Originally published at Mel’s Big and Tall, Oct. 2013

I’m taking an acting class and one of our assignments was to tell a “First Time” story.   Here’s mine.

When I was growing up, my family never took a real vacation to the beach, a national park or to Disneyland.  We never wanted to.  We always went to visit my mother’s enormous family in the Blue Ridge Mountains.  There was always something fun, exciting and different to do.  For me one of those novel things was going to church.  A little brick church within walking distance of my grandparents’ house, nestled in a hollow, sitting on land my family had donated over a century before.   The roots run deep.  And I loved that.

One summer evening when I was 9, there was a lot of excitement buzzing around the house.  It was the first night of Summer Revival.  I didn’t know what it was, but it sounded like a very big deal – the social event of the season.  Everyone would be there.  I couldn’t wait to go.  Even with my injury – I had stepped on a hornet that morning and my foot was swollen to double its normal size.  And I got to borrow someone’s crutches. Those too were a novelty.  So off I went to what I expected to be a big party or festival.  Boy was I in for a surprise.  What started out as a normal church service quickly turned into the most horrifying event of my young life.  Satan was lurking around every corner, ready to steal my soul and inhabit my cold black heart. Tales of lakes of fire, eternal pain and suffering, damnation and separation from all those who loved me.  Because I was a bad, bad girl.  Because I hadn’t accepted the gift that had been offered to me.  With the combination of insect venom, Benadryl, and sin coursing through my veins, I sat in shame, shaking and sobbing for the remainder of the service.  Not a moment too soon, the Devil’s Ringmaster transformed into the kind, forgiving preacher who finally issued the invitation.  I was the first one to pop out of my seat, shuck those crutches, and hobble up to the altar to accept my free gift and save my mortal soul.  I was surrounded by aunts and uncles, my grandparents, in the arms of my great-grandfather – tears streaming down both of our faces.  I was saved.

As an adult who doesn’t subscribe to that belief system, I look back on that memory today as terrifying, a bit abusive and oddly, one of my most treasured memories of my extended family.  They meant well and they loved me. Enough to literally scare the hell out of me.