The mechanical linkage groaned, then clinked, as my dad downshifted into second gear then released the clutch. We were driving a U-Haul, one of many rentals during my youth, pulling into the town of my father’s next pastoral appointment. In that time and in that era the Bishops of the United Methodist Church believed in frequent itinerancy, historically rooted in early American circuit riders, riding horseback from town to town, visiting newly planted lay-led churches, bringing Holy Communion, whether the people wanted it or not. Moving preachers around tall steeples with associated compensation packages was an effective carrot and stick approach to supervision, families be damned.

Up the hill dad drove into town; his new church building up ahead on the right, nestled across from the village park. A towering crane was planted in the front yard, its telescopic reach extended, holding taut cables lashed to the church bell that was being removed before it fell on its own accord. A raging tornado drove through town six weeks earlier, leaving indiscriminate destruction in its wake. It lifted and rotated the church building off its foundation, removed the roof into the next zip code, and flung church pews far and wide, as if they were seeds and it was spring planting. Our first parsonage was in equally bad shape.

The prior pastor, Roger B. Smith, skilled in construction, was arranged to remain for a time to assist my father, who knew equally well how to swing a hammer, to get the church, parsonage, and village back into livable shape. It was the beginning of a life-long friendship, rooted in mutual respect, love of neighbor, and the success of a shared mission. Values I drank in and never forgot. Roger went on to become a prison chaplain at Attica.    

Sinclairville was a blessed appointment for my father and our family. The church afforded him time to complete his undergraduate degree to prepare for seminary. My Sunday school teacher was the local bank vice-president, Herb Larson. He also played the organ and led the choir. When the basement flooded, he donned rubbers over his wingtips and squeegeed water dressed in his 3-piece suite just like the overall clad farmer and ever-smiling postmaster. Moses and the bull rushes. Jesus turning water into wine. Saul blinded on the road to Damascus. I may not remember the sermon I just (masterly) delivered, but those foundational Bible stories taught to me my Mr. Larson were deeply implanted in my DNA.  Full stop, impressive.

Laps in the pool this morning were mindless. I had to share a lane, so my stroke selection was limited to crawl and breast. No dogging it with elementary back. No time to think. E-gads, I am selfish. Privileged, too. I had to rely upon the memories of last week’s laps to complete my memories.

Billy Glass was a NFL footballer who played for the Cleveland Browns. When the league went to Sunday games, he quit because Sunday was the day of resurrection, Christianity’s day of rest, our Sabbath. He wasn’t going to work on Sundays so he became a charismatic evangelist leading a traveling salvation show. He came to Jamestown and my father said we had to go. Pick up the babies and grab the old ladies, Neil Dimond sang. Tears filled my eyes as I responded to Billy’s emotional pleas to come down the aisle and dedicate my life to Christ. I was already Baptized, but this was my first personal claim. He touched me and made me whole.

Third grade began with me seated across the table from Celia and Kimberly, two of the most beautiful girls I ever set eyes upon. Coach Asquith caught my friend Scott peeing in the shower, so he made him stay after school to deep clean and disinfect the shower and locker room. Band instruments were assigned and there weren’t enough French horns to go around, so I left wanting. My older sister was dating the mayor’s son and I caught them necking on the living room sofa. I told Larry to “Cut that out, otherwise you’re going to get my sister pregnant.” Day hauled me into his office and told me about tadpoles swimming upstream. What?

H. Ray Harris was a retired widower who was kind enough to stop by every three months to celebrate Holy Communion for my father’s church. Mom always hosted a big Sunday dinner afterwards. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. The whole nine yards.

His God son, Jeff, came one Sunday. He was a college student preparing for parish ministry, assigned to a tiny church in South Dayton. I was to go with him, I guess, to broaden my experience. He unlocked the church door and I set about to explore the place. I walked right up behind the pulpit, peered over the top (remember, I was a third grader) and could see in my mind’s eye a crowd of thousands waiting for me to proclaim the Gospel. The call was stirring.

Sinclairville had two Little League teams, farm teams we called them, and I was the catcher for team 2. Original name, don’t you think? I was the biggest kid on the team, so who better to guard the plate? I loved to talk smack to batters to distract them. After one game, as we were lined up to shake hands, another kid gave me a shove. I shoved back. Dad wasn’t there, so, so what? I smashed into him and began to trade punches, leading to an all out may lay. Everyone choose a partner. Arms and legs intertwined. Snot and blood. Howls and grunts. Coach pulled us apart, and I thought I caught an approving smile.

Emboldened with confidence, we set about to the next days practice. Our two hometown teams practiced on adjoining baseball diamonds. Before the coaches arrived we started yelling smack to the other team. Both teams came together and I faced off with the other team’s catcher. We punched, grappled, and wrestled each other to the ground. The crowd swelled and began to cheer. I pinned him to the ground with my knees on his shoulders. His face was without defense. As I lifted my right arm to give the fatal blow, I felt something. A pause. A thought. If I wasn’t careful, I could kill him. I stopped myself. Discipline. Honor. Integrity was at stake. I let him up. I never struck anyone else ever again. God saved me, when I was unable to save myself. Violence was not my calling. God had different plans.