He Sought Me Still

By J. Wallace Carlson

From Disneyland-singing waitress to international stages... Prideful choices turned humor into heartache... From rebellion to redemption to restoration... A completely unique read with a great ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644684832

Book preview

1

4-year-old Judi

Here we go…

Judith Louise Wallace.

Clearly, I didn’t ask enough questions.

All I’m sure of is that sometime between September 22, 1946 and September 1951, I was born, moved from Southern Illinois to Vandergrift, Pennsylvania; then to Jamestown, New York; then Chicago. Each relocation was predicated on Daddy’s call to pastor. Each was without comment or question from Mom. They trusted God’s Word and His will.

Gary, not so much. My brother preceded me six and a half years earlier while the Wallaces were pastoring in Louisville, Kentucky. To hear him tell it, he bore the brunt of every change. My addition to the family only made his life more diluted of notice and importance, although he did more than once admit to me that he thought I was wonderful or something like that. Through those early years, he had occasional opportunities to accidentally do me harm and, as far as I know, never took them.

Suffice it to note that there was evidence of the reverend using his strap on my sibling’s skinny behind. Daddy kept the leather weapon hanging next to the bathroom sink where he could sharpen his straight razor before shaving each morning.

We all knew the sound of the strap being unhooked from its spot and wrapped around our dad’s hand on the way to Gary’s room. I felt its sting only once. My transgression? I was a seventeen-year-old curfew breaker. Believe me, I deserved it.

Often.

And years earlier.

Not everyone can remember telling their first lie.

I can.

Did you finish your milk?

Yes, Mommy.

What made me think that she would not soon find the half-full glass on the kitchen table? Better, why did I think telling the truth would be such a bad thing? Of what was I afraid? Certainly not the strap. They wouldn’t do that to me, would they? A belt, maybe.

The sad fact is that Mother didn’t punish me at all; not for the milk nor for the lie. She never even acknowledged her discovery. I got away with it but was weighed down and miserable with guilt.

It’s a common malady in pastors’ homes to expect a form of sinless perfection from oneself. Finding that impossible, I became a proficient liar. Then of course, I had to lie about lying.

Fun, huh?

Still, I’m not certain why I don’t remember ever getting spanked—as a child, anyway. Seems like I would recall that. But the memory of being guilty remains painfully heavy.

Regardless of their motives, Herb and Virginia didn’t do me any favor by sparing the rod. It’s as if I spent my whole life proving that I needed to be punished. Being subtly or overtly undisciplined became the norm—a recipe for some dark, regrettable years.

The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame. Proverbs 29:15

The West Pullman Church of God was my extended home. Less than two blocks from our house at 417 W 118th Street, I could sneak up the cement stairs outside the sanctuary to the pastor’s office, knock on the door, and find my father at his desk, studying or making sermon notes. He was my source of Godly strength and, dangerously, childish pride.

Who wouldn’t swagger a bit to see him there and know that it was their prerogative to crawl up into his suit-and-tie lap and interrupt important business for a hug? I had station and stature in the community like no one else. Delusional, perhaps; but worse, another brick in the fatal wall of arrogance that was my ultimate undoing.

Those eight formative years in Chicago were extraordinary on anyone’s scale.

The ’50s—the last of an innocent era.

My cousins Claudia and Kathy lived with us intermittently.

During the summer, they were permitted to walk with me three long blocks to the train station, board the correct rail, transfer to the EL, and spend the day at the Museum of Science and Industry.

When worn out from the stairs and our little-girl fantasies, we would eat our deviled ham and mayo on white-bread sandwiches, take the train, transfer (in the dark), and walk home.

We were ten, twelve, and thirteen years old.

True story.

First and still best girlfriend, Geraldine Derrico, and I walked everywhere, regardless of the weather—school; church; corner store for fudgickles, penny candy, and pumpkin seeds; up the ave for adventures; the show for cartoons on Saturdays; and ice-skating at Palmer Park.

She also provided me with a constant stream of female information. Gerrie had the benefit of an older sister, Joan, of whom I was secretly jealous. There was so much I didn’t know—how to pin-curl my hair, where to buy secondhand shoes for a nickel, who would let me use their makeup—not to mention a universe of lopsided facts of life.

Vara and Maureen were our constant companions on church days. Our parents were all great pals with each other and became wonderful models of Christian friendship.

There were hours of laughter among them. Silly games, food, and fellowship at its corny best.

It was during those halcyon days that my heart became tender to the Holy Spirit.

Woven among the threads of Daddy’s sermons, Sunday school Bible stories, and memorizing key Gospel verses, I experienced a desire to come clean about my deceptive way of being.

Watching others make their way down the aisle to bow and pray started to stir my soul. Without completely understanding, I wept empathetic tears and shared their joy as they gave witness to God’s forgiveness and new life! Something wonderful was going on—a transformation!

Supernatural moments became the norm there. God provided healings. He created miraculous solutions to irreversible issues in families. Jesus’ name stroked my ears in a new way. It caused me to tremble, tremble, tremble.

Early in the spring of 1956, our family hosted a series of tremendous musical concerts. The Christian Brotherhood Hour Quartet sang and presented the Gospel several nights at West Pullman COG. The Holy Spirit walked among us in those hours.

The sweet, irresistible Spirit of God.

At the completion of the service one evening, I stood next to Mother and crumbled a little inside.

Then, without fanfare or words, I carefully stepped in front of Mom and made my way to the altar.

The congregation was singing Softly and Tenderly as I knelt and wept. Doug Oldham bent his knee next to mine and whispered, Why did you come down here, Judi?

Because Jesus told me He wants to come into my heart.

And that, He did.

The days following