A Beating Heart in Texas
A Beating Heart in Texas
by David Michael
Thump-thump.
It sounded like a heartbeat, I thought, so I swung my leg again.
Thump-thump.
My seven year old legs weren’t quite long enough to reach the floor as I sat on the wooden pew. But the ball of my foot, encased in the least expensive sneakers money could buy, just barely touched, brushed against the hardwood as my leg swung back and forth.
Thump-thump.
I sat on the front pew, close to the aisle, looking up at my father as he gave the day’s sermon. A small church in a smaller Texas town, I sat alone on the front pew.
Thump-thump.
Sitting on the front pew had seemed like an adventure, especially sitting there alone. Unfortunately, the front pew lacked even the limited entertainment of the other pews, like the one where my mother sat, four rows behind me, with my siblings. With no pew in front of it, the front pew had no collection of hymn books to flip through, looking for the songs I knew, like “The Star Spangled Banner” or “My Country ‘Tis of Thee”.
Thump-thump.
No old Bibles left behind by congregation members that had moved away from this dried out and dying little spot on the map in the Panhandle of Texas. No little stack of tracts. No siblings to poke or be poked by. Just an empty pew. Except for me.
Thump-thump.
My foot thumped out the heartbeat of the slow Sunday morning as I sat there. The sound wasn’t loud, but I found it fascinating. It didn’t drown out my father’s words, but I don’t remember hearing them. His lips moved. He gestured. All to the rhythm of my swinging leg.
Thump-thump.
Marking time. Ticking away the seconds until I could go back outside, play with my siblings, and maybe some of the other church children. Maybe some of the other church children. They had lived here all their lives. We were just the new pastor’s kids, baggage brought with my parents as they followed the will of God west.
Thump-thump.
The sermon ended. My father wrapped up the Sunday morning service with a final prayer. I jumped up and followed him down the aisle. I didn’t make it to the front door.
My mother caught my arm and pulled me close to her. “I can’t believe,” she whispered into my ear, her voice harsh with embarrassment, her hand squeezing my arm so hard it hurt, “that you sat up there the whole sermon and kicked the floor.”
I noticed the other people looking at me too.
“It sounded,” I said, barely forcing the words out. “It sounded like a heartbeat.”
In a small Texas church with a small congregation, everybody sees everything. Everybody hears everything. Under the pressure of all those looks I could hear my real heart pounding in my chest. I wondered if they could too.
Thump-thump.
Copyright © 2006 by David Michael. All rights reserved.
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