The first sign of trouble was a faint but distinct cry from the choir loft. A head or two glanced up but mostly nobody paid any mind.
The second was a when a hymnal whizzed past the pastor’s head and smacked Uncle Shad Nickerson, sitting prominently in the first pew, on the knee. That got everybody’s attention but before there was time for anyone to react, there was a third sign.
“Great God Almighty!” Jacob Sullivan bellowed from the choir loft, “Lurlene’s havin’ the baby!”
Sunday services at the Baptist church were, as a rule, predictable. We sang, we prayed, we listened to James speak in calm, reasonable tones about being good Christians, we made our offerings. It was pretty plain vanilla, pretty typical, pretty foundational – a part of village life that didn’t inspire or offend anyone. We put on our Sunday clothes and Sunday faces and did our best not to fidget or fall asleep. Until the morning that Lurlene Nickerson birthed her 12th child in the choir loft, church was uneventful and a touch boring.
“Doc! Doc!” Jacob yelled frantically, “Carry your ass up here now! This baby’s a-comin with or without you!”
That was the moment it all turned into a scene out of the Keystone Kops. There was mayhem in the choir loft, Lurlene was wailing, Doc McDonald and Uncle Shad collided on their way to the scene and the congregation was in an uproar. James was clutching his Bible and calling uselessly for order.
“Good God!” Doc hollered to be heard above the confusion and noise, “Women been havin’ babies since before the damn flood! Jesus wept, Lurlene’s got herself eleven already! Everybody just clear out and settle down! And somebody go fetch her husband!”
The pastor collected his wits and stepping down from the pulpit, led the congregation out. His wife, Lily, took the choir in hand and evacuated the choir loft. Doc made his way through and Lurlene quieted. Uncle Shad hovered helplessly over his daughter-in-law. In a very few minutes as we milled about in front of the church, there was a newborn’s cry. A few minutes after that, Lily appeared on the church steps.
“It’s a boy!” she announced with a wide smile and the entire congregation applauded.
About that time, there was a roar of an engine and a battered pick up truck came barrel assing down the road in a cloud of dust and exhaust. The crowd in front of the church scattered as it careened wildly and pulled in with a screech of brakes, sending a spray of gravel in all directions.
Rodney Nickerson, wild-eyed and looking like an unmade bed in work boots and faded overalls, flung open the truck door and raced for the church, nearly knocking over Lily in his rush to get inside. Nine of his eleven children, including Noah and his prize pig, all packed into the bed of the pick up like sardines, picked themselves up, dusted themselves off and cheered.
Doc pronounced mother and child doing fine and Lily and James arranged for Lurlene to spend the night in the spare bedroom. After that there wasn’t much to be done and with the excitement over, the congregation headed to their homes.
Until that sunny, Sunday morning, there’d never been a baby born in the Baptist Church and there’s never been one born there since. After 12 births, Lurlene was said to have had enough and she discreetly made an appointment with a doctor in Halifax and had her tubes tied over the following Labor Day weekend. The entire village sighed with relief.
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