, though we were all certain Aida had just passed on to glory. But before any of us reached the car, to our amazement, from the swirling shroud of dust stepped the tiny, hunched figure of Aida. She walked toward us with the careful movement of the aged, righting her wig of coppery coils, straightening her glasses and smoothing her shimmering blue dress. All of us stood, stock-still and mute, watching Aida, a modern Lazarus emerging from the grave. She looked up at me as she passed, eyes watery and enormous behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. Her bright red lips parted in a wide smile. "Good morning, dear!," she said. Rather stunned, I made no reply. With a queenly wave of her hand, Aida tottered to the front door of the church. "Aida!" someone called out, "You've crashed your car!" Aida turned in the doorway to look at us, "Did I? Oh, dear...," she replied. Her deeply rouged cheeks bunched and wrinkled to accommodate another broad smile as she waved once more and vanished into the church.
One Sunday morning as I entered the front door of Trinity Baptist Church (where my father pastored for over a decade), Aida D. arrived in her navy blue Chevy Nova. Most of the congregation had arrived in cars but none of them in quite the manner Aida did in hers. As she blasted into the parking lot, gravel sprayed from beneath her spinning tires, zinging and pinging off of parked vehicles. The Nova fish-tailed, swaying widely, and then, like an arrow shot from a bow, darted straight toward the large decorative boulder set in the front lawn of the church. The few of us watching Aida's arrival gaped in horror as she drove her car directly into the enormous flower-ringed stone. There was a terrific impact and someone cried out, "Aida! Ahhh! She's killed herself!" Dust billowed up around the car obscuring it from view. There was a general rush toward the boulder, though we were all certain Aida had just passed on to glory. But before any of us reached the car, to our amazement, from the swirling shroud of dust stepped the tiny, hunched figure of Aida. She walked toward us with the careful movement of the aged, righting her wig of coppery coils, straightening her glasses and smoothing her shimmering blue dress. All of us stood, stock-still and mute, watching Aida, a modern Lazarus emerging from the grave. She looked up at me as she passed, eyes watery and enormous behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. Her bright red lips parted in a wide smile. "Good morning, dear!," she said. Rather stunned, I made no reply. With a queenly wave of her hand, Aida tottered to the front door of the church. "Aida!" someone called out, "You've crashed your car!" Aida turned in the doorway to look at us, "Did I? Oh, dear...," she replied. Her deeply rouged cheeks bunched and wrinkled to accommodate another broad smile as she waved once more and vanished into the church.
