Dear Sandee,

I am 70 years (not just older’n dirt–older than some rocks!)  🙂   Therefore, I can  truly emphasize with the feelings you expressed in today’s Rapture Ready article.

When a preacher insists on starting his sermon at a small amble but  immediately hitting me with a 90-mile-an-hour tail-wind and expecting me to shout, clap my hands, and half rise off the pew in agreement and response–I find it difficult to respond in like manner to his effort.

Now, before you suspect me for an old prude, let me warn you right off the bat that I am a proud member of a local church which is still recognized as Pentecostal and have attended like-minded churches since I was a preschooler.

Such churches have a reputation for spirit lifting hand clapping music accompanied by just about any and all musical instruments you can name; and ministers find the need to speak softly a rare occasion,…..say to get the congregation’s attention…or to wipe his brow, take a deep breath and rest his elbows on the pulpit, where a whisper will have most of his listeners leaning forward to catch the wispy sound of his  serious, though hoarse thoughts. If this old sister happens to be in that congregation, she’s hoping we’ve come to the place for a quiet altar call with soft piano or organ music.

I wish I were exaggerating.  I love Sunday School. I’m up in plenty of time on Sunday morning for a light breakfast, prepare myself and my clothes, arrange my hair and sit down for a moment with my little dog Suzy Q while I glance over my lesson again.  I pile my book, Bible, and notepad in the basket of my rolling walker.  I hang my small two-hour capacity oxygen bottle with tubing and canula on one handle of my walker and place my purse strap on the other.   I manage to push the walker out the front door without Suzy escaping, down the ramp, across the sidewalk to my van where I unload my walker (by this time I’m breathing heavily) and I clumsily try to hold the walker in a folded position while I lift it into the second set of seats…..I hurried shut the door, twist myself into the driver’s seat and try to rearrange myself, get my oxygen bottle in  position so I can strap the canula on and breathe and breathe and breathe, turn the key and point the van in the right direction.  A few miles down  Interstate 30 I turn into my church parking area.  I’m finally  breathing somewhat normally.  I look around, hopeful to find a strong gentleman to aid me in removing my walker, et al.  Odds are about 20% that I’ll luck out here.  At the entrance, though, someone opens the door, and another dear saint opens the door into the auditorium.  I move up the aisle to about the fourth seat from the front, unload my paraphernalia (that word shows you how old I am…and feel…)   Those in the adult class who’ve arrived by now get up, make a circle, take prayer requests and speak to our Heavenly Father, each speaking quietly in our own way.  As we finish, someone starts to clap (a praise to the Lord) and all of us join in.  Our teacher call us to start Sunday School;we go to our seats and  for about 45 minutes we study God’s Word.

When class is over, it takes about 20 minutes or so for a bathroom break and for other classes to file in,  I could go on and on, but after preliminaries, special music,  sermon, and sometimes an altar call, our service concludes sometime between 12:30 pm and 1:30 pm or so.  Many of the church attendees go out to eat on Sunday for lunch.  Some kind gentleman usually helps me load up my van again.  I’ve used up all of my oxygen while at church; and my oxygen level is dropping.  I feel faint.  The top  of my head is stinging.  I shouldn’t be driving, I know, but I drive through town with my air  condition vents wide open aimed at my face.

At home, I don’t try to unload anything.  I unlock the door, pat Suzy on the head and head for my bed.  Kicking off my shoes, I fall into the bed, having used  my last bit of strength.  I reach over to my home oxygen, move the gauge up to three liters, turn it on and  suck in the air like a drowning person.

A neighbor comes in to check on me.  I don’t feel like eating; I’m nauseous.  I lie there for over an hour before changing into a gown and robe.  No.  I can’t make it to church at night.   Should I feel guilty?  I don’t.  I love my Lord.  I love the church.  I try to be a light to all with whom I come in contact with.  I don’t make mid-week night service either.  I used to rarely miss a service.  Now, I  keep a conversation going with my Lord all the time.  I know He cares and understands.   If others don’t, that’s sad.   –Barbara Bliss