Let's be honest, shouldn't we be? Some people were born to sing, and some were born to sit. When people get confused about which they are, there's gonna be trouble.The young lady was in trouble, there was no doubt about that. Standing up on the pulpit, her shaky vibrato had just gone flat, and it was time for the high notes. "My… FAAATHER'S EYESSSSSSS!" she warbled. "My… FAAATHER'S EYES!!!" and with that her eyes rolled up in the back of her head as she moved up and down trying to find the right pitch. That is all is took; back in the audience, our pew started shaking violently, and Kathy put her head down with her hand over her mouth. No dice. A volcano of explosive laughter was heading to the surface, leaving my poor Mrs. Kathryn scadoodling out of the pew and out the back of the church to burst into peals of laughter in the sanctity of the parking lot, yet once again.
We were recently recounting stories at dinner of "Mom/Kathy Explosions," about the millions and millions of times she has cracked up in really inappropriate venues, frequently at church or when musical performances go sour. Don't misunderstand. It' s not that she's maybe laughing at you. She is definitely laughing at you. But in a sweet, innocent way, and she in no way wants to hurt your feelings. See?
Mrs. Three Names (let's just call her "Cindy") had been a Pageant Queen. Miss California. And Miss Universe. And a cheerleader for a professional sports team. And. And. You knew all this because she would tell you the second she met you. That is, if she could get a word in edgewise to interrupt herself talking about her gallbladder. Never in the history of gallbladderdom has anyone talked more about theirs. It was Enlarged. It was Aggravated. It was Cranky. It was Better. No, Surly again and much, much Worse! And lucky as we were to sit in a Sunday School class every week with her, she would monopolize the first fifteen minutes of every class talking about Her Gallbladder, even AFTER it was removed. Those of us with poor character (and possibly missing the point of church altogether) described this part of Sunday School as "exasperating." So it was near Easter Sunday, and time to fill out the Easter Lilly dedication form during the Sunday Service. I handed mine to Mrs. Kathryn for her to inspect as the service got quiet. "In Loving Memory of Mrs. Three Names' Gallbladder" I had written. Kathy looked at me with wide eyes, and then I mashed my leg onto hers to seal the deal. Hand over mouth. Head down, as if she was praying. A horrible suppressed gurgle noise. And suddenly, a forceful exit from the pew and Mrs. Kathryn fleeing down the aisle making a beeline for the back door, tears screaming down her face. SCORE! (I can't help it. I have "The Bad Gene.")
But the worst time, I can barely speak of -- and have changed a couple details to protect the truly innocent. One of my college jobs was Music Minister (oh, STOP laughing yourself) and one church near the University of North Texas had a VERY sweet lady with The Biggest Forehead In the Universe (BFITU). And she loved to sing, exactly one song, and that only a capella, and not so much in key. "He Could Have Called… TEN THOUSAND ANGEEEEELLLLS," she would sing. I didn't care if it wasn't good. She was a sweetheart and everybody loved her. Right after we got married back in the 1800's, I had told Mrs. Kathryn about her. Some time later, we had the occasion to visit this church. Seated in the pew during the somber service, I looked down at the bulletin to see who was doing the "Special Music." Oh. No. I tapped Mrs. Kathryn and pointed trying to warn her, but she didn't understand. For the next 20 minutes, I sat in horror waiting. Finally BFITU took the stage. "He could have called…. TEN THOUSAND ANGELS!" she crooned, a capella, and about 1/4 step flat and getting flatter. Kathy turned her head in astonishment, wild eyed, looking at me as recognition registered. No, no, no, no, I thought. If she got up to leave or Lost It, it would be the embarrassment of the century. I have blocked what happened next, but I remember the pew shaking like a '67 Plymouth, and someone, perhaps me, BEGGING Providence to please, please, give the 10,000 angels holding Kathy's mouth shut the strength of Samson. If memory serves, the prayer worked, except for muffled snorting noises, a used-up box of Kleenex, and bewildered stares as people seemed sure she was having a meltdown or in-pew epileptic seizure.
So many other stories could be told. They say laughter is the best medicine -- so that makes my Mrs. Kathryn a world class physician. So if you're up on stage and you see Kathy out in the audience with her head down and pew shaking, remember, it's only medicinal and she's a professional.
