My family was always a family that attended church. My father was an associate pastor of a church in Connecticut, and there really was no option of whether or not we would be attending every time the doors were open. We would go to church on Wednesday evenings, Sunday mornings, and Sunday evenings. I used to hate going to Sunday evening church. It was boring. When Sunday evening rolled around, I was very tired from wandering around the whole church picking locks on closet doors and creating all forms of havoc earlier in the day. Each Sunday evening service was repetitive, and I could not wait to entirely forget about it the second I walked out of those church doors. As an eight year-old bet-wetter, though, there would be a Sunday evening service I would never forget.
On this particular fall Sunday in Connecticut, it was already dark at six o’clock. It was the responsibility of the children, myself and my two sisters, to make sure we were clean and dressed appropriately for church. It was no problem at all for my sisters because they were boring and lounged around on Sunday afternoons and were six and nine years older than me. But I was the adventurous Michael Evans, the eight year-old boy who went on distant quests on his bicycle and wrestled very muddy monsters in the backyard. On a typical Sunday afternoon, I had to take a shower to make myself appear somewhat clean for church.
My mother told me that I must have had some kind of issue with my appearance as a child. I can look back now and laugh as she told me I used to use a marker to color in my very light eyebrows and used white chalk to cover up the freckles on my face.
On this fall evening, I had taken things to a whole new level as far as my appearance went. I washed my hair with Nair, a hair removal product, in an effort to change its color. “Mom, does my hair look any different?”
My mother responded with a perplexed look, “No, why?”
I responded, “Because I just washed my hair with this.” Holding up the bottle of Nair, my mother exhaled a huge gasp, grabbed me by the head, and used the faucet to douse my hair with water. Luckily, my hair didn’t fall out and, upsettingly, didn’t change color. That night already seemed promising.
We pulled up to the massive edifice which was my church, and I was ready to endure another dull evening that would officially start at 7:00 p.m. It was a completely black, fall night. There was the thick smell of cool rain in the distance. The leaves were hissing as they were strewn across the concrete steps and were getting blown across my brown corduroy pants. I used to love my corduroy pants. I would purposefully walk with my legs close together, like a penguin, so that my entrance would be loud and distinguishable from the rubbing of its rippled ribs.
There were four sets of doors that we could choose to enter into the sanctuary. I always wanted to walk through the very right set of doors because the usher, Victor, always had a piece of candy in his pocket for me. That night proved to be no different. Victor handed me my piece of candy and my mother, always worried about teaching me proper manners said, “What do you say?”
I replied in a very monotone manner, “Thank you Victor.”
He gave a chuckle as my mother shot him a smile and into the sanctuary we went.
As a child, the sanctuary seemed like a whole new world. Its large wooden pews were lined in rows of what seemed to be hundreds, laid meticulously on blood-red carpet. Once we found our seat on the hard wooden pew with its paper-thin cushion, it was up to my own creativity to amuse myself. Digging through my mother’s purse and pulling out random things only occupied my attention for so long. I had to move to other things besides crumpled up tissues and lipstick if I was going to make it through the evening. Luckily, each pew was equipped with multiple hymnals, each of which I grabbed and used to create a fort that was shaped as a box and had enough space to just occupy my head. I laid down on the pew and wiggled by body ever
so carefully so that my head was inserted into the little cubby I had made as I prayed feverishly that it would not collapse. It did not collapse. In fact, it held up more strongly than I could have imagined. It blocked out all light, and as if I were in a dark, damp cave, I closed by eyes and whispered to myself, “Cool.”
Upon the opening of my eyes, I was a bit confused. It took me a minute to realize where I was. Then I remembered; I was in the cave I had created. My initial imagination put me in a dark, damp cave, and now my imagination was souring because I felt like I was in it more than ever. It was cold. It was dark. It was damp. My hands trickled down the sides of my pants in an effort to pinch myself. Could this possibly be real? In an instant, I felt where the damp sensation had come from. The front of my corduroys were soaked. I fell asleep! I was no longer in a cave. I was a frightened, embarrassed eight-year old boy who was sitting next to his praying mother with a pee stain on his brown corduroys sticking out like someone was eating a ketchup popsicle while wearing a pair of white gloves. The gig was up. I tugged on my mother’s puffy shouldered shirt, and when her eyes opened, I drew her gaze to the monstrosity which was located on the front of my trousers.
From that point, it turned into a mission, get to car without being noticed. It was something virtually impossible to do coming out of a crowded church service. I walked sheepishly with my hands cupped and held over the front of my pants. My face was splotched with red as I scooted out of the church following as closely to my mother as I could without stepping on her heels. I had made it to the door that exited the building without anyone noticing, and I had just one more obstacle to overcome.
At the door, there was another usher stationed to hold it open for each person leaving. People would walk up to the door, exchange a few words, and then leave. It was simple. I would not say anything, and I would be out home free. This, however, was not the case. We got up to the door, and the usher had extended his hand to me. His intention was to get a handshake. There was nothing I could do. I moved my arm and hand that was sheltering me from the ridicule of the masses, reached up, and shook his hand. His eyes were immediately drawn to the screaming wet mark located on the front of my brown corduroys. “What happened buddy?” he said
considerately.
I held my tongue in embarrassment, but my mother replied as she embraced me, “We had a little accident.”
The usher looked at me and said, “It’s okay, buddy.”
My mother looked at me with a smile and gave her attention back to the usher and said, “It’s been a rough night. He accidentally washed his hair with Nair earlier too.” With that, we walked out the door exiting to the parking lot, loaded into the car, and headed home where I would painfully recall each event that transpired in graphic detail acknowledging that it was the most painful Sunday evening service of my short life thus far.
