And So It Begins
Jesus Loves You—Trust me
The sermon on that hot Sunday morning lasted almost an hour, and during that time sitting on that hardwood pew hardly moving, my eyes remained glued to the man behind the pulpit. His booming voice formed beautiful words that I eagerly consumed, each powerful phrase painting a vibrant and colorful picture of redemption and mercy and goodness. He spoke of Jesus, God’s son, sent to earth to live humbly and poorly among us for thirty-three years before allowing humanity to nail Him to a wooden cross and to suffer unspeakable agony and humiliation before dying a slow and excruciating death. This selfless act, I was told, was what now made it possible for my soul to spend all of eternity at God’s side in heaven. All I had to do was to accept Jesus, declare to the world that He was now my personal savior, and live as a Pentecostal Christian for the remainder of my days on earth.
Looking directly at me he lowered his voice, and with anguish asked, “Why won’t you do this today, this minute—this second? Stand up! Tell the Lord that you’re ready. Commit the rest of your life to Him! Come to Jesus, why won’t you?”
His arms were raised, imploring the very heavens to cast hellfire lightning bolts to those who would dare not heed his plea. His terrible dark accusing eyes were suddenly pinned on me and I felt that if I didn’t move something terrible might happen to my soul. I understood now that to obtain the salvation that he spoke of all I needed was to get to my feet and move toward the altar. Deep down inside, my conscience was urging me to hurry and not lose the moment. It was urging and begging me to move. And, just as I turned my head to the left to seek a way out to the aisle, I saw Robert’s face curiously staring at something ahead of me and to my right. Breaking away from the visual lock the reverend had cast on me I hastily looked back to my right to see what had attracted Robert’s attention. In the pew ahead of me a heavy round-faced woman was smiling broadly while staring intently and pointing her finger at my nose.
Her lips whispered, “I know you.” Just then a cold drop of sweat rolled down my back.
Robert gently nudged me, and tipping his head in the direction of the beautiful red-headed pianist now sitting on the first pew blankly staring at the reverend, said, “I like mine better.”
Abruptly, I again became aware of my surroundings and realized that I was about to slide off the front of the pew. Regaining my composure and my balance I slid backward pressing my back onto the hard cool wood, thus allowing my shirt to soak up the rest of the beads of sweat now pouring down my back—at the same time pulling me out of the woman’s line of sight.
Now, completely recovered from the reverend’s hypnotic spell I looked up and saw that several people had risen and were kneeling at the altar, their backs to the congregation. Their heads bowed, they were all praying loudly, and a few were crying. Looking down at their feet I saw that two of the men had holes in the soles of their shoes.
The reverend, apparently no longer concerned with me and my lost soul, was instead concentrating on his new converts loudly exhorting them to give up the great Satan and let Jesus come into their hearts. Going down gently on one knee and softly laying his left hand on the head of one of the kneeling men he loudly implored, “¡Señor, ábrele el corazón y llénalo con Tú amor y misericórdia! ¡Salva su alma en este momento para que pueda hallar la paz que sólo Tú le puedes dar!” (Lord, open his heart and fill it with Your love and mercy! Save his soul at this moment so that he may find the peace that only You can give!) His right arm raised straight up shook mightily, hand full of white leather Bible, as if trying to rip God from the very heavens.
The reverend’s eyes were tightly closed, and with every forceful exhortation to the Lord a fine spray of sweat flew off his face and head. He slowly stood up, and while still tightly clutching the white Bible raised both hands high unto the heavens. Almost on his toes his entire body began to shake violently. His head rolled fiercely from side to side casting a heavier spray of sweat everywhere—and then in an almost completely different voice roared, “SANSA BALA MIKA LATA SONOBE ALLAYA RRAAMALTAL SANTALERRA ALLELUIA!” That last word almost fading out while his head dropped dramatically to his chest. Again and again his head would jerk up and he would begin yelling those words and phrases—and other similar ones—delivering them in a rat-a-tat-tat fashion, always ending with the “alleluia”.
That sent the entire congregation, including the men on the stage, into an unbelievable frenzy. Perhaps a dozen in the audience, mostly women, began shaking and trembling as their hysterical prayers went from Spanish, quickly morphing into that strange Arabic/Hebrew sounding language. On the stage one of men wearing a dark brown suit began moving slowly forward, arms lifted, eyes closed, mouth wide open as if trying to catch raindrops; then he began to dance.
