(Article originally published here on December 24, 2013)
I don't think anyone knew how old the widow Thibodeaux was. Maybe no one ever asked, and I'm not sure she would have remembered. But both the length of her dark grey braids, and the depth of the wrinkles that almost swallowed her eyes, commanded wordless respect.
When the widow Thibodeaux climbed the three uneven steps up to the tiny church on Wednesday nights, with one hand on a railing that was almost as weathered as she was, and the other on her old cane, you couldn't help but hold your breath til she got up safely. No one ever helped her - not because we didn't care, but because we did. We honored her determination to climb those steps on her own.
Back in those days, folks used to say that there was a church for every dozen people in Beauregard Parish. Louisiana was like a simmering pot of religion jambalaya, and this little charismatic, loosely Pentecostal church was just one of the many flavors.
You knew folks were there because of the passion in their hearts and souls. I never got that feeling in the Methodist church. As a kid, it had never even occurred to me that religion had anything to do with emotions. Church was about following a script, standing, sitting, or reciting, as the script directed. On a good day, the minister offered a few jokes in his sermon and you didn't leave feeling guilty. But if he went over his allotted time even slightly, church would let out a minute or two late and he'd get rebuked on the receiving line. The members made it sound like a joke, but even a kid could tell that underneath they were dead serious. His congregation was intent on getting to their Sunday dinner on time, by God! And you couldn't blame them for wanting to leave, those pews were mighty uncomfortable.
I always thought the Methodists were aptly named, since they were all about the method. Stay on schedule. Put your money in the plate. Stand up and sit down when instructed. Recite the doxology. Don't get me wrong, there were lots of intriguing concepts for a young baby boomer's mind to ruminate over while sitting quietly under the stained glass windows. And I did plenty o' ruminatin' since my family never missed a Sunday. I wondered about where Jesus went during those unrecorded years. You sure could live a whole lifetime in those missing years, maybe he did. And I wondered what he and the disciples meant when they were discussing what a baby born blind might have done before birth. And how John the Baptist had lived before as Elijah. And I wondered why Mary Magdalene didn't get more kudos for being the first one to recognize Jesus after he rose, and why Peter was so jealous of her. There was lots of puzzling stuff to think about that no one really explained, even if you asked.
Still, Methodists have traditionally been noted for some good qualities such as intelligence, tolerance and charity. And great music. I still love to hear a lot of those old hymns, though even as a 9-year-old I knew that "Onward, Christian Solders Marching as to War" was all wrong. But one quality that the Methodists, at least the ones up north, have never been known for, is gushing emotion.
And back then I was still trying out samples from a smorgasbord of spirituality, choosing the tidbits for my plate that looked tasty, and I was perfectly content to leave the rest for people who preferred other flavors.
In Louisiana during the 1970s, plenty of folks like the widow Thibodeaux lived on less than $100 per month. That didn't pay for luxuries, but it pretty much paid for housing, utilities, food, and enough gas to get to church and back in a rusty ol' truck. Lots of those little country houses had old newspapers and scraps of lumber covering holes in the floors to keep the cold and the critters out. Indoor plumbing and reliable heat were still appreciated as one of life's recent upgrades, lots of those elderly Louisianans hadn't grown up with fancy extras like that.
One cold, December night Sister Thibodeaux raised herself up unsteadily in church, and her voice was thin as she asked for special prayer. The heating unit in her home, fixed several times by church members, had broken again. This time, when the repairman came to check it, he told her it had to be replaced.
The wrinkles around her eyes swallowed up a few small tears. The cost of replacing the heater was monumental, much more than her monthly Social Security check. A neighbor had loaned her a tiny, temporary heater, but she was cold and worried. She didn't know what she was going to do, so she did the only thing she knew, she "gave it to God." The poor little congregation prayed with her. And, as was their custom, they all praised the Lord in advance for whatever the answer would be.
My husband and I weren't rich back then. We became much more well-to-do later. But at that time we had plenty of expenses, with our new baby and his three tween and young teen kids. Still, we'd managed to save up a couple hundred dollars for Christmas. But after hearing the widow Thibodeaux's story, we realized there really wasn't anything we needed. We had plenty of food, we were warm, we had each other. Things the widow Thibodeaux didn't have.