Front Porch Stories: Growing up in that little red brick church

By KATHY BOHANNON, Special to The Weekly

I was raised in the First Baptist Church of Red Oak, Georgia.

My mom had a key to the back door. This pretty much meant if those doors were open, mom was there. I, being her shadow, was also there.

Mom sang in the choir and I remember her in pointy glasses, bouffant hairdo and burgundy choir robe. Sometimes they used green choir robes, but the vivid memories I have are of the burgundy sort. I was typically seated on a front pew with my brother and the boy from across the street whose name was John. The two boys would begin the hour behaving, but it was just too much to ask for them to act right for the entire church service. Mom would glare at them from the choir loft and usually that was enough to get them to settle down, at least for a few minutes. But no matter how many times mom would ask the rhetorical question of “Why do you want to embarrass me like that?” the boys would just up their game on the following Sunday.

I guess we didn’t have a kid’s church and we were too old for the nursery, so whenever Sunday rolled around, the three of us would pile up on the front pew under the watchful eyes of the entire choir. I’m sure mom would just hope for the best.

Easter and Christmas usually meant that dad would join us at church. I have no idea what kept him from the every-Sunday-service that mom, my brother and I attended, but on these special occasions, dad would drive us in his Eldorado Cadillac. Mom would have arrived early to have choir practice. Dad would later stroll into the church looking like something out of a magazine.

He was tall and terribly handsome. His suits were immaculate and expensive. Just as it was everywhere we went, people would turn to look at him as he walked by. I thought he looked like a mob boss, which was a cool look when I was a kid. We sat with dad whenever he attended church. The two boys behaved throughout the service, but only because dad was just a swat away. That gave me a bit of a break since I was often the victim of their antics.

We had dinner on the grounds at First Baptist. Tables would magically appear in the back parking lot, and platters and bowls of southern women’s cooking would fill those tables to near overflowing. All of the church kids would run and chase each other, working up a strong appetite and surely ruining our “Sunday best”. The pastor would eventually call out to us all and we would gather to hear the blessing. The food was always perfect and the playtime with church friends was just good, clean fun.

Church has changed over the years. Those big white columns that adorn the older churches have given way to designs that are often simple, metal buildings. One of my favorite pastors of all time said it best, “The building is not the church. We are the church.” It’s true, as I’ve grown to realize over a lifetime of attending church services.

I’m thankful for the Sundays that dad attended with us and also for that biblical foundation.

Most of all, I’m thankful for whatever good messages I got out of those sermons that started at that little red brick church so many years ago.

Kathy Bohannon is a Christian humorist and inspirational speaker. She can be reached at [email protected].