Speaking in that peculiar dialect the man’s feet started to shuffle from side to side, while his arms flew in herky-jerky motions over his head. Up on his toes and reaching for the sky his body convulsed violently and he began to move in what seemed to be some type of Indian rain dance, minus the feathered head-dress.
Whoops and shouts were coming from every direction in the small church, and I saw five or six women simply collapse to the floor landing heavily the between pews, bodies twitching; all the while still yelling in that unintelligible language. No one paid any attention to them but instead continued to yell their prayers ever louder, some to the point of near hoarseness.
Everyone in the church was now standing, and the ones who weren’t in a state of frenzy were standing quietly with their heads bowed and their eyes closed. I looked to see if Robert had succumbed to the hysteria surrounding us but was surprised to see him standing quietly next to his grandparents and sister, still eyeing the red-head. She, however, was also standing but had her hands clasped in front of her and was staring blankly straight ahead. Up on the music side of the stage the two trumpeters, the drummer and the guitarist were sitting quietly fiddling with their instruments and apparently completely disinterested in the histrionics going on in the audience.
The reverend had calmed down somewhat, not speaking at all now and only shaking his head occasionally as if acknowledging the receipt of some holy subliminal message being sent directly into his mind. He remained standing, eyes closed and head pointed at the ceiling with his arms now spread-eagled, the left hand still gripping the white Bible tightly.
One by one the supplicants who had been kneeling at the altar began to get up and return slowly to their pews; each one, eyes cast sheepishly down at the floor, thanking God in moist and weepy whispers.
Gently, and not unlike the motion of a rolling ocean wave slowly and quietly receding from a water-soaked beach after having noisily crashed and foamed its fury onshore, one by one the people began to sit down quietly, murmuring “amen” over and over. Reverend Villa lowered his arms, lifted his head and opened his eyes. Now switching back to Spanish, while energetically mopping his soaked brow with his now sodden handkerchief, he gave thanks to Jehovah, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit for having visited today. The man in the brown suit stopped dancing and fell to his knees also hoarsely voicing his gratitude for the spiritual visitation.
Just then the red head unclasped her hands and daintily climbed the steps up to the piano. With no introductory chord, she snapped her head sharply down and launched into a full-throated happy hymn, while the rest of the musicians picked up on her downbeat and fell in time perfectly. The congregation began singing and clapping, and the tambourines chimed in heartily. Reverend Villa raised his head wearily, waved at the congregation, and with shoulders drooped but still gripping his Bible, walked to the stairs at the right side of the stage. Slowly, as if carrying the sins of all mankind on his shoulders he joined his wife on the front pew. After a brief hug they both turned their gaze to the pulpit where one of the other men had now taken his position, and joined the congregation in clapping and singing the happy hymn.
At this point I too was keeping time to the music by clapping and furiously tapping my feet. It was hard not to. All the while I kept wondering what it was that I had just seen. Although Robert’s grandparents had not joined the frenzied hysteria, but instead had remained standing quietly praying with their eyes closed, they didn’t seemed at all fazed by the spectacle I had just experienced. I was extremely curious about what had just happened and decided that I should have a long talk with Robert on the way home.
Ending the hymn with a flourish of his arms, punctuated with a fanfare of trumpet, drums and tambourines, the man in the brown suit motioned the congregation to remain standing. Looking into the crowd he called out two names, and a couple of girls—from the pew where the red-head had been sitting—stepped up to the altar and faced the crowd. The man behind the pulpit said simply, “Vamos a orar por la ofrenda.” (Let us pray for the offering).
After the prayer we all took our seats and the two girls walked to either side of the altar, each retrieving a large round straw basket. Side by side they walked down the center aisle to the very last set of pews and handed the baskets to the person sitting on each end. The baskets were then handed from one person to the next, then up to the next pew in front, each person dropping into them varying amounts of money.
As interested as I was in watching the baskets make their rounds, my attention had been drawn to the stunning red-haired pianist. When the two offering girls began making their way down the aisle she had begun to sing a beautifully moving hymn. Although I had never heard it before I was instantly moved by the hauntingly simple melody and the tenderly contemplative lyrics. Singing in her majestically husky alto voice and accompanied only by her piano, she introduced me to a hymn that I would later hear sung by Elvis Presley, Patsy Cline, and others, known in English as, “Just a Closer Walk with Thee”.
