Words that Matter

Barely old enough to follow orders. My sister, Kathy’s, orders—five years older.




We had our Sunday rituals in the Blade house. Up early—breakfast on your own. Sometimes dancing around the table after cereal breakfast to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, while Mom and Dad snoozed. Dancing and dancing faster and faster. Then rush to dress for church. Slacks and wet combed hair. To worship with kids my age. Church is social. Was for me. Play and pretend.



Home to a big Sunday feast. I ate for Mom—that’s how she loved. Red meat and potatoes, and the occasional trip to Furr’s cafeteria. Eat and drink after praying. Prayer was key. Key to all the nots. Could not see, not hear or understand. There’s power in prayer. I was made to realize my prayer asking for Jesus saved me from Hell. My fear tossed around like a ball on a schedule.



Sunday afternoon Mom and Dad found their way to bed behind a locked door for the afternoon snuggle. For some reason, Kathy thought what they did behind that door was wrong.







“You and Cilla take these pots and these spoons and follow me,” Kathy said.

She led us down the shadowy hall and began to sing her song and bang her pot and asked us to follow suit—and yell it out with conviction.

“Jesus knows what you’re doing. Jesus is mad at you. Jesus knows what you are doing. Jesus is mad at you. Jesus knows what you’re doing. Jesus is mad at you.” And on it went.



She got into trouble for that with my parents. Words do matter.