A Georgia Revival
You know, I applaud all parents who are dedicated to seeing to it that their family attends church on a regular basis. They surely have a crown awaiting them in heaven. I know it’s not easy getting four children and yourself dressed for every service and then have to travel 11 miles to get there on time.
Such was the case at our house back in Georgia years ago. By the time I settled a few squabbles with the children and put my makeup on as we traveled, I didn’t have one spiritual bone left in my body by the time we arrived. And revival was another thing because that was every evening. By that time, I needed deliverance.
One evening, we were in revival in our little church in Leesburg, Ga. Our youngest son was about 18 months old, so I decided to take a chair in the back, up against the wall, in case he got restless. My husband had the other children in the pews.
Everyone was singing to the top of their lungs, and the sanctuary was packed. I was holding our son, a hymn book and singing along with everyone else. I didn’t notice I had my son turned with his face toward the wall—great view for him—but the only light switch in the whole sanctuary was on that wall.
Well, you guessed it. He reached up with his little hands and pulled both switches down at the same time. It went pitch black.
The music stopped.
I panicked, “dropped” my son down to the floor, and flipped the switches back on. But when I did, it was only me they saw with both hands on the switches.
I was shaking my head, as if to say, “It wasn’t me!” But, who else could they see?
Embarrassed didn’t even cover it. Would I ever live this down? Oh well, maybe I wrote that song, you know, “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia.