Busted in the Balcony

Tim Hogan and I messed around a lot in the church balcony during the worship service. We threw paper wads and small paper aircraft during the prayer when most eyes were closed. Made crude noises. Timed each other to see how long we could hold our breath. Drew unflattering pictures of Patty Winder along the margin of the church bulletin. While others prayed, we struggled to suppress our laughter.

One Sunday morning, our suppressed laughter caught the attention of my dad, the Reverend C.P. Tozer, who was in the middle of his homily. Tim and I didn’t notice that the Reverend had stopped preaching and was looking in our direction. Suddenly, there was thunder in the sanctuary.

“You two boys get up and come down here and sit in the front row,” my dad commanded, testing the capacity of the sound system.

My heart shifted into a new gear. As Tim and I made the long march down the back stairs, through the doors of the sanctuary and down the aisle, I knew that life as I had known it was over. This was the dawn of a new era. It was called death.

The church was silent as we neared the front. I could feel every eye boring into my sweating backside as we passed by. When we reached the front and sat down, my dad glared down at us momentarily, cleared his throat and commenced with his message.

I sat there through the rest of the service wondering what would happen when I got home—after the Reverend shed his clerical garb and became dad again. I spied Patty sitting up in the choir loft. As much as I hated that superior smirk on her face, I also envied her. After church, she would run home, eat lunch, go outside and play, watch Lassie on TV, make popcorn during Ed Sullivan, then go to bed with a gentle goodnight kiss from her mom.

I, on the other hand, would never again eat my favorite foods, watch TV or see my parents smile. Oh how I hated Patty. And Lassie. And Tim Hogan! It was all his fault anyway.

After church, I never heard another word about it. I didn’t know my dad could be so cruel.