JUNTO A TI, SEÑOR, JUNTO A TI
Aunque débil soy, Señor
Tu poder me da valor
Satisfecho yo estaré
Si Tú estás junto a mí, junto a mí
Coro:
Quiero andar cerca de Ti
Junto a Ti quiero vivir
Diario andar cerca de Ti
Junto a Ti, Señor, junto a Ti
Cuando ya mi frágil ser
Deje aquí de padecer
Guíame, mi buen Señor
Junto a Ti, Señor, junto a Ti
[Coro]
Através del mundo cruel
Quiero siempre serte fiel
Quiero Tu carga llevar
Tuyo ser, Señor, Tuyo ser
[Coro]
JUST A CLOSER WALK WITH THEE
I am weak, but Thou art strong
Jesus, keep me from all wrong
I’ll be satisfied as long
As I walk, let me walk close to Thee
Chorus:
Just a closer walk with Thee
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea
Daily walking close to Thee
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be
Through this world of toil and snares
If I falter, Lord, who cares?
Who with me my burden shares?
None but Thee, dear Lord, none but Thee
[Chorus]
When my feeble life is o’er
Time for me will be no more
Guide me gently, safely o’er
To Thy kingdom shore, to Thy shore
The hymn ended with another chorus of “amen” and “hallelujahs” from the congregation as the two girls collected their baskets, full of mostly coins and a scattering of paper bills, and handed them to one of the men on the stage. He in turn left the stage with the baskets and disappeared through one of the doors to the right of the stage.
Now, yet another one of the men on stage, this one much older than the rest and wearing gold rimless spectacles, and a slightly rumpled dark gray suit, walked up behind the pulpit and addressed the congregation. In a soft and almost inaudible voice, and referring to a spiral notebook he’d retrieved from a shelf on the back of the pulpit, he began reading off a list of services scheduled, beginning that evening and continuing for the rest of the week. There seemed to be a service for every age group and gender: men’s services, women’s services, youth services, prayer meetings, and of course the special Sunday school and Sunday night service when every member was expected to attend. He placed special emphasis on every member bringing in guests as potential future members, and reminded everyone that without new membership the church couldn’t grow nor could it support its financial burdens.
At that, I kind of looked around to see if I could spot anything that may be placing a financial burden on that little frame building. There was no sound system, no fans for cooling (air conditioning was in its infancy at that time and prohibitively expensive), the lighting was rudimentary, and the pews were old and probably refugees from some Catholic church. The banners and material coverings for the pulpit and the baptismal tub looked handmade, and the upright piano was ancient. As for the rest of the instruments, I assumed the musicians personally owned them. And lastly, outside, the parking lot was non-existent so everyone just parked anywhere they could around the church. I was a bit puzzled and decided that would be another subject for discussion with Robert on the trip back home.
With that, the frumpy little man closed his binder and stored it back in its place inside the pulpit. Readjusting his spectacles he peered out at the audience and asked us all to rise. Calling on another man seated on the stage he said, “El hermano Gutierrez nos va a despedir.” (Brother Gutierrez will close).
Brother Gutierrez, a bit younger and a bit less frumpy, stepped up to the pulpit. “Vamos a orar.” (Let us pray.) Closing his eyes and raising his arms he began to pray in a loud and high tenor voice. He had apparently decided that he was going to use the farewell prayer to thank God for every living thing on earth; and he was all-inclusive in his gratitude. Next, he asked for instant healing for all the sick, injured, maimed, and otherwise unhealthy—whether or not they were saved. Finally, he implored the Lord to rain hellfire on all who dared to be anything other than Pentecostal; particularly the Catholics. This last supplication brought on a notable rise in the prayer volume of the crowd, and a few of the faithful in the crowd added “¡Sí Señor!” and, “¡Sálvalos JesuCristo!” (Save them Jesus Christ), for a bit of emphasis. At this point I was hoping he wouldn’t launch into the foreign tongue gig because suddenly I had to pee really badly.
Mercifully he ended with about twelve “amens” and and a couple of “gracias a Diós”—and it was finally over.
