Back Yonder: Marvin Sullivan

By Marvin Sullivan

Back Yonder is not fancy. It is like a hand-sewn quilt. It has taken much time and effort. What you see is what you get. The tales are original and have some truth, even though I have added some exaggeration and fiction. Ben Franklin said no one would ever read history unless fiction was added.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496900654

Marvin Sullivan

Regardless of a man’s monetary wealth or lack of it, his true worth lies in his family. Marvin’s is no exception. He comments, “ I am a truly wealthy man.” Marvin is a story teller and writer. His characters and anecdotes come from his own experiences of farm life during the 50s and early 60s. Born in 1945 on a small hilly farm in Pendleton County, Kentucky, Marvin observed what small community life and neighbors should be. He alters the happenings a ‘bit’ in order that the jokes be on him instead of others. He says, “One has to be careful when writing about country folk. Friends and neighbors will take offense if they think you are making ‘light’ of them. Marvin is a retired Circuit Clerk and school teacher, serving some 35 years. He obtained his Master Degree from Morehead State University. He has been an auctioneer for over 40 years and is a Kentucky Auctioneer Hall of Fame recipient. He performs as an after dinner and conference speaker and entertainer, and sprinkles his programs with harmonica tunes and fun. He does volunteer work and community service. He lives near Falmouth, Kentucky with his wife Sandra. They will be celebrating 48 years together this Summer. They have three children, and two precious grandchildren.

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2014 Marvin Sullivan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/02/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0066-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0065-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906041

Marvin Sullivan, 281 Lenoxburg Rd. Falmouth, KY 41040,

859-654-6065, [e-mail]

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

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Acknowledgement

Introduction

Chapter I:   The Country Church

Sunday Dinner

The Baptism

Prayer

Confession is Good for the Soul

Fall Revival

Sunday Visitors

Spring Revival

Chapter II:   School Daze

A New Step

Sock Hop

A Lasting Image

Thoughts on Cheerleaders

Support

Rabbit

Glimpses of Politics

A Step Toward Maturity

Inferiority Complex

Fourth of July

Responsibility

Natural is Better

Dangling Participle

Taboo Topics

Mud Time on the Avenue

School Bus Driving

Beautification

Chapter III:   Everyday Situations

The Clock is Ticking

Banjo

Poor Ol’ Thing

The Funeral

Close Calls

Plumbing

Steps into Manhhood

The Bucket List

The Hunt

The Honeymoon

The Country Doctor

The New Pups

Reunions

Skip

Mother

Observations 2013

Tax Time

My Summer Vacation

Manners

Coolness

Chapter IV:   Farm Memories

The Old Mare

Rex

The Bull

Spring Feelings

Tradin’

The Country Store

Milk Memories

The Milk Can

The Inspector

Getting Stuck

The Encounter

Television

Nicknames

Beating the Heat

Washing Dishes

The Manure Spreader

Chores

Snacks

Summer Games

A Mouse in the House

Citified

Memories of Food

Thanksgiving

Theories

Wiggle Tails

Chapter V:   The Young Truck Driver

My Job as Skipper

My First Work Assignment

The Wreck

The Manure Truck

The Grease Man

Chapter VI:   Adventures

Retirement

Preparations for the 2001 South Texas Ride

Keeping up with the Texans

Camping Tips Learned in Texas

A Matter of Misunderstanding

Miss Daisy’s Narrow Escape

Preparations for Alabama

Tips When Visiting the South

The Old Man

The Bucket

Horses and Hemorrhoids

The Bus Ride

Chapter VII:   Homespun Philosophies

The Race

Time

Success

Old Habits

Perspective

Heridity

Modern Technology

Basketball Changes

Juries

The Pack Rat

Fashions

Memories

What It Feels Like

Dangers

Hipocracy

Warnings

Better or Worse?

Drive In

Stop and Smell the Roses

This book would not have been possible without the help and encouragement of my wife, Sandy. A marriage is very similar to a working team of horses. A larger load can be moved if two pull together. This concept is very true in my case. Many young married couples would be wise to make this observation.

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Mother and Me.

Harry Truman called his wife The Boss. I call my wife Mother because she is part wife and part mother.

