Meeting God for the First Time
- linnieaikensartist
- Jan 17
- 5 min read
Updated: Feb 22
I always knew God existed, although I didn’t have a name for him. It was an innate thing. I used to talk to him in my head at nap time, especially when I was “bad” and feeling sad, a feeling that seemed to increase with age. I knew there was a friend out there who loved me, and was listening, although I don’t know how I knew that. It just was. My heart knew. I was an observant girl, so I knew never to voice these thoughts aloud and sound like a “ninny” and get teased for having what they’d call an imaginary friend. There was no imaginary about it. I just knew he existed.
I was six years old before I actually had a name. That was the year my parents took us to Silverlake Presbyterian Church. I loved church! Even the first ten minutes we had to sit in the pews in the sanctuary before being released to Sunday School. I loved singing those old hymns with all the gusto I could muster at that age. It was at church that I learned that God not only loved me, but offered grace for mistakes and forgives us. I would need to know this at an early age. Besides, there were potlucks and picnics and ice cream socials at church!
When I was little, I believed Potlucks to be every child’s favorite; getting to choose your own food! It was the only place we could do that. At home, it was always, “Your dad worked hard at his job to put food on the table and your mother worked hard to make it, so you eat what’s in front of you and don’t complain.” I don’t remember us getting much input into the menu as kids. Dad dictated the menu and Mom cooked it. She was an amazing cook though. But Potlucks! All the choices! Us girls decided this was what heaven would be like. Mom said we probably wouldn’t even need to eat in heaven to live. We wrinkled our noses at that idea. What?! What a let-down…no yummy food in heaven?
We made other observations about potlucks as kids too, which governed our behavior of running to the tables first to get in line, because we noticed that the really old people would always try be in the front of the line, and they’d fill their plates up a mile high. They would bring teeny tiny bowls of food to contribute, and then pile their plates enough for ten people to our ungenerous childlike thinking, especially the desserts. Of course, Mom and Dad put a stop to our impolite shenanigans right quick, and from then on made us wait at the end of the line as our rightful punishment. Potlucks weren’t as enticing after that, because usually all that was left by the time we got to the tables was tuna fish casserole and soggy salad.
The worst thing about potlucks though, was the after-dinner “show”. Sometimes it was a church member playing a harp or a piano while we all sat in hard metal chairs in rows, bored. Sometimes it was a choir performance. Equally boring in our young minds. There are three “shows” that I will never forget, however. One is when a church member who was a doctor presented an informative health video on V.D.—yes, Venereal Disease. The crackling filmstrip displayed the title and right away, Mom groaned, as four voices loudly whispered to her and tugged on her sleeve. “What’s VD, Mom?” She shushed us just as loudly and groaned again. That video and its graphic, gruesome details has stuck with me my entire life. Scare tactics seemed to have been the preferred teaching style in those days, especially in church.
Another of the good doctor’s potluck presentations was about the gruesomely graphic effects of smoking and chewing tobacco on one’s body. I still today have nightmares about those two videos! I should say reel-to-reel projector films, as we didn’t have videos, dvd’s, much less, streaming, in those years. I have never smoked or “chewed” as a result.
The third potluck presentation I recall with fonder memories is a talent show. My mother, a talented musician and singer, often did a contemporary song or two, which meant a singer-songwriter song from the late 1960’s/early 70’s. Everyone always loved to hear her perform. One time a popular high school boy followed her with his own vocals and guitar to the song, “A Horse With No Name,” by the band, America. This one goes down in history along with the good doctor's videos. Mom could barely contain her laughter as the young man soulfully sang about a “trip” on Heroin for an unaware elderly congregation. The high schoolers, standing in back of the Fellowship Hall to watch this one, sniggered the whole way through. We sill laugh about this during family storytelling at holiday gatherings. Mom felt this a fitting turn-about for the old folks after subjecting her little kids to VD films.
Ice cream socials were also a hit with me. While potlucks were held in the “Fellowship Hall,” ice cream socials were held in the concrete amphitheater behind the church. The “show” more often than not was one of church member talents, so Mom always performed. A special memory is of the time when Mom let me perform with her. She taught me to play a silly little four-chord song in G, Em, D, and A on my guitar, which we played and sang to the folk song, “A Horse Named Bill.” Recalling that now, the irony is not lost on me! Mom had a devious sense of humor. Yes, good times at Silverlake Presbyterian Church! I don’t think that congregation was quite ready for the Aikens’ family, with Dad’s long hair, Mom’s irreverent music, and their four precocious little “bunnies”! We kept everyone hopping.
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Note: All artwork, stories and observations posted within should be credited to the author, Linnie Aikens Lindsay (unless cited in the post). Permission is required for any use of my words or artwork. Taken from my work, "My Life As Wallpaper Art".
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