not your mother's vacation bible school

Warning: This record contains backward masking which may be perceptible at a subliminal level when the record is played forward.

-Warning sticker mandated by Arkansas law in 1983

$950 and some change.

The elementary school kids earned and donated over $950 for families in need in our area, handing over their piggy banks and birthday stash, doing chores for their parents at last week's VBS. I got choked up, listening to the kids clamoring to help other children, feeling capable of making a difference and then following through.

Now it's no secret I love VBS and not just to have a few free mornings in the summer. Where else can they sing songs, learn to care about their community, make crafts and eat clever, themed snacks with fabulous volunteers on the cheap? I'm an enormous fan of the ones we've attended, always welcomed as guests and treated kindly.

VBS hasn't always been such a sweet experience for me. I remember some neighbors - peculiar, spinsterish ladies - that invited us to their VBS, to save our souls because clearly we didn't attend the right church.

Or at least that's how I recall it. They were probably 30 and may have kept unseen husbands, but as for peculiar, I am right on the money.

(Now before I continue, I must say: The Peculiar Sisters picked us up each evening so my Mom missed out on all the fun while she enjoyed a little R&R at the church where I had attended preschool. And I am pretty sure I didn't give her many details until much later, because I was a private kid. No really. My mom is off the hook.)

I have some happy memories: Fun music, crafts and that was all good. But the rest? Holy melting records Batman! It was time for some heavy-handed Satanic backmasking training lest we were lose our way compliments of KISS.

The lights went down each night as they played the evil music - forward, and then backwards - so we could really soak up some Ozzy (evil); Judas Priest, (Satan). I hadn't even heard this music up until this point and each night I found myself drawn in, scared, curious. The leaders swooned and whispered words usually not meant for my ears: Suicide. Drugs. Bloody bats. Demons.

I liked the music. I was equally scared of hell. And I was probably 10.

It was bad enough worrying about someone sneaking some angel dust into my root beer, when I wasn't looking. (The anti-drug message I picked up somewhere, about drug dealers lurking, I don't know, everywhere, trying to drive me crazy with their wares.) Now I had to worry about musicians and my soul and the Beatles, NOT THE BEATLES, and the welfare of my family.

I hit every altar call that week, crying scared little girl tears and offering up terrified prayers, certain, like those bands, that I would be damned to hell and clueless to how Satan had tricked me.

I think that week was part of my development, seeds sown that would one day lead to rigid black & white thinking, my search for perfection, an obsession with doing things religiously right that would stay with me for another decade.

It was why I agreed to be baptized twice at 15 because my elbow might not have been dunked properly.

It played a starring role in my eating disorder at 16.

The fear gripped me early and often and I tried to quell it the best I could.

I am better now, a grown woman that can see this kind of spirituality for what it is. I've let it fall away.

I still wonder about those sincere sisters, that church leadership, exposing us to inappropriate images with a side of fire and brimstone. My little sister had been there with me, four years my junior; she was frightened by a clown, trying to usher her up onstage. (I must have been too busy repenting to notice.)

They finished the week with a record burning bonfire. We were not allowed to attend. By then my Mom had caught wind of the nonsense and saw me eyeing up their record collection.

But they lit up the records, down by the city park, releasing demons into the ether, claiming to hear them plead and squeal.

I guess all small towns have a few.

*****

The kids are upstairs; my nephew is playing with Zack. This was his first week going to a bible camp. He's having a blast, telling me about the funny skits. Holding my hand as we leave the parking lot of the church I screened last year, ever vigilant all considering.

It's a treat, seeing how much fun he is having. It's a treat to see it done right.