The red-head began playing a snappy little ditty and the rest of the musicians joined in. As I turned to my left to ask Robert where the bathroom was I heard my name being called from behind.
“¡Oye, Frankie!”
I turned back around and saw that the pudgy little woman was wildly waving her hand at me.
“¡Oye, Frankie, ven para acá!” (Come here). She said, as she was trying to push her way into the aisle.
Since I’d never laid eyes on her I wondered how she knew my name. I was about to find out.
I Gotta Go, Then I Gotta Go
Finally getting Robert’s attention (he was still eyeing the piano-playing redhead) I asked,
“Hey, where’s the bathroom?”
“Uh, you don’t really want to know.” He said seriously. “You need to wait until you get home, vato.”
“Mira, no puedo. ¡Tengo que ir!” (Can’t do it. I gotta go.) I replied, a bit breathlessly.
Giving me a bit of a disgusted look he said, “OK, but you’re gonna be sorry. It’s outside behind the church, ese.”
Everyone was clogging up the aisle—most people choosing where he or she was to say hello or goodbye, or whatever. Robert’s grandparents were amicably chatting with another couple, just out of the aisle but still in our row, and completely blocking my exit toward the aisle and out the front doors. Looking over my shoulder I saw that if I reversed my route I could exit our row by the wall and then head for the doors. I turned and headed for the wall.
A stubby hand planted itself on my chest and stopped me cold. “Frankie! Do you know who I am?” The pudgy woman attached to the stubby hand asked.
She had one knee on her pew and was leaning over the back, stretching her left arm out to plant her hand on my chest.
“No, I don’t.” I said tentatively.
“Soy Señora Sánchez.” She replied with a little smile squeezing her eyes into chubby little crescents on her face. “I know your mom and dad. Roberto y Avelina, ¿verdad?”
“Uh, yes.” I replied, now really getting nervous.
“And, I remember you too! But you were so little then…un bebito.” (A baby).
“Oh.” It was all I could think of to say as I tried to find a way to excuse myself and get to a bathroom quickly. “Well, I really have to go now.”
“Did you come with Roberto’s abuelos?” She asked, pointing to them as they stood in the aisle chatting with some people.
“Yes, but Robert was the one who asked me to come. Excuse me, but I really have to go.”
“Oh, sí. ¿Tienes que usar los servicios?” (Do you have to use the toilet?) She asked, with a little smile.
“Sí, señora.” Trying not to cross my legs.
“Mira, come with me. I’ll take you to one here in the church so you don’t have to go outside and use those in the back. Están un poco súcios. (They’re a bit dirty).
With that, she turned and headed toward the main center aisle, waving me around to her pew so I could follow her out. For a short heavy woman she moved with surprising agility—easily navigating out into the aisle, and using her rather wide girth to literally plow through the small groups of people who had decided to stand about and chat. With my discomfort growing steadily, but following closely in her wake, I saw that we were headed in the direction of one of the doors at the left back of the church where the Sunday school classrooms were located. Worse, directly in front of us, and to the left of the stage, stood the redhead casually conversing with the trumpet players. To my complete horror Señora Sánchez walked right up to them, inserting herself between the girl and the other two musicians. Addressing the girl she said, “Mira, hijita. ¡Quiero que conozcas a Frankie DeLeón!” (I want you to meet…).
My heart stopped and did a flip, then my stomach flipped, and to my dismay my bladder threatened to go rogue. Holding my organs in check by sheer willpower I managed to meet the girl’s gaze and extended my suddenly sweating hand.
“Hi.” She said softly and reached out with three lovely fingers. “I’m Joni. Nice to meet you.”
“Me too.” I mumbled. “Mrs. Sánchez was taking me to the bathroom.” I stammered, instantly wondering where in the hell those words had come from.
“Oh, well then you better go, I guess.” She advised, arching her eyebrows exposing beautiful emerald-green eyes.
“Bueno Frankie, the toilet is at the back of the classroom behind that door.” Mrs. Sánchez dutifully advised and pointing with her stubby finger. “We’ll be here talking while you do your business.”
I was crushed. Turning away quickly, feeling those deep green eyes on my back, I aimed myself in the direction of the door and tried to remember how to walk. Brushing by the trumpet players who had been expertly culled out by Mrs. Sánchez’s deft maneuvering I swore I heard a suppressed chuckle. Where a moment ago I was sweating because of the heat and humidity now I found myself sweating from sheer embarrassment.
