Among my frequent stops while browsing the internet is a website by the name of Quora. Perhaps you’ve seen it? The premise is simple: anyone can ask a question, of almost any sort, and anyone can in turn answer them. I’ve not found the need to ever ask one myself, reasoning that at this stage of humankind’s time here on earth there truly aren’t many new questions worthy of posing. Best, I feel, to take a minute and find out what that last fellow found out when he asked. To show my wisdom has its limits, I have found myself answering quite a few brought forth by others. This is a way for me to play “Mr. Know-it-All” while at the same time exercising my writing skills (such as they are.)

One of the questions I could not ignore was something to the effect of, “What do carmakers do with new cars that don’t sell?” Now, I know what the author was hoping to hear: “Why, I’m so pleased you asked this! The truth is, every year Ford, Toyota, GM and others are stuck with hundreds, nee, thousands of new sedans, SUV’s and pick-em-up trucks that don’t sell. They have no choice but to pay people like you to take them. Just call 1-888-FREE-CAR and they’ll get one on the way! Thanks for asking!” The reality, of course, is somewhat less exciting. They drop the price until somebody buys them. Just like that. The old saying, among car salesmen, is “there’s a butt for every seat.” Crude, perhaps, but true. They say my grandfather bought the ugliest ‘59 Ford that Hebe Lane had on the Preston Motors lot, an atrocious two-tone dark green sedan. While Pop-Pop may have suggested he be paid for taking it off the lot, in fact it was my grandfather who had to write the check for the pleasure of driving that machine off the property.

This is the part of the story where, speaking of cars, I change gears. You may think Loretta made a mistake in editing and that what follows is an entirely different story. Ah, but, stick with me.

I don’t recall the first time I went to church, but vaguely remember sitting among the congregation listening to some hymn sung in German (or, at least, it didn’t sound like English to my young ears.) The pastor spoke stodgily, but in Sunday school his wife was friendly and I seem to recall she brought us cookies. In time there was a new, younger preacher who enjoyed telling jokes. I’m not sure if some of the adults appreciated it, but I sure did. Pastor Klemm’s son Karl was my age and we became friends. He taught me a little song, which I still sing to myself every so often:

I saw a peanut, I saw a peanut, I saw a peanut just now.

Just now, I saw a peanut. I saw a peanut just now.

In subsequent verses the person belting out this tune admits to picking up said nut, finding it rotten, eating it despite said fact, falling ill, passing away, and eventually finding themselves in heaven. I later added my own verses involving the finding of a peanut in my new heavenly home, totally unnecessary. Through modern technology I know that Karl is, himself, in ministry these days. I thought of sending him a note but what do you say to someone you haven’t seen since your toad-frog catching days? Perhaps I will send him a copy of this if only to show the staying power in ones words.

After the Klemm’s left I fell away from the church. I was getting old enough that I’d have to move up to a “big kids” class which was scary to me. My parents didn’t make me go, so I didn’t. It was only as an adult that I would again set foot inside a house of worship, and over the years there have been a few. I’ve heard music good enough that some folks would pay money for tickets to hear it. I’ve been to a funeral at a Catholic church, leaving me utterly confused by the actions of water splashing and coordinated kneeling that everyone aside from me seemed to understand. I attended a marriage renewal once at a little country church with an old mobile home for a Sunday school and dining hall. While waiting for a piece of cake in that hall, the pastor smoked a cigarette.

I’ve seen cowboy churches and heard of biker churches. Music can be hard rock or old bluegrass, or anything else you can imagine. I’ve attended services under an hour, and some that might still be going on. Why am I telling you this?

At each of those churches, indeed, at every single one of them here in Caroline County, you will find people who are there on a Sunday morn not out of guilt or obligation, but because they truly want to be there. Does that seem hard to believe? Maybe you haven’t attended church in years, if ever. I just want you, dear reader, to think for a moment: you are missing something, if you aren’t in church. I’m not even going to get into theology. You’re missing out on friendships, great music, support in times of trouble, and the keys to a greater purpose.

To get back to where I started, you might have memories of some church years ago that left a bad taste in your mouth. But nobody said you had to buy that two-tone green Ford. Sure, some folks might like it, but I only suggest you take a look around. Get yourself up next Sunday morn, dust yourself off, and walk in the door of a local church. I can promise you, you’ll find a smiling face, and there’s always an open seat waiting for you. Remember, they want you there. They’re waiting on you! And, hey, if you don’t like it, continue your adventure! Try a different place a week later. If you like the great old hymns accompanied by a well-played piano, and a good message, follow my old blue car to Denton Wayside out toward the blinking light at 404 & 16. You can sit next to me. Tip: there’s someone like me at every church, probably better.

So, my message today? Not so crude as a butt for every seat. How ‘bout (wait for it!)

There is a pew for you!