For as long as I can remember, summer has meant one thing – revival. Numerous weeks of morning and night revival services. My mother, like her mother before her, and her mother before her, was raised going to little foot washing Baptist churches scattered throughout North Georgia. Most of them only meet once a month, which allowed people to visit each other on their home churches’ off Sundays. Each little church had its own week long revival during the summer.
Daddy was a Catholic when Mama met him, but when I was three, he was saved and not long afterwards, he was called to preach.
By the time I was seven, my Daddy was running revivals, first as a helper, then as a pastor. We spent Saturday nights at conference, where the church conducted its business. We spent Sunday mornings in church and Sunday afternoon at church members’ houses. If we were lucky, they had children; if we weren’t lucky, we’d spend the afternoon staring at wallpaper, doilies and each other, listening to the adults talk. We spent the summer going night and day to revivals. Fred and I knew that’s just the way it was, and it never occurred to us to argue.
Things were different in the days before air conditioning. The night air blew in through the windows and the sounds of singing, preaching, praying and shouting blew out into the night. Wooden handled funeral home fans were a necessity for stirring the air and swatting insects.
There were unwritten rules that I never remember being told, I just knew. To this day, I’m not sure if they were universal church rules or just Betty Sue rules. They were the respect rules.
We knew never, ever to come in or out while someone was praying. We never left during preaching unless something was in imminent danger of exploding, and even then, we had better be sure we were about to spring a leak. Otherwise, we slipped out quietly, either after altar call was in full force or, during regular services, between preachers.
No one left when conference was open, period. This always confused me since conference was left open during revivals, but I guess that rule came with an amendment.
I don’t remember Fred or I taking toys or food, but if we did, I’m sure they had to be soft enough not to make a noise when they were dropped.
There were times, though, that we managed to make noise. More than once, after stacking a pile of books one level too high, they’d topple over banging against benches and floor and echoing throughout the church. There was the time I tied a sleeping Fred’s shoelaces together, then violently shook him awake causing him to kick, grunt and fall off the bench. Giggle fits were frequent visitors too, things are just funnier when you aren’t supposed to laugh.
Talking during church was my weakness, the one rule I broke most often. I tried to whisper, but neither Fred or I ever mastered a good whispering technique. I learned to read lips, I learned the sign language alphabet, and I learned the magic of carrying little notebooks and pencils. Some things just had to be said right then.
Don’t misunderstand me, I wasn’t perfect by any means. There was the time I inexplicably decided to introduce myself to the little girl sitting behind us by taking a big bite out of her; and the time I was supposed to be standing quietly beside Mama while she played the piano, but must have decided my full, frilly dress was too good to waste, so I did the twist while she played.
Girls wore dresses in the church house. Mine always had to be of the appropriate length and height. This elicited more than a few grumbles, since all my dresses had to conform to this rule. This was during the mini skirt craze and knee kissing dresses at school drew the kind of attention I didn’t want. I endured it though. Truth be told, the thoughts of ending out in the altar and having the old ladies scramble for towels or afghans did not appeal to me at all.
As we grew older, sneaking out after altar call became a new challenge. After altar call, the big kids had their outside hangouts, and it was cool to feel like we were doing something a bit naughty. We had to time it just right while Mama was praying. The great thing was, back then, you could hear when the meeting got going good and we could usually get back inside in time to witness what we were all there for, the joy of seeing someone saved. I never remember not knowing that’s what we were there for, that was what was most important and I never remember not wanting to be in the church when it happened.
The friendships forged during those weeks were permanent and deep. There’s a love there that I could have never found anywhere else. Going back to the places Daddy pastored, years later, I am still met with the same love and acceptance that I got when I was young.
After my girls were born, my health was not always agreeable enough for me to be able to carry them to church as often as my parents did me. They were blessed to be able to go with Mama and Daddy to different churches across three counties, just like their mother and uncle before them. I don’t remember telling them the Betty Sue respect rules, but between she and I, we made sure they knew them.