Acknowledgement

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For any project it becomes impossible to name everyone who has

contributed.The following list is by no means complete:

Family, friends and readers who have offered support and encouragement; My son, Kirk Sullivan, who did the art for front cover, the caricatures throughout, and the illustrations of rural life in chapter VII; Editor, Debbie Dennie, of The Falmouth Outlook, Jackie Vaughn, other staff members, and especially, Jessie Beckett, also a staff member.

Without Jessie’s skills and kindness leading me along, my struggles may have been futile.

Of course nothing is possible without the help of The Good Lord.

Introduction

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I SUPPOSE EVERYONE HAS HAD a desire in life to write a book, and I am no exception. Every writer thinks he will compose a best seller and become famous and rich. I am the first to admit that my book is probably not a best seller by any means. If by chance, whatever value my book has, maybe a reader will get at least one laugh or perhaps be able to associate with some historical situation that has happened to him in his life. At the very least, maybe some family member or friend can grab a copy and find some pleasure in reading a passage and commenting, I knew that old boy; he wasn’t too smart or sophisticated, but he had a pleasant Irish wit about him.

If the above assumptions are correct, then I will be truly blessed, successful, and fully compensated for any labor or financial effort I have expended.

Back Yonder is not fancy. It is like a hand-sewn quilt. It has taken much time and effort. What you see is what you get. The tales are original and have some truth, even though I have added some exaggeration and fiction. Ben Franklin said no one would ever read history unless fiction was added.

I have borrowed quotes from some writers and have tried to give credit when names were recorded. Others are unknown. However, I have found through research and observation that famous writers such as Shakespeare and Ben Franklin, along with many others, take credit for original sayings that were really not their own. If one looks closely, he will find that most writers have gotten many of their original sayings from the Bible in Proverbs and Ecclesiastes.

It’s sort of like what King Solomon said in Ecclesiastes: What has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there anything of which one can say, ‘Look! This is something new?’ It was here already, long ago; it was here before our time.

My hope is that many readers will say, I have heard that before, or that happened to me in my day. If by chance, after reading, I have helped in bringing back some HAPPY memories, then Back Yonder will be a success.

Adults have the opinion that their children and grandchildren today have it better than they did back in the old days. I would agree that young folks of today, do have better living conditions and material possessions, but I feel they somehow get left out on the family and community closeness that we older folks had when we were young, Back Yonder.

Many of the stories or narratives in Back Yonder are real life situations that happened to me while I was growing up in the 50s, and a few in the 60s and later. They were not funny at the time, but time has a way of healing and we remember them as the Good ol’ Days.

I hope you will be able to see yourself in the rural scenes I have tried to recreate. It is really a comfort if one is able to remember the stupid things he did and be able to laugh at himself.

Several of the pieces I have written seem to stop abruptly and have no conclusion. They were intended to be this way. If I had tried to bring them to a complete ending, the book would have been too long and boring.

I have included a "BONUS TIDBIT" portion after some of the selections. These are writings and sayings by other authors, known and unknown, that I have collected over the years. They have meant a lot to me and I hope they do to you.

May God Bless and Happy Reading!!!

Chapter I

THE COUNTRY CHURCH

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THE SMALL COUNTRY CHURCH IN the 1950s served as a major focal point for all denominations in our early American society. Here, folks learned Biblical foundations for the structure of the family and life. Social needs were met in the form of dinner on the grounds and the setting also presented opportunities for young folks to meet future husbands and wives. Neighbors and friends were able to visit and share needs as well as joys.

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The old Turner Ridge Baptist Church where ‘Spring Revival,’ ‘Confessions,’

and ‘Sunday Dinner’ took place.

Sunday Dinner

Back in the 50s, the meal that was observed at noontime was called Dinner. The meal in the evening was called Supper. It has been a result of our modern, sophisticated society that has replaced these traditional observances with: Continental Breakfast, Brunch, Lunch, and Dinner. The evening meal is now called Dinner. Modern man has a way of always meddling with situations, trying to simplify them, but in the end, all he messes with tends to become more complicated.

