Let us go into the house of the Lord!"
Psalm 122:1
All my life I thought the psalmist wrote that verse about me. God's "House," in the form of a local church, has been a part of my life for MOST of my life.
Both my parents were raised in Christian homes. My paternal grandfather was a highly respected pastor in the Pentecostal Holiness Church. (My aunt still has the telegram Oral Roberts sent before Big Daddy died telling him he was praying for him.) His wife dutifully fulfilled the many impositions placed on a pastor's wife in support of Big Daddy's ministry and raised their six children (as well as "mothering" several of their grandchildren).
My mother's parents were very active lay people in the PH church where they lived. Grandaddy was a man of great faith and prayer. He died when I was three so most of my memories of him are things I h
ave been told rather than things I remember for myself. My grandmother (who I ADORED all her life) lived every facet of her life in obedience to the Savior she loved. I always spent part of my summer vacation with her and can remember tiptoeing (still in my nightgown) many mornings down the steps and seeing her sitting (HOURS before opening time) behind the counter in the camera shop she owned and operated reading her Bible and praying. At left in 1948, I'm right next to my Grandmother Tucker. A spot I dearly LOVED to be! She was a genuine Proverbs 31 woman if there ever was one!
My parents met at a Pentecostal Holiness boarding school, married and settled to live in the town where my mother was raised.
Here, they are pictured at school in 1942. That's my mom second from the right on the bottom row, and daddy is in the center of the second row from the top (right in front of the window pane on the door). Notice that he does NOT have on a tie like most of the boys. Daddy was always a bit "unique" in his style of dress. LOL!
Both of my parents worked in my grandfather's photography business for a time. They went to church in the little PH church my mother had grown up in and that's where they dedicated their babies to the Lord. Me first, and then my brother three years later. Because of their faithful attendance, I was taken to the house of the Lord, before I even have any memory of it. Mother recorded in my baby book that the first song I sang (at 19 months old) was "Jesus Loves Me." And my favorite story of all time illustrates the influence church and Christian parents had on me from my earliest age. On the page titled "Funny Antics and Cute Remarks" in this antiquated book that is such a treasure to me in this season of my life, my mother wrote: "20 months old - Upon receiving second helping of pancakes Beverly raises her hands and says, Praise the Lord! More pancakes!" ROFL
After my grandfather's death, when I was a preschooler, my parents moved from the east coast of Florida across the state to the city on the west coast where my father's family resided. Unable to find a peer group and the same sense of belonging in my grandfather's church that they'd had in their former church, they gradually ceased attending church. They no longer went to church but they didn't stop loving the Lord. They continued to read Bible stories to my brother and me and to live a Christian example before us. They rented and then purchased homes on the same block as a small Baptist church. One Sunday, after noticing my brother and me playing in the yard several Sundays as she drove down our street to the little Baptist church on the corner, a wonderful older lady, Mrs. Hamm, stopped, introduced herself to my mother, and invited our family to church. She told Mother that she was the director in the "Begin
ner department" and she thought my brother looked like he would be in her class.
After my grandfather's death, when I was a preschooler, my parents moved from the east coast of Florida across the state to the city on the west coast where my father's family resided. Unable to find a peer group and the same sense of belonging in my grandfather's church that they'd had in their former church, they gradually ceased attending church. They no longer went to church but they didn't stop loving the Lord. They continued to read Bible stories to my brother and me and to live a Christian example before us. They rented and then purchased homes on the same block as a small Baptist church. One Sunday, after noticing my brother and me playing in the yard several Sundays as she drove down our street to the little Baptist church on the corner, a wonderful older lady, Mrs. Hamm, stopped, introduced herself to my mother, and invited our family to church. She told Mother that she was the director in the "Begin
ner department" and she thought my brother looked like he would be in her class.This is a picture of my brother and me playing in the very yard where Mrs. Hamm saw us - 6006 Highland, Tampa, Florida (circa 1952).
What a wonderful testimony to the power of obedience to God's prompting Mrs. Hamm was the day she stopped at our home to invite us to church. I'll bet she has stars in her crown in heaven today! Because of her invitation our family began attending church. Mother remembers that in that little Baptist church for the first time in her life hearing sermon after sermon on the love of God. She remembers the PH church of that day being more focused on legalism and "don't do this - don't do that." It's not like that today. My parents' hungry hearts devoured the love God poured out on them through this little church, soon joined and became active and involved in the ministries of the congregation.
Growing up, being in the services of this church two doors down from my home was as natural for me as skating on its sidewalks and parking lot in my afternoon playtimes. The church had a steeple tower (sort of like a bell tower) that had benches built in and was always open. It was used as a place people could come to pray at any time. Awesome! I can remember carrying my dolls by the armload up the steps to that open air room, lining them up around the seats and "preaching" to them. GRIN! I LOVED being in the house of the Lord - even when there wasn't a service going on! I was about 10 years old in this picture and playing on the church steps with two of my many dolls.
When I was 8 years old, the third grade Sunday School class was invited to attend an evangelistic appeal being presented to the Juniors (4th thru 6th graders). We were invited simply because attendance was down that morning and they needed to fill the empty chairs! Oh my, the sovereignty of our great and awesome God! I remember so distinctly that Sunday morning listening to the visiting evangelist tell the story of Jesus' death and resurrection. It was a story I'd heard many times before. But something was different that Sunday morning. That Sunday morning the Holy Spirit opened my understanding and I knew - I KNEW - that the sin Jesus died for - the sin that nailed Him a cross - the sin that caused His agony - was MINE - ALL mine! I prayed silently as the minister prayed aloud and asked Jesus to forgive me and be my Savior.
