I came upon an accident scene at Mesquite & Lake Havasu Avenue the other day and was lucky to be at the rear of the pack. Debris was still being cleaned off the road, and before anyone had a chance to hem my car in, I was able to make a quick U-turn and drive the other way.
After giving myself a mental pat on the back for still having sharp reflexes, a different route was wisely chosen. For me, being at the tail end of a line sometimes works best, as it did on this occasion.
I’ve always preferred sitting in back of a building, whether it be a restaurant, movie theatre, church, work conference, or the like. If I feel a need to leave, I want to be able to do so right now.
The word “stealth” plays a key role here. The Biblical definition for stealth is twofold: It doesn’t just mean to do something in secret; the term also implies use of deceit, to be crafty.
This desire to stealthily disappear without attracting undue attention goes way back in time—64 years to be exact.
The year was 1959 and I lived in Selma, Alabama, with our family attending Selmont Baptist Church on the outskirts of town. This house of worship was in close proximity to Craig Air Force Base where Dad was stationed—also near Jones Trailer Park where we lived.
In Sunday school, it was customary on your birthday to bring a penny for each year of age. I’d just turned five and Mom gave me a bright shiny nickel to use as a birthday tithe. As unbelievable as it sounds, five cents would buy a candy bar back then.
Sitting in back of the class room, that Jefferson nickel was burning a hole in my pocket. It was also speaking to me in a most devilish manner,
“Michael, you deserve a special treat today!”
The plan to voluntarily give up what I “wrongly regarded” to be my money got harder and harder with each passing second. After two minutes, I couldn’t stand the thought of doing so. Faking a trip to the restroom, I kept on trucking and never looked back.
Calculating that R&R Grocery on Highway 80 was a short distance away, I set off in pursuit of the noted candy oasis—heading the wrong direction.
Getting lost is something I was skilled at back then and still am. I can’t tell you exactly how long I walked, but it must’ve been an hour or more.
When an older couple from our congregation rolled up in a cloud of dust I knew I was in trouble. Fearing that something bad happened to me, those concerned folks informed me that countless people were beating the bushes looking for my carcass. Perhaps they weren’t that graphic or sensationalistic, but for added “flavor” to this story we’ll just assume that’s what they said.
As the three of us rolled up to the church entryway, standing outside was our pastor and other concerned brethren, who’d been praying for my safe return. For several short minutes I was hugged and congratulated as being a hero—at least that’s how I viewed things. This perceived fanfare on my part quickly deteriorated as Dad drove us home.
I received a tongue lashing next to none and then the proverbial spanking. Undoubtedly, to this day, ministers from all over creation use my escape from Selmont Baptist to demonstrate what robbing God of tithes will achieve.
Yes, I learned a valuable lesson that day. It seems each time I hear a sermon on tithing, that blotched attempt at escape comes to mind.
I still sit on the very last pew, yet not for the same reason as in 1959. There’s no need to fake a trip to the restroom these days. If you see me scurrying that direction—rest assured—it’s the real deal.
I like to write junk... 