When I was a youngster, churches always fed the preacher Dinner on Sunday. I recall there was a note tablet that rested in the vestibule of the church. Large letters at the top spelled PREACHER FOR DINNER. The tablet had a list of dates with blank corresponding lines. Each family was to take turns having the preacher for dinner. It was obvious to me as a youngster that it was no great honor or pleasure to have the preacher for dinner, because people were always forgetting to sign the list and would have to be reminded.

It seemed that this organized method was begun after a certain family had entertained the preacher for twelve straight Sundays and no one else had offered to help. It all began when the lady who had done the cooking commented at a business meeting, I am sick and tired of looking at that hungry preacher every Sunday! From this point on, each family was encouraged to sign the list and do their fair share.

One time we had the preacher for dinner. We had made special preparations for our Sunday guest. All the kids were given orders: mind your manners, no loud shouting and arguing, no card playing or betting, and avoid all off colored topics. All family Bibles were dusted and placed in plain view. All our old coonhounds were forbidden to lie at their usual places near the back door. All holes in the screen door were patched, and a new oilcloth was purchased for the table.

When church ended that Sunday, the preacher was escorted to our home and was encouraged to sit in the only stuffed chair we owned. We all made awkward conversation as the food was being prepared. Upon entering the kitchen, the first object to capture our attention, was the large platter of fried chicken in the middle of the table. (People are stereotyped as liking certain foods: Italians are noted as being fond of spaghetti; Germans prefer sauerkraut; African Americans are labeled to relish watermelon and ribs; Irish are noted as beer drinkers; and for historic reason, preachers are prided as gluttons for fried chicken.)

Since the preacher was a guest of honor, he was the first one to be seated, along with the remaining adults. Children, at this time, were required to wait until last.

Preachers have reputations for eating great quantities of food. Maybe this has been brought about by some of the good old early cooks. The early cooks took great pride in putting a meal on the table. Much time and effort was taken in preparing the meal, and once the task was completed, a good way to insult her would be for a person to say he was not hungry or was on a diet. A statement of this sort would have meant early retirement for a preacher.

On this particular day the preacher ate heartily: four pieces of chicken, two helpings of mashed potatoes, green beans, sweet potatoes, five hot rolls, three glasses of lemonade, and nibbled on fresh tomatoes, onions, and pickles all through the meal. He had no thought or concern for dessert that was to come.

Since we milked cows, a frequent dessert on Sunday would be Jell-O, with bananas strewn throughout, topped with pure whipped cream that we had skimmed form the milk that morning. The whipped cream was delicious but it was extremely rich.

When the preacher finished his meal, he was asked if he was ready for dessert. He nodded in the affirmative. He was then presented his Jell-O with a mountain of the rich cream on top. His pace of eating had slowed considerably as he worked on the dish. After several minutes he finished the dessert and slowly pushed from the table. We could tell by his actions that the preacher was acting strangely. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. He expressed thanks for the delicious meal and asked to be excused. He indicated that he needed to go outside for a breath of fresh air.

My dad, brother, and I seeing his discomfort, followed him. He walked around the house two times then headed for the barn, with a frown still on his face. When he reached the barn, he finally confessed that he had eaten too much.

He would pat his belly and try to belch. He would inhale deeply and then blow out. Dad sent me to the house to get soda water, Tums, and Rollaids. Nothing seemed to ease the preacher’s pain.

Finally, I suggested that he might have trapped gas in the lower intestine. (At this point the preacher would have taken advice from anyone.) I directed him to bend over the cow manger and I applied pressure to his stomach. I learned this procedure in health class the week before.

All at once we heard a sound that was unbecoming a Man of the Cloth. After an abrupt volley, he regained his balance and the color seemed to return to his face. He indicated that he was feeling a bit better.

The remainder of the afternoon was uneventful. The preacher was permitted to rest under the shade tree. Just before it was time to return to church that evening, he was asked if he might like something to eat before the evening service. He shook his head and declined, commenting, my stomach is a little out of order. He further commented that there had been a virus going around and he must have contacted it.

After this comment, we exchanged hidden smiles. The day ended very peacefully, but ever since this Sunday Dinner, my family has shared a little private joke in thinking back to the day we FOUNDERED THE PREACHER!