When I walked out I saw that Mrs. Sánchez had moved away from Joni and was now talking with a couple of elderly ladies. Joni had resumed her conversation with the trumpet boys and had her back to me as I walked back into the main auditorium. Keeping my head down and quickening my pace I tried to get by her without being noticed. No such luck.
“Hey, everything come out OK?” Putting her hand to her mouth and stifling a giggle.
The trumpet boys let out a hoot.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.” I blurted out, causing the three to laugh out loud. “See ya.” I mumbled as I turned to find Robert and his family.
“Hey!” Joni called out. “Are those your parents?” Now completely turning away from trumpet boys and facing me full on.
“Who? Oh, the people I came with? No, no. They’re my neighbors. I came with my friend Robert. Those are his grandparents.” The words pouring out of my mouth as I hung in limbo captivated by her eyes. She had freckles. Who was this girl anyway? Pale, red hair, green eyes, and freckles?
“Oh, him.” She almost spat out the words. “He’s a thug. Is he your friend, or something?”
“Well, yeah.” I said cautiously and looking over my shoulder to make sure Robert wasn’t in the area. “But we do different things.” I explained.
Beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable as I noticed that trumpet boys were kind of glaring at me I said, “I gotta go. Oh, nice job on the hymn, by the way. See ya.”
As I started to step away she asked, “Are you coming to this evening’s service? It’s not as boring as the Sunday morning one, and there’s a lot more music.”
“Uh, I don’t know.” I answered, shaking my head. “But I don’t think so. I just came today because Robert asked me to come.”
“Well,” she added, “see if your parents can come too. I know my dad would probably like to meet them.”
“Your dad?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know, the one that gave the sermon. This is our church.”
OK, now that really blew me out of the water!
“Uh, uh, that’s your dad?” the words stumbling over my almost paralyzed tongue. “And, that’s your mom with him?”
“Of course, silly. Who did you think she was?”
Glancing over my other shoulder I spotted Reverend Villa and his wife casually chatting by the altar with a young couple. Both had black hair, brown eyes, dark complexions, and tended to be a bit on the heavy side. Joni was thin, fair, red hair, green eyes and freckles. Jesus!! My brain yelled.
“Oh, nobody…I mean, you know…nothing.” I had now completely lost control of my less than mature emotions and didn’t know what else to say. “Um, sure, yeah. OK.”
“OK!” She gleefully said. “See you tonight.” And with that she turned back to trumpet boys, who by now had lost all patience with me and were both standing with their hands on their hips, looking really annoyed.
Turning away I walked right into Mrs. Sánchez who’d been standing directly behind me.
“So,” she said in a singsong way, “are you going to talk to your padres and get them to come to church tonight?
“I don’t know.” I responded honestly, trying to walk around her. “They don’t go to any church.”
“Oh,” she said knowingly, “I think they’ve been here before. That’s why I recognized you. But you were a baby when they attended.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Of course not. You were too little. But, you know, I think I know where you live. Are they going to be home this afternoon?” her face now turning serious.
“I don’t know, I guess. At least I think my mom will be home but I don’t know about my dad.”
“Ah, sí.” She replied knowingly. “Your dad. He’s a handsome one!”
“He is?” I asked stupidly.
“Sí, mijo. Just like you!” And she reached out and pinched my cheek.
To Play, You Gotta Pay
OK, I thought, this is really getting out of control. I need to find Robert and get out of here.
“OK, I have to go now.” I stammered. “Thanks señora for showing me the bathroom.” My God! What a stupid thing to say!! Time to go!
Without looking back I pushed my way through the now thinning crowd and headed for the double doors at the front of the church. Stepping out into the blazing high noon sun I shaded my eyes with my hand and looked for Robert. Spotting him lounging on the fender of his grandfather’s Ford coupé I started walking across the white shell and dirt parking area alongside the church, looking down and being careful not to trip or fall into the moderately sized potholes pitting the surface.
I was still trying to understand how two dark-skinned, black-haired people could produce a light- skinned redhead with green eyes and freckles when I looked up to see exactly where I was. Had I gone three or four more steps with my head down, I would have literally walked into a brand- new ivory-colored Buick Special with all the trimmings, sitting next to the side exit door of the church, windows down and engine running. It was clearly out-of-place among the dozen, or so, decades-old jalopies and rusted-out pickup trucks scattered haphazardly around the lot.
