mama, Jesus, and weed

'Mama, Jesus and Weed' - by Southern TLouise

I was thinking back a few days ago when Mama introduced me and my sisters to weed on her quest to find Jesus.

 "I MOST CERTAINLY DID NOT," Mama would be yelling right now if she were in front of me. "YOU BETTER NOT WRITE THAT SH*%# DOWN! DO YOU HEAR ME… T'LOUISE?"

 Yep, she'd be having what's referred to as a genuine hissy-fit, waving her finger up in my face.

 But since she happens to be miles away at the moment…I can't help but smile.

 After all, I am my Mama's daughter…

 For many years I thought this was one of those dreams that kept resurfacing. It's not like I had never asked Mama if she had taken us to a hippie church before. She always told me she had no clue what I was talking about. Nope, she didn't remember anything of that nature ever happening. So, I'd leave it alone and blame it on my often-overactive imagination.

 It wasn't until the third time I asked her about it that I noticed she hurried and changed the subject. When someone does that, it's a sure sign that something's up.

 "Mama, look at me. Do you remember that little hippie church?" I asked.

 This time it was different; she was sitting in the corner of the couch and acting like she didn't hear a thing. When she didn't look up, I realized she was trying her best to keep from laughing.

 "What the hell," I said. "It's true, and it really happened, didn't it?"

 Mama could no longer ignore the questions. Yeah…she knew, I knew…she was caught.

 Honestly, I always thought that sh*%# was in my head. Oh, sweet Jesus, the relief I felt washed over me, knowing I hadn't fallen off the deep end of crazy. I was still in the wading pool, and that's something I could live with.

 Mama slowly gathered herself together, paused, and then glanced at me. I could tell she was searching for a short line of defense, but it was too late. She was caught.

 "Honey, I kinda remember something about that little church," she said, still avoiding eye contact. "But for the life of me…everything is just a little bit fuzzy."

 "Oh, I bet it is a little fuzzy, Mama. I bet it is."

 Now and give Mama the benefit of the doubt, I thought a trip down Memory Lane was in order. Besides, what harm could it do? As we get older, we have a giant puzzle to piece together. Trust me when I say with this particular puzzle, the good Lord sure works in mysterious ways.

Before diving headfirst into this incident, I'd like everyone to know that Mama did not intend to introduce us to drugs that day. If anything, I'm convinced that she indirectly saved us from a life of sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, all in the sweet name of Jesus.

 In the 70s, the big craze was long-haired teen heartthrobs poured into extremely tight pants with shirts unbuttoned to their navels. These guys graced the cover of Teen Beat magazine every month.

 Sista and I would scrape together any loose change to buy the next edition. Each magazine came filled with posters that we used to wallpaper our bedroom. David Cassidy, Leif Garrett, John Travolta, and the list goes on. Girls everywhere were losing their minds over those long-haired rebels. Magazines announced that these guys wanted nothing more than to share a pillow with us and date us. Sista and I were young but knew a hot guy when we saw one. We both agreed that Andy Gibb had trouble keeping his shirt buttoned up, that's for sure. He was always photographed showing off his hairy chest. I never knew someone could grow that much hair in a lifetime. Trust me, if we could have ridden off in the sunset with any of those guys, we would have in a minute. Yeah, we were those girls looking for a knight in shining armor.

 After dressing in our Sunday best and heading to church, we were surprised to find it full of long-haired guys. There they were, with bell-bottom pants, unbuttoned shirts, and gold crosses dangling from their necks. These were Jesus-loving hippies, for sure. As we followed Mama farther into the church, all I could think about was the fact that we were witnessing a true miracle.

 Looking around, I noticed no chairs or pews and wondered where everyone would sit. Then, just like that, people started sitting on the floor. This was the coolest thing ever. We watched Mama closely as she knelt on the floor and shifted onto her hip. Following her lead, we did the same. Young families were sitting around us.

It was only a short time before the preacher took the stage. He wasn't like any preacher I had seen on television. He looked like he had stepped out of one of our magazines. With a guitar strapped around his neck, he started singing and swaying. It wasn't long before the whole congregation joined him. Suddenly, a barefoot woman stepped onto the platform and began having herself a twirling spell with a tambourine. Before long, we were all having a kumbaya moment, swaying and singing. That place filled up with God's love; you could see it floating in the air. Then, out of nowhere, the person next to Sista passed her a joint. Sista passed it to me, I passed it to Mama, and she hurried to pass it to the lady beside her.

Dam*#, to relive that moment…it was the 70s.

Now that I look back, I'm sure not all the guys had long, feathered hair and movie star smiles, but that's how I see them. Recently, after talking with Sista, I found that's how she also remembers it.

After church and lots of hugging and greeting all the happy saints, we returned to the car. Once the doors were closed tight, Mama turned and gave us an order about the events that had just unfolded.

"Girls, whatever you do, don't speak to your daddy about this," she warned. "Do you understand me? Not one word."

"Yes, ma'am." We all agreed.

Why we couldn't tell Dad, I don't know. But our lips were sealed. I'm proud to say that I've kept my word even today. As a matter of fact, Daddy will read it for the first time right here…just like you.

Looking back now, I believe one of the most memorable moments constituting a miracle had nothing to do with those long-haired pot-smoking guys.

It all took place on the ride home. Mama pulled up to Church's Fried Chicken and picked up not one but two boxes of that glorious chicken. Now, trust me when I say that acting alone was huge. But it didn't end there. Once in the car, Mama turned and put napkins on our laps and carefully placed a fresh hot chicken leg. That, my friend, was the true miracle. You see, we were never ever allowed to eat in Mama's car. But that day was different. Sweet baby Jesus has shined his light down on us. We were all starving…church had worked up some crazy kinda appetite. We were hungry, and all had a contagious case of giggles. What a day!

At that small hippie church, we witnessed real-life heartthrobs, saw more chest hair than should ever be allowed in church, saw and experienced the fog of Jesus descending, and worshiped with some of the world's happiest people.

I don't care what anybody says;

I know Jesus, Mama, and Weed saved the day.

Just never tell Dad!