Jesus just take me now

“All to Jesus I surrender;
Humbly at His feet, I bow,
Worldly pleasures, all forsaken;
Take me, Jesus, take me now.”

— Traditional hymn lyrics by Judson W. Van DeVenter, 1896

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Despite the old joke about getting to church “early to get a good seat — one in the back,” the front seat is my preferred pew. The very front row. Every Sunday.

It’s something I’ve grown accustomed to over the years. Mainly the years I’ve volunteered to lead congregational singing. Which is better than half my life, give or take a year or two. I enjoy leading singing, and I also enjoy sitting at the front.

And who knows. Someday, I might even learn how to sing.

Not only is the front row convenient for song leading, but it’s also an incentive for me to … let’s call it “look alert” during the sermon. Despite how it may appear, my eyelids closing for a few seconds is not a reflection on the preacher or the message. It’s because any time I get still and comfortable, anywhere, my eyelids get heavy. Therefore, I’ve become adept at listening even when my eyes appear to be briefly closing. When I’m not preparing to lead the next song.

Song-leading, however, was not my first experience in front row sitting at church. That happened long before then.

My earliest memories include going to church every Sunday morning. Perhaps you’ve seen the typical childhood photos of a kid sitting on a pony or straddling a new bicycle? My childhood photos are of me dressed and ready for church. Dress shirt, clip-on bow tie, jacket, and all. At five years of age. Because that’s how my loving mother raised me. She attended services regularly, and my accompanying her was never an option.

As a youngster, I always sat with her at Southside Church of Christ in Mount Pleasant. About midway toward the front on the left side with her friend and neighbor, Betty Rust. Proper church etiquette was expected early. Listen to the sermon. No naps. No talking. No fidgeting. No burping or any other surprises. And any infraction was met with a hard pinch. It might be my leg, my arm, or my ear. But whenever Momma was unhappy with my conduct in church, my thoughts were, “Jesus, just take me now. Better you than my Momma.”

As I got older, Mom never questioned me about where I went or when I got home. The car races Saturday night at Tyler. With friends, to a concert, or a movie. Never a question. But regardless of whether I got home at 8 p.m. Saturday night or 3 a.m. Sunday morning, I was going to church with Mom. And I had better be ready when she reached the front door with her white gloves, hat, and shiny patent leather Sunday purse.

My first introduction to front-row seating for the Sunday sermon happened in high school. Before any attempt to direct a song service. That was when guys about my age at Southside, Ronald Rust, Randy Brogoitti, Rusty Clark, Ronny Melton, Rod McCasland, and probably others whose names I will remember as soon as I send this to print, began branching off from sitting with our parents. Opting for the back row. Directly behind our parents. Hoping it put us out of sight and out of mind. 

It was one Sunday morning, sometime in the mid-1960s. Some of the above may or may not have been included. I don’t remember and certainly don’t want to incriminate the innocent at this point in life.

About mid-point in the sermon, the preacher stopped. Just quit preaching. The silence was cause to look up. Did he lose a page in his notes? Was he done preaching? Was it time to stand up and sing?

Then he said, “You boys on the back seat.” We looked around as if to confirm he was talking to us. “Your whispering and laughing is distracting from the service.”

Every mother in the building turned in unison and looked our direction.

“I want you boys … yes, all of you … to come down here and sit on the front seat facing me. Now.” Anticipating that we might not be clear about his request, he leaned over the podium. Then pointed directly at the pew before him.

We got up and walked single file to the front, right where he pointed. Not a single one of us so much as cast a glance toward our parents. We also didn’t speak for the rest of the service. We didn’t even risk breathing.

But those words came to me again. “Jesus, just take me now. Better you than to face my Momma. And Jesus, I’m serious this time.”

Fortunately, Jesus spared me, and so did Mom. She was unhappy. Really unhappy. But thankfully, she postponed any plans she may have harbored about sending me back to Jesus. Offering me another chance at salvation. The following week, however, I was sitting with her again. Fearing the pinch.

Every now and then, that long-ago Sunday crosses my mind. Like it did last Sunday. Sitting on the front pew. Fighting the temptation to close my eyes. Just for a moment, so maybe the preacher won’t notice.

Because unlike that Sunday so many years ago, it was still and comfortable on the front row last Sunday.

—Leon Aldridge

(Editors note: It’s with heavy heart that I add this note. Columns you read on this blog are written earlier in the week for newspaper publication. As I was preparing this column Friday for uploading here, I learned one of those friends and back seat sitters at Southside I wrote about, Ronald Rust, had passed away earlier in the week. Ronald and I grew up as neighbors on Redbud Street, went to grade school together at South Ward, rode bicycles together and helped keep each other’s old hot rod cars running in high school. My thoughts and prayers are with Ronald’s family.)

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Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, and The Monitor in Naples.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.