Walking by the car and gawking through the open windows, I smelled the pungent aroma of fresh leather wafting out and saw myself reflected in the tons of brightly polished chrome and sculptured metal displayed in abundance, both inside and outside the car. As I came up to Robert he threw me a thumbs up sign and said, “So, I saw you making it with that red-headed chick, vato.”
“Well, I wasn’t making it with her or anyone else, Robert. That woman, Sánchez, was showing me to an inside bathroom and we stopped and started talking. That’s all.”
“Sure, ese. Frankie the Bear strikes again! Ha!! Did she give you her name? Her phone number? Her bra size?” He gave me a leering look and made a gesture using the index finger of one hand being inserted into a circle made by his thumb and index finger of his left hand. I wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to demonstrate (yes, I was a little slow), but I knew it had to be lewd.
Looking around to make sure no one was within earshot, I responded with my best comeback: “Uh-huh!”
He covered his eyes and started giggling maniacally. “¡Ese vato, you’re so pendejo!” (Stupid, but worse). The finest chick in the church and you march right up and make it with her. You are one pelotón!” (Ballsy).
“Oye, Robert! Never mind the chick, whose fucking car is that?”
Recovering from his fit of the giggles he wiped his eyes and said, “Cálmate ese, that belongs to the red-headed chick’s father. The church buys him a new one every year.”
“Na-huh!” I said clearly surprised.
“Sure, ese. And he gets a free house and clothes too.”
“But how?” I asked incredulously.
Looking at me a bit more seriously he lowered his voice and said, “The money, ese. The money they pick up in those baskets at every service. Sometimes they pass it around twice if they don’t think there’s enough the first time. And then if you’re a member, like mis abuelos, you have to give ten percent of whatever you earn at your job every payday. My abuelo has to pay that from his retirement check from the railroad. Sometimes he has to show his pay stub to the church secretary so they’re sure he’s not cheating. He doesn’t want to go to Hell and burn when he dies, ese. So he pays.”
Looking back again at the two tons of gleaming luxury, I could not bring myself to believe that this pitiful group of people could scape up enough money every year to keep their pastor in this type of transportation and dress; and then I had no idea where they lived or what kind of house they had.
“And his kids too, ese.” Robert added.
“His kids too, what?” I queried.
“Clothes, expenses, tu sabes, todo.” (You know, everything). He said, making a baseball umpire’s safe sign with his arms.
“So, Joni has sisters?”
“No, pendenjo, two other brothers. And they have red hair also, so don’t go falling in love with them too—Frankie The Hot for red-hair Bear!” That threw him into another fit of hysterical laughter.
“Knock it off Robert!”
I was still trying to come to grips with someone getting a car like that for free every year when I saw Reverend Villa, followed by his wife, then Joni, coming through the side door and down the steps. Following them the men who’d been sitting on the stage on either side of the pulpit filed out and lined themselves up, shoulder to shoulder, as the reverend stepped into his car. One of the men peeled off and hurried around the front of the car to open the doors for Mrs. Villa and Joni.
In a display fit for a king, Reverend Villa started the car and eased out of the bumpy parking lot. The church members who’d been gathered in little groups talking now gave their full attention to the departing auto and they all began to wave as the reverend extended his left arm out of the window in a pseudo Nazi-like salute. The car, engine growling menacingly, eased out of the lot and smoothly whooshed out onto the asphalt street, and out of sight.
On the ride home, Robert kept pestering me about my conversation with Joni, wanting to hear again and again every word that had come out of her mouth. A little annoyed, I finally told him that three times was enough, and at this point even his grandmother asked him to stop being a pill. Besides, my mind was overly preoccupied with everything that I had seen and experienced that Sunday morning. Robert may’ve thought it was the girl that had interested me the most, but he would’ve been wrong.
Speaking in strange tongues—now wasn’t that something?
I couldn’t wait to tell my mom.
Excelent describtion of the Pentecostal church, I’ve been a couple of times as an adult with my husband, his mothers side of the family was pentecostal, we were Baptist and it was very defferent! Great job in your blogs!