We were so excited! My oldest sister, Elizabeth, was getting married! It was during the year I was in the fourth grade that Elizabeth came home for Christmas, accompanied by a handsome young man she had met while attending college in Illinois. This was a brand new experience for us. Elizabeth wasn’t the only one head-over-heels in love; all four sisters thought he was a dreamboat. Mama and Daddy gave their approval. He was a Christian and didn’t smoke nor drink alcohol (Daddy’s prerequisites). When Charles “Chuck” Waymire asked Daddy for Elizabeth’s hand in marriage, the response was a resounding “Yes!” 

Elizabeth and Chuck went back to Illinois to complete another semester in college and Mother began preparing for her oldest daughter’s wedding. There were blue embroidered-organdy poofy dresses and matching blue sateen petticoats to sew for the sister-attendants, not to mention the lovely wedding dress for the bride.

Daddy planted gladiola bulbs in hopes of providing flowers for our bouquets. Alas, they didn’t come up in time for the June wedding, and instead we carried beautiful, long stemmed ivory (maid-of-honor Rodema) and pink (bridesmaids Rachel, Anna, and me) roses that were perfectly formed from supple plastic.

Elizabeth requested that Rev. Saunders perform the ceremony and Daddy made the arrangements for the wedding to be held at our church. Rev. Saunders had been our pastor for many years until he and his family became missionaries in Barbados. June 25th was a lovely summer day and everything went off without a hitch – except for the wedded couple, of course.  They left for their honeymoon in the North Carolina mountains.

It was a few weeks later that our current preacher, whom I will just refer to as the  “bad apple” came to visit.  Instead of coming inside, he asked my dad to come and sit in his car so they could “talk.” Part of the time I was outside playing on the swing set. Once or twice I glanced over and saw Daddy talking to the preacher. I had no idea that a crisis was developing.

The next two weeks, there seemed to be a mood of tenseness in our home, but I had no idea why. I found out the next Sunday morning. As we prepared for church that fateful ly, Mama told us that our family had been asked to come to a meeting with the church board after the worship service.  She seemed mildly agitated; Daddy displayed his usual quiet and gentle spirit. I was curious, maybe even a little excited! After the worship service ended with an altar call and the other congregants had left, Daddy and Mama directed their three youngest daughters across the platform to the board room that was located, along with the church office and some Sunday school rooms, behind the sanctuary.

Occasionally I had sneaked into this room and had always been intrigued by its refined design – dark wood floors, matching wainscoting, tall ceiling and elegant light fixture. Today the room felt very intimidating. We took our places in the front row of chairs, facing the members of the church board – the deacons – all men about my dad’s age who were dressed in dark suits, crisp white shirts and striped ties. Daddy considered these men his friends; they had attended church together for years. Also present was the “bad apple.”

 I remember very little of the actual conversation but I quickly understood that we had been called before the board because the “bad apple” had accused my dad – my dad – of hitting him! Holy cow; this had to be a joke – my dad would never hit anyone (with the exception of spanking his children when they needed it) and certainly not the respected pastor! 

According to the “bad apple’s” testimony, he had paid a visit to my Dad a few weeks earlier to express concerns about why Elizabeth wanted the former preacher – instead of him – to perform the wedding ceremony. (Now, if those board members had any discernment, they would have stopped him right then and said, “Brother, love overlooks little offenses.” But they did not.) I am not sure what kind of recompense he was expecting by confronting Daddy, but I am sure that Daddy responded in a kind way. But not to hear the “bad apple” tell it. He said my dad became angry and hit him on the head. Oh, brother. This is such a ludicrous story and those men who had known my dad for years should have known that.

Daddy’s response was more explanatory that defensive. He recalled that he told the “bad apple” he was sorry his feelings were hurt, but that Elizabeth meant no harm. She was away at college when he came to our church, so she did not know him. On the other hand, she had been very close to Rev. Saunders and his family and had known them for years. Daddy was sitting on the passenger side of the “bad apple’s” car, his left arm stretched across the back of the bench seat. The “bad apple” continued to complain and castigate, and in frustration Daddy raised his hands – as if to intimate, “I don’t know what to do.” In raising his outstretched left arm, he accidently brushed against the “bad apple’s” earlobe with the tips of his fingers. 

“I said excuse me; I didn’t mean to touch him and certainly not him hit. At the time he didn’t say anything about feeling that I had hit him.” Daddy rested his case.

While he did not say anything to Daddy, the “bad apple” had gone to several board members individually and reported Mr. Wright’s “sinful” act. Thus, the meeting had been called; but the verdict had already been decided. Our family was asked – supposedly for the good of all concerned – to leave the church. 

That was a rather heavy ultimatum for a nine-year old who loved – and had never known – another church. Mother cried. Daddy stayed calm, but was somber. It was like a bad dream to me. I do remember the faces of those men – who knew my daddy and should have known better than to believe such an accusation. 

I am sure there was other comments made, but I only remember Daddy kindly stating that he had no plans to leave the church. He had been a founding member. To this day a stained glass window with “J. Boyd Wright and family” is in that church. Of course, if Daddy had been guilty, that would have not given our family any special rights; but Daddy wasn’t guilty of that horrible false accusation. We went home and had our usual Sunday lunch, but I am surmising no one was hungry for seconds.

Except for Mama’s occasional phone conversations with her close friends, I never heard the charges mentioned again. And we never missed a church service. Some of the church people did snub my dad. One in particular, who was probably twenty-five years younger than Daddy, had married into one of the long-time church families. Not long after the inquisition by the board, I walked with Daddy up the front steps one Sunday morning.  As he reached out his hand to shake this young man’s hand, he turned his back on my Dad.  Daddy didn’t say a word, but just continued to his Sunday school class after scooting me down the stairs to mine. Daddy never mentioned that undeserved rebuff, but I always considered that man must not know much about what it means to be a Christian. 

The “bad apple” didn’t last much longer at our church. When he left to take a position at another church, God sent us a precious gift – a soothing balm to heal the hurts and restore my faith in pastors and church people – Rev. Tommy Holshouser, his wife Edna, and their daughter Kathy. They were the most loving people – other than my own family – that I had ever met. Pastor Holshouser (who people thought looked like Jackie Gleason) preached and lived heartily. He was full of energy and joy and God. Edna sang like an angel and played the accordion better than Lawrence Welk. Kathy, who was legally blind, was a few years younger than me, but we became best friends. I thought it was so special to be invited home with them after the Sunday service to play in the neat brick bungalow parsonage beside the church. They visited our home often, cared and ministered to us and…well, they loved us. After the previous harrowing experience, I do believe God sent them to us to heal our wounded hearts. Even after they were called to another pastorate several years later, Mama and Daddy remained close friends with Brother and Sister Holshouser. All four of them are gone now – but I am sure they are rejoicing in Heaven.  Just the other day, I saw on Facebook that Kathy had written my youngest daughter Emily a message. That brought back lovely memories. 

Daddy outlived all of his “jury” by many years. I am not sure what happened to his accuser; I just pray he never caused the hurt at other churches that he caused at ours.

Most of all, I am grateful that Daddy did not allow that hurt to embitter him. He did not respond in kind; he forgave and continued to love. Those are important lessons for a father to teach his daughter.