Because I knew some would consider me too young to really understand (third graders weren't really supposed to hear that message, remember), I was tentative about telling my parents what I'd prayed and decided to write them a letter. LOL! The problem with that was, I was only eight and I didn't know how to spell "Savior." And being, little miss perfectionist even way back then, I couldn't have a letter with a word misspelled. Horrors! So I hid my tablet behind my piano books until I could find the right spelling. Mother found it soon after, asked me about it, and took me to visit with our pastor. I couldn't wait to "join the church" the next Sun
day. I guess I must have stepped out on the first word of the invitation hymn because I still remember Pastor Keene's words when he presented me to the church. He laughingly and lovingly said, "Well, she's no bigger than a minute and it didn't take her a minute to get down the aisle." I still remember having to stand on a concrete block in the baptistry so my head would be above water when he baptised me.
When I was 8 years old, the third grade Sunday School class was invited to attend an evangelistic appeal being presented to the Juniors (4th thru 6th graders). We were invited simply because attendance was down that morning and they needed to fill the empty chairs! Oh my, the sovereignty of our great and awesome God! I remember so distinctly that Sunday morning listening to the visiting evangelist tell the story of Jesus' death and resurrection. It was a story I'd heard many times before. But something was different that Sunday morning. That Sunday morning the Holy Spirit opened my understanding and I knew - I KNEW - that the sin Jesus died for - the sin that nailed Him a cross - the sin that caused His agony - was MINE - ALL mine! I prayed silently as the minister prayed aloud and asked Jesus to forgive me and be my Savior.
Because I knew some would consider me too young to really understand (third graders weren't really supposed to hear that message, remember), I was tentative about telling my parents what I'd prayed and decided to write them a letter. LOL! The problem with that was, I was only eight and I didn't know how to spell "Savior." And being, little miss perfectionist even way back then, I couldn't have a letter with a word misspelled. Horrors! So I hid my tablet behind my piano books until I could find the right spelling. Mother found it soon after, asked me about it, and took me to visit with our pastor. I couldn't wait to "join the church" the next Sun
day. I guess I must have stepped out on the first word of the invitation hymn because I still remember Pastor Keene's words when he presented me to the church. He laughingly and lovingly said, "Well, she's no bigger than a minute and it didn't take her a minute to get down the aisle." I still remember having to stand on a concrete block in the baptistry so my head would be above water when he baptised me. This is not the piano where I hid my note - GRIN! I am about ten years old in this picture with the piano my grandmother bought me for my birthday as a reward for continuing to take lessons. Our church organist (a precious elderly lady) came to our house one afternoon a week to give me lessons. We'd play for 30 minutes, stop and watch the Edge of Night together, and then play for another 30 minutes. Isn't that hilarious? But, oh how I loved Mrs. Gibson. She would often let me sit beside her at the organ in the church sanctuary when she came to practice. She bragged about my natural soft touch on the pedals and how well I did my memory work and I worked hard to earn her sweet words of praise. When she had to quit giving me lessons I never enjoyed another of my teachers and quit taking lessons. Oh how I regret that today! (And selling the piano my grandmother bought me is one of the all time biggest regrets of my life!)
Sadly, toward around the time I was entering junior high, that wonderful little Baptist church had some internal strife and split. My parents were among the ones who left the church. They visited a couple of other churches for awhile but were disillusioned and couldn't seem to restore a sense of belonging. I began to attend church with a friend from school and her parents would drive clear across town (MILES out of their way) to pick me up most Sunday mornings for nearly a year.
When I was in 8th grade, a former neighbor and close friend of my parents, came back to the city to lead the music at a large Baptist church. Because of their friendship with him, my mother began to attend this church and, of course, my brother and I with her. Mom attended spasmodically only as long as our family friend ministered there. I don't recall her making other friends there or having a place of service. But for me, this became MY church. I was there at every opportunity. I was richly taught in Sunday School and Training Union classes and discipled powerfully through the youth group. It was there that some of my closest and most meaningful friendships were formed. This was my home church throughout my teen years and the church that launched me into adulthood as I left for college. (In fact, the college I chose was from my pastor's rec
ommendation.) 
When I was in 8th grade, a former neighbor and close friend of my parents, came back to the city to lead the music at a large Baptist church. Because of their friendship with him, my mother began to attend this church and, of course, my brother and I with her. Mom attended spasmodically only as long as our family friend ministered there. I don't recall her making other friends there or having a place of service. But for me, this became MY church. I was there at every opportunity. I was richly taught in Sunday School and Training Union classes and discipled powerfully through the youth group. It was there that some of my closest and most meaningful friendships were formed. This was my home church throughout my teen years and the church that launched me into adulthood as I left for college. (In fact, the college I chose was from my pastor's rec
ommendation.) 
On the left, Junior High Bev. On the right, High School Bev. My teenage years were happy for the most part . . . Years when the God of my youth continued to unfold His plans to give me a future and a hope . . . Years when a sovereign God watched over the growth of the little girl who gave her 8 year old life to Him with divine providence and guidance.
My years in all three of these Baptist churches were years when I truly was "glad when they said unto me - let us go into the house of the Lord." I LOVED being there. I loved the stories. I loved the scriptures. I loved the testimonies. I loved the songs. I loved the preaching. I loved the people. Oh my - what a bountiful blessing these churches were to my life. I cannot even count the godly teachers I had who gave of themselves week after week to study and prepare and share God's truths with children and youth. I am blessed beyond measure to have sat under the teaching of ministers who rightly divided the word of truth and washed our feet in its life-giving water.
Thank you, my Father, for filling me with gladness when I entered
- Idlewild Baptist Church
- Palm Avenue Baptist Church
- and Seminole Heights Baptist Church.
Thank you, my Father, for teaching me to love You and Your people in these wonderful houses of the Lord.
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