We have a new little grandchild coming along now and hopefully there will be more in the future – a new generation to learn the respect rules and to know that summer means the same thing to them as it has for generations before them – revival time.
donna johnson said:
Enjoyed reading your blog. I remember getting “those looks” and pinched when giggling.
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angiecook tds.net said:
Thank you Debbie. I am glad you are doing this. It is important to hand it down in more ways than one.
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Barbara Chatham said:
That sounds very familiar to me! God bless our little church’s!
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Jan said:
Precious…
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Marilynn Bailey said:
Debbie, I also have some of the same fond memories. When I was very young I remember going to church all the time. This was during a time when people spent the night with others.
I would go to sleep at church and wake up the next morning in a strange place. I was so shy, I would wait until my Mother came to check on me before leaving the bed, sometimes crying because I was scared. I don’t remember ever having snacks or toys at church either. I also remember the same church rules. Church was just a big part of our lives that we accepted as normal.
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Kaye Dupree Loggins said:
What precious memories!! You bring my childhood back like it was yesterday. We were truly blessed.
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Jeff Bennett said:
Debbie, that is just how I remember it too. Lord, the good ole days, so glad for my Salvation and my raising. I don’t go like I should now but I always try to stop what I’m doing around 11:00 am and 8;00 pm each day and say a little prayer for the lost world, and to ask the Lord to let me Man that has to stand to be blessed with the Holy Spirit and Preach Heaven down. Love ya’ll keep the blog going.
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Martha Covington said:
These were understood rules of Mama and Daddy. If you got the look or popped in church then you got it worse when you got home. Some of the best times were spent at the meetin house. The best was the night I was saved.
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Dave said:
Enjoyed your article. My Mom whipped us into shape, literally. That’s how I learned the rules.
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Trent Tibbitts said:
Reblogged this on Trent Tibbitts and commented:
This is the way it was for me to.
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Trent Tibbitts said:
I enjoyed your story. I am a brother, son and grandson of Footwashing Baptist preachers.i also serve as a Deacon. I know exactly what you are taking about. I attend Narroway Baptist in Dallas Ga and we are in Revival this week. We are members of the New Hope Association. What church do you attend and what association is it in. Thanks Trent.
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debbiedoo319 said:
Trent, thank you. Most of our churches are in either the Jasper or Pleasant Valley associations. We have churches in Cobb, Cherokee and Pickens counties. I belong at Mary’s Memorial Baptist Church in Marietta.
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Lisa of the Shoals said:
Debbie, I have so enjoyed reading your blog. You took me swiftly back to my childhood. I, like Trent, belong to small church in Dallas, GA called Shady Grove Baptist Church in Christ…part of the New Hope Association, as is Narroway. Our revival was held last week complete with “dinner on the grounds” between the morning service and the afternoon communion and foot washing service. We use real wine made by a deacon and unleavened bread made by the wife of a deacon. I have a friend who grew up in the Pleasant Valley Association…we were so excited when we discovered our vast similarities! Thank you for blogging on this. I smile the entire time I was reading it. As a side note, I am the granddaughter of a deacon who was also one of the best sacred harp singers I have ever heard. Thanks again.
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Debra Baker said:
Debbie, I was just thinking about revival the other day and trying, unsuccessfully, to tell one of my “citified” friends all about it. If you haven’t lived it, it just is not quite the same somehow. My all-time favorite memory is of the day you became satisfied with your salvation. I will never forget that night at Salem when you walked out of the pew to join your sweet Daddy up front after he opened the doors of the church. Not a dry eye in the house or in Heaven that night. I have so many cherished memories of revival, of your family, my family, and the old-time ways. To me, the Betty Sue Rules (synonymous with my mother’s rules too!) are like the Ten Commandments of Parenting, and I would wager my children recognize each one of them. I enjoyed your story immensely!! Thank you for the memories!!
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