Prada and Presence

I have never cared for neck ties. Of all the clothing in my closet, only the neck tie has nefarious intent when it comes to my personal well-being. My shoes and socks protect my feet from the pebbles of life. My shirts and pants protect me from the elements, as well as from embarrassment. The older I become, the more I appreciate clothing. Even my underwear wards off chafing; while the noble hat sheds rain and protects my noggin from the rays that would do me harm. The entire ensemble is there to protect my person and give me style; everything that is, save the neck tie. 
 
I would be reticent to meet a mind so twisted as the one that first tied a hangman’s noose around a man’s neck and called it fashion. To say that such an action was merely passive aggressive is a gross understatement. This is just a wild guess, but I believe the individual guilty of such an odious act just may have had a problem with men.    

My mother liked ties. My father, like Adam before him, dutifully wore the things with a smile on his face and a “Yes ma’am” on his lips. In me, however, that pairing produced a Cain of sorts when it comes to the neck tie. From an early aged I kicked and bucked when the reins were placed on my neck. I have always hated the things. Perhaps like Cain before me, I consider them to be a mark of subservience.

That being said, as a kid I was indeed subservient to my mother; that was back before the inmates took over the asylum, so I wore ties to church ‘most every Sunday. A nice little clip on job as a rule; but when Mom was filled with evil intent and determined to punish her little Cain for his sins, real and imagined, she would bring out the dreaded bow-tie. It was usually a light blue or green plaid.   

I remember the last time I wore one of those things. I was seven years of age or so, as I recall. It was early Sunday morning in Panama City, mid-July and hot as blazes. My Granny Tharpe was on edge, borderline frantic and not to be messed with.  She had just spent a good thirty minutes wrestling with a seven year old, and as I stood there dressed to the nines replete with patent leather shoes and a light green bow-tie she thought she had me cowed. So she gave me a stern look and said, “You stand right there. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” She then went out to take care of her own ablutions and other preparations for Sunday service.

Well, while she was otherwise occupied, I took the opportunity to go out back and dig for worms under the catawba tree. I reasoned that Wednesday was on the way, the mullet were running hot and heavy, and you can never be too prepared for fishing.

Even Granny knew when she was beaten. When she found me, instead of wearing me out like I deserved, she just started laughing; one of those old satisfying deep belly laughs that were her hallmark.

When she finally caught her breath, she told me that I should be ashamed of myself; which I wasn’t, took a look at her watch and grinning said “Let’s go!”

She brushed off what dirt she could, decided to leave my hat behind, which was crushed beyond recognition, and then she asked me where my tie was.  I told her that I had buried it, which was answered with a knowing grin. You see Granny preferred dungarees to dresses any day. Then Granny, with her disorderly boy and kindred spirit in hand, headed for Saint Andrews Southern Methodist Church at a good clip to catch the first hymn.

When we arrived at church, who do you think was standing, hands on hips, on the front steps? It was my Grandmother Rowell, and she didn’t share Granny’s lackadaisical view  of social convention. In other words she was confounded by my appearance.

She looked at me as if I was some sort of vermin, a salamander or slug maybe, but not her grandson. I actually believe she thought that I had crawled out from under a rock or something. She gave Granny, whom she considered the responsible party, a first rate scowl which was answered by yet another grin; and into church we all went.

Grandma was righteously indignant. I mean what would the town think of her grandson coming to church for all the world looking like Huck Finn? What would they think of Bill Rowell for letting his son go out in public like that; and heaven help us what would they think of his Mother? She was horrified, and I suppose rightfully so. The optics were all wrong. It didn’t look good. People were going to talk. Reputations were on the line.

Granny, on the other hand, didn’t care. She had managed to drag a seven year old cantankerous boy to church without bloodshed; and what condition he happened to be in upon arrival, was of little or no consequence to her. 

When Mom found out about my exploits; in a flash of Christ-like behavior Granny stood between me and my just deserts. Not only that but she talked Mom out of making me wear a tie, bow or otherwise, from then on. The Lord gave me a jewel when he gave me my Granny.

The lesson is pretty simple in this one. Don’t make excuses when it comes to the worship of your Lord and Savior. Christ doesn’t care about Prada, He cares about presence. So be there.
 
Love,
Pastor Tony
 
 

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