The Baptism

As a youngster during the 50s, an individual in my neighborhood did not have true Christian credentials until he accepted Christ and was baptized. Now please don’t think that this ol’ ‘Back Yonder’ character has turned preacher, but even at 70, I still feel this belief is quite in line with what the Master taught.

Youth during the 50s did not have all the social gatherings like kids of today. There were few events at school and most other gatherings happened at church. We had to be observant of these few gatherings that happened in our neighborhood and take advantage of every opportunity. Otherwise we did not get to go anywhere.

I was perhaps 12 years of age, and even though I was slow, I had just begun to notice a neighbor girl. She and her family attended a church a little bit more spirited than I was used to. Even though I was a baptized believer, when she asked me to go to revival services with her, I did not hesitate. I have to be honest. I was really more interested in her than I was in the spiritual aspect of the revival.

The revival was to begin on a Monday night and last for the entire week to conclude with a Saturday afternoon baptismal service for those who had come forward during the week to make their confession of faith.

Now, many young readers have to realize that there were no inside baptisteries in churches like today. All baptizing took place in creeks or rivers. In fact, many older church members would not stand for an inside baptismal service. They felt that one should be baptized like John the Baptist and Jesus: IN THE RIVER.

After a week of Hell fire and brimstone preaching there were five who had come forth to confess. The most noticeable was a young man of twenty-seven. His name was Bill and he had a heart of gold, but he was just a little bit unbalanced. He had taken the week’s revival messages hook, line, and sinker. He felt he was totally committed and desired to change his life from a serious sinner to a new life free from the burdens of sin.

Bill had been raised in not the best of surroundings. He was in the habit of cursing and swearing, and most of his neighbors had gotten used to his choice of words and considered him harmless.

The Saturday afternoon of the baptismal service was bright and cool for a spring day. The four younger converts were baptized and much praise and celebration occurred with loud AMENS.

Now was Bill’s turn. The minister held a handkerchief over Bill’s nose and dunked him in the water.

Bill came up blowing like a killer whale and shouting to the top of his lungs, Hallelujah! …Praise the Lord! One could tell that the water was cold.

Some of us boys commented, Bill was that water cold?

Because of all the excitement and the frigid water, Bill yelled, You G— D–- right it was cold!

Bill attended church for a while, but he seemed to never take root. He finally cooled off spiritually and never made a strong convert.

Prayer

Prayer is the most important concept in our spiritual relationship with the Creator. Without communication not much meaning is present in that relationship.

If communication is missing in a marriage, a partnership, a friendship, or even a business the foundation is weak and the longevity is short.

I believe in prayer, but sometimes I just don’t understand. Some religious leaders may say that prayer is simple, but I think it is very complicated. People pray out of need, out of joy, out of sorrow, out of relief. Many times these prayers are empty recitations of meaningless phrases.

When I was younger I would pray now I lay me down to sleep… and many times I would be asleep before I finished the prayer. I said this prayer because as a child, I had a fear of dying in my sleep.

At home as children we always had prayer before a meal. That practice still exists in my home today. One has to be careful that prayer does not just become a routine. Why, I was a big kid, in fact I was getting ready to get my driver’s license, and was still saying, God is great, God is good, and we thank him for our food…

I hear politicians and leaders, in time of tragedy comment, You are in our thoughts and prayers. They make this gesture, but they never actually say a prayer.

I have heard stories of people about to crash in a plane, or a soldier in a fox hole praying most sincerely, but when the ordeal is over and they are safe, prayer never enters their life until the next dilemma. When everything is going well, we just forget to pray.

I have heard folks pray in restaurants or public places, which I think is good. The part I have trouble with is when they deliver a vocal and beautiful prayer in order to be heard and noticed. I can more agree with a bowed head and silent prayer.

Some folks do their daily devotions and prayer while sitting on the commode. I guess this practice is alright, but I wonder if we were talking to the President or some important person, if we would converse while doing our daily routine. We often treat the Master as if He were some alien in a make believe location.

I think it is frustration when we have a sick family member or friend, and deep down we know that they will never get well or live. One should learn to accept the oncoming result, continue to pray, but have faith enough to accept the Lord’s will.

