The heat in my little bedroom was not about to be vanquished by an ancient rattletrap box fan that sounded like a Harley-Davidson but was slightly less effective than waving my hands in front of my face. I was lying on the floor on my stomach watching an old rerun of a sitcom that wasn't funny the first time I saw it, my face close enough to the flickering images to make my eyes ache. Mom and Dad had been in bed for an hour or so, but it was too hot to even think about sheets, comforters, and quilts.
The release from school had been wonderful in May, the anxiety about entering junior high school lasted until June, and now it was mid-July and I was hot, sweaty, and bored out of my mind. I had decided to stay up until the temperature began to drop, but it looked as if my quest would be futile. I squirmed uncomfortably, sweat running down the back of my neck and pooling in the small of my back. The cheap brown carpet prickled my stomach and legs, and I began mustering what energy the heat hadn't already sapped so I could roll over and let it tickle my back for awhile. Through sheer force of will, I flipped over on my back and immediately realized two things.
The first was that I could no longer see the television, which didn't bother me all that much. The second was that I had...well, I was "armed and ready," I was "prepared for duty," "standing at attention." Okay, okay, in other words, I had an erection. That's a grand-sounding word, I think. I mean, it ought to stand for something bigger and more important than what was going on south of the border that particular evening. But, anyway, I had one. Don't get me wrong, I'd had them before, sometimes when having one was the last thing I wanted; like the time I had to give a report in front of the class and I was wearing briefs and slacks and everyone pointed and giggled...but that's another story. Anyway, this was the first time that I could remember having one with nobody watching and even with no one potentially watching.
It made me feel sort of strange, to tell you the truth. I wasn't thinking of anything particularly sexy at the moment, and there sure wasn't anything on the tube that would have gotten me all hot and bothered. But, there it was, big as life (the biggest I'd ever had) and ready for...well, ready for something that wasn't going to happen to me for about six years. My big question, given the situation, was whether or not I was going to -- well -- mastur...hell, I feel like I should whisper it, but I can't...masturbate. There, I said it. Now, eight years after the fact, I know that everybody does it every now and again, though hardly anybody admits to it. At that point, though, I didn't know that everybody did it, but I did know that I was bored and hot and sticky and lonely and I thought I might give it a try. So I did.
For a while, I wondered what on earth the big deal was. All I was doing was getting hotter and sweatier for no concievable purpose. But then, suddenly, fireworks exploded in front of and behind my eyes, I lost total control of my body, flowers bloomed, snow fell, all the sweat on my body instantly evaporated, I broke out in goosebumps, the saints cried, God looked down in disapproval...and I was exhausted and shaking. "Woah..." I whispered, reverently.
I didn't get much sleep that night. I was pretty sure that somehting that felt that good had to be a sin, and since it was sort of sex, I thought it might fall under the category of fornication. How could I tell my parents their beloved son was a fornicator? How could God love someone who would commit such a terrible act out of nothing more pressing than boredom? When the night finally cooled down, I lay awake in bed, shivering. The guilt pressed down on my head so hard it gave me a splitting headache.
Even though I thought I didn't go to sleep, it was morning too quickly for me to have stayed up all night. Mom woke me up, and I went to shower. While I was getting cleaned up, I looked down at my treacherous organ. Why did it choose last night to stand up? Why did I have to give in to it? I slowly dressed and dragged myself to the breakfast table. I expected Dad to be able to tell just by looking at me, to grab me by the shoulder and say "Son! What did you do last night? You touched yourself, didn't you? I can see it in your EYES! How do you think God feels about that?" But, he didn't. I guessed he was going to let me stew about it for a while before dropping the bomb.
When we walked into church that day, I nearly turned and ran back outside. The first thing I saw were the big silver trays of bread and wine (well, grape juice) that we used to serve the Lord's Supper. Today was Communion, the time when everyone was supposed to confess all their sins so they could take the Eucharist with a clear conscience! How was I supposed to sit in the musty orange pew, look up at the big cross over the altar, and confess my monstrous crime? It seemed like doing that would be as bad as cursing at the preacher. But, if Mom and Dad didn't already know what I had been up to last night, they would surely find out if I suddenly ran screaming out of the church. So, I numbly let them lead me to the family pew and sat down between them.
That sermon must have been the longest I've ever sat through in my life. I don't remember what it was about, even, just that it seemed to go on and on until I wanted to scream "GET ON WITH IT! START THE LORD'S SUPPER!"
As the preacher droned on and on, I squirmed uncomfortably in the chair, anticipating the moment when I would have to tell God what I had done. Mom elbowed me and whispered "sit still!", and I tried, but it didn't do much good.
Finally, the pastor finished his last point and summed up with an illustration that had the entire congregation laughing. Then he left the pulpit and went down to the altar in front of it to serve the Lord's Supper. The Deacons came forward and each took a silver tray. The pastor blessed the bread and said "Let us remember the words of the apostle Paul: If anyone comes to this table in an unworthy manner, he is guilty of the body and blood of Jesus Christ..." -- I think I moaned softly, but Mom and Dad didn't seem to hear it -- "Therefore, examine yourselves, lest you be guilty of the body and blood of Jesus Christ. I ask that you now take some time to ask God to search your heart and convict you of any sin you might have, so you may take freely of the Lord's Table."
I bowed my head and tried as hard as I could to confess my sin. I thought, "God, forgive me for...for...God, forgive me for...please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...you know...God, forgive me for..." but I couldn't bring myself to even think that awful word to God, not in His own house. So I couldn't confess the sin, and now I knew if I took the bread and wine I would be "guilty of the body and the blood of Jesus Christ."
When the silver tray came down our pew, though, I took a piece of bread anyway, because I knew if I didn't Mom and Dad would surely know something was up. The pastor said "And the Lord said, take, eat, this is my body which is broken for you...do this in remembrance of me." Mom and Dad immediately swallowed their bits of bread, but I was in a state of agonized indecision. If I ate the bread, God would be angry with me. If I didn't eat the bread, I would have to explain why to Mom and Dad, and that would be worse...or would it? Finally, I raised the bread to my lips and put it in my mouth, expecting it to burn like fire, or the cross in front to start bleeding, or to hear a voice from heaven say "GUILTY!" and a tongue of fire pointing at my head.
But, nothing happened. I mean, nothing! The bread tasted like bread, and it didn't burn, or stick in my throat, or fill my stomach with acid, or anything. The grape juice went down the same way, just like grape juice, not kerosene or holy water to a vampire. I was surprised and amazed. Either God had forgiven my sin without me even asking, or...maybe it wasn't a sin at all. I sat up a little straighter in the pew. Maybe God meant us to enjoy -- well, you know, that. Or maybe it just wasn't something that God bothered about. I mean, surely God had better things to do than smite little boys...even little boys who do...that. It wasn't like I had killed anybody, or hurt someone, or even hurt myself. In fact, what I felt last night was about the biggest opposite of pain I could think of. And if pain and hurt is from the devil...maybe...well, at the very least, I knew right then that God didn't disapprove.
I walked out of church that day whistling and grinning. Mom said "Well, you sure perked up, didn't you? You sure were dragging this morning...you must not have gotten much sleep last night.
"Right, Mom." I responded, grinning. We went home and had dinner and watched television and life went on as it always had. Except for one thing.
That night I did it again.
On the Lord's own Day, no less.
And you know what? Afterwards, I went to sleep like I had been hit with a lead pipe.

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