One Hot Sunday

On a particular Sunday when I was five or six, I was sitting next to Mom in the morning worship service at the Assembly of God church.  The song service was over and the sermon had begun.  Though it pains me to admit it, my keen interest in the finer points of theology was not fully developed and my attention was wandering.  Until the anointing fell and the shouting started, I often got, well... bored.  

Offering Envelope - before unfolding

One way I would alleviate this condition was to dissemble an offering envelope and doodle in it.  For the convenience of givers, the old wooden pews had little envelopes into which you put your cash before depositing it in the offering plate.  On the outside were places to put your name so your record of giving could be updated, as well as whether the gift was designated for something specific.  Next to the envelope slots were pencil holders which usually held those half-length pencils with no erasers.  But, since Mom was sitting right there, I didn’t think I could risk making use of these convenient art supplies.  So, there I sat, my idle mind primed to be the devil’s workshop.

Then, my wandering gaze spotted a small, red object on the pew a few feet away from me, just out of reach.  I discretely sidled over, stretched out and snatched it up.  It appeared to be some kind of fruit or vegetable, but it was unknown to me.  Naturally curious, I began examining it from all angles.  It was a little longer than my fingers, shaped somewhat like a pickle, but tapering unevenly to a rounded point from the wider end where the small, green stem was.  The color reminded me of a ripe tomato, but the surface had a waxy sheen that made the red vivid.  I squeezed it a bit and nothing came out.  It seemed to be filled with air underneath the rubbery surface, but rather deflated like a bicycle inner tube that has most of the air let out of it.  I thought this might be what tomatoes do when dried like grapes, sort of the tomato equivalent of a raisin.

About that time, Mom noticed what I was doing.  

I caught her glance and whispered, “What is it?”

“It’s some kind of pepper,” she replied, “and you’d best leave it alone.”

With that admonition, she left my fate -- and the little red pepper -- in my hands.  Whether she was simply trying to follow the sermon and was only giving me partial attention or had deliberately left an opening for me to exercise self control is uncertain.  What is certain is that I knew that pepper was a black powder that Mom liked to dump on perfectly good food.  Pepper came from little pepper corns that looked nothing like this fruity thing.  There were, and still are, lots of pepper trees in Fallbrook, many of them around my school playgrounds.  So, I knew what a pepper corn was -- though I wasn’t sure exactly how it became the pepper in the shaker at home.  It dawned on my young mind that for the first time in my short life, Mom was mistaken.  This, I was certain, could not possibly be pepper. 

Mom had turned her attention back to the pastor while I sat there wondering why she thought my mystery fruit was pepper.  As a test, I held it up to my nose for a good sniff.  It had a vaguely spicy scent reminiscent of pepper, but definitely different.  I poked my thumbnail into the skin and left a curved indentation.  I sniffed