I guess the best example of how we approach prayer and accept its result is an old western story.

Back in the late 1800s there was a little town out west that had church on Sunday morning in the local saloon. This practice was not uncommon, because they did not have means to build a church.

It so occurred that there was a local group meeting for church and among them was an old prospector who had just come into town.

The preacher was about to deliver a very in depth prayer when one of the ladies of the night, who had been sleeping in an upstairs room, stumbled to the balcony. She was still drunk from the night before and fell off the railing. She grabbed a light fixture and was hanging to avoid falling. She had on a dress, but she was void of any under garments.

The preacher nervously looked up and strongly directed, That anyone who looketh at the woman would be struck blind!

The old prospector placed his hand over one eye and uttered, I think I will take a chance on one eye!

Confession is Good for the Soul

I don’t know why, but man is created with the urge to tell on himself when he does something wrong or makes a mistake. Criminals throughout history would never have been caught if they had taken one precaution: KEEP THE MOUTH SHUT. There is just some type of relief one gets when he confesses to a past mistake. I have had a guilty conscious for years, because I have kept something bottled up inside and up until now have shared this secret with no one. Now I must tell and have this burden lifted.

I was sitting on the back row of the old Turner Ridge Baptist Church during a Sunday morning service in the summer of 1949. The church building is long gone, and was replaced by a new building in the early 50s. The visiting evangelist must have been impressed with himself, because the clock on the wall showed ten minutes past twelve and he had not even made a hint of an invitation to the lost.

For this reason I concluded that the service would last at least another twenty-five minutes, because a visiting evangelist would not think of ending a service without singing all five verses of Just As I Am, with stops between each verse to stress the awfulness of Hell. One could also count of a five minute benediction, and I still hadn’t considered the possibility of a tormented soul coming forward. I was hungry.

My church was having an Eatin’ Meetin’, or as some called it, Dinner on the Grounds, in honor of the visiting evangelist. (If you haven’t experienced one of these meals, you don’t know what you have missed. All the ladies of the church would bring their favorite dish, whether it be meat, vegetable, cake, pie, or bread, and spread these delicacies out on a wagon or makeshift tables under a shade tree, and what would result would be fit for a king. Since I was a young leathery lad, I really longed for these events.)

Old Satin seems to work in devious ways, because, even today, I always get hungrier at 12 o’clock noon on Sundays, more so than on any other day of the week. I suppose ol’ Satin was really working that day, because I started thinking of a way I could sneak out of the service and take a look under the table cloth that covered the heavy ladened table that stood in the shade of the locust tree in front of the church.

Just as the minister was pounding on the pulpit, to make a strong point, I quietly rose from my seat, and with the grace of a ballerina, made an exit. I increased my pace as I approached the table. Upon reaching my destination, I was overcome with an urge to JUST LOOK!

I lifted the spread and as fate would have it, the first item that took control of me was an apple pie. It was one of those pies that resembled the ones pictured on the boxes of cake mixes. Sugar had been sprinkled on the flaky crust, and during baking, the juices had bubbled out the slits to make it moist. I could tell it would be scrumptious. The finest bottle of whisky would not have tempted an alcoholic any more than the pie did me.

I knew better, but the flesh was weak. I grasped the pie, held it down to my side, crouched down to avoid being seen as I passed the windows, and headed for the thicket, located behind the outhouse in the rear of the church.

I had no knife, so I gently slid one hand under the moist crust, and tore a huge piece. Its flavor did not disappoint me. It was delicious. I greedily continued until only a small portion remained. Once my hunger was satisfied, I thought about sneaking the uneaten piece back to the table, but on second thought, the possibility of getting caught was too great. In fright, I grasp the tin pie pan and hurled it into a briar patch located at the side of the cemetery.

Once my fleshly desires were satisfied, feelings of guilt began. Even though I was a long distance from the church, I could hear the fifth verse of the invitation hymn loud and clear. The words seemed to hit my inner soul: Just as I am thou wilt receive, wilt welcome pardon, cleanse, relieve. I associated PARDON & CLEANSE with the deed of stealing the pie. I headed back to the church.

As I reached the open door of the church, the minister was leading the benediction as the crowd was standing with bowed heads and closed eyes. I tiptoed in and reached my seat unnoticed.

All my other young friends were famished as the preacher said, Amen. Somehow, my appetite had left and I suddenly felt as if all eyes were on me. I suppose it was sort of like what Solomon said in the Old Testament: The wicked flee, though no man pursues.

I continued to hide my dastardly deed as the meal began. I carefully watched as one of the ladies searched both sides of the table for the missing pie. I avoided eye contact and pretended to have suddenly taken ill.

I did not enjoy Dinner on the Grounds that day. I have carried the burden of guilt all those years and because I am confessing now I begin to feel the load being lifted. I only hope the good lady who baked that delicious pie will forgive me for eating her pie and throwing the pan away.

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BONUS TIDBIT

THE TOUCH OF THE MASTERS HAND

Twas batered, and scarred, and the auctioneer, thought it scacely worth his while,

to waste much time on the old violin, but he held it up with a smile.

What am I bid, good folks, he cried. Who’ll start the bidding for me?

A dollar, a dollar, now two, only two, two dollars, and who’ll make it three?

Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three. But no!

From the room far back, a gray haired man came forward, and picked up the bow.

Then, wiping the dust from the old violin and tightening up all the strings, he played a melody

pure and sweet as sweet as an angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer with a voice that was quiet and low,

said, What am I bid for the old violin? and he held it up with the bow.

A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two? Two thousand, and who’ll make it three?

Three thousand once, three thousand twice, and going, and gone, said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried, "We do not quite understand,

what changed its worth? Swift came the reply, The touch of the Master’s hand."

And many a man with life out of tune and battered and torn with sin, is auctioned

cheap to thoughtless crown much like the old violin.

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine, a game, and he travels on, he is going once,

he is going twice, he going, and almost gone. But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd never

can quite understand, the worth of a soul, and the change that’s wrought, by the touch of

the Masters hand.

* * *

There was a very cautious man who never romped or played,

He never smoked, he never drank, or even kissed a maid.

The day he passed away his insurance was denied,

For since he never lived, they claimed he never died.

~ Bobby Ray Cook

Fall Revival

Many of our modern days church members have never experienced a good ol’ Hell Fire and Brimstone Revival. When I was growing up, my church, as well as most other similar denominations, had at least one revival each year. Many times there was not just one, but several that lasted a whole week.

The revival would begin on a Monday night, and then would meet each evening and end on Sunday night. If the revival still had spirit, I have seen revivals continue on to the next week and beyond.

There was much strong preaching about Hell. There was lively singing, testimonies, and emotional experiences. The success of any revival was the number of converts saved. The following week usually found the congregation meeting at the river for a baptismal service.

Revival meetings offered not only a spiritual reviving, but for a young teenager, they presented an event for young people to ‘court’ and ‘spark.’ (Old people know these terms, but for the younger set, ‘courting and sparking’ meant dating.)

I had just gotten my first car which was a 1954 powder blue and white Chevrolet. I was ‘hungry’ to go sparking.

I had met this pretty girl from a neighboring county at a ballgame. I just had to have a date with her, but her parents would not allow her to date. She told me that she would like to go out, but the only chance I had was to go to a revival that was in progress at her church. She thought that if we would go to the revival service, her parents would permit me to take her. This was my chance!

She asked her parents and they granted permission, only if we attended the revival service.

The night arrived. I went to her home, picked her up, and headed toward the service. Boy, was she dressed pretty!

The church she attended was a little different than what I had been used to. They had more spirit and emotion. Amens and shouting accompanied remarks made by the preacher. Testimonies were given and a long and emotional invitation was given at the end with elaborate and descriptive stories of young people being killed on the way home from a revival and ending up in Hell.

The hymn Just as I Am was sung in its entirety, over and over again.

The young fiery preacher actually walked and straddled the pews from front to back with arms outstretched shouting, Sinners come to the alter and get forgiveness!

My friend got all emotional and headed toward the front. All who came forward knelt down in prayer.

This church believed that a sinner had to Be Prayed Through for repentance.

The elders and minister knelt beside the sinner in prayer.

All eyes were closed; mine included. All of a sudden I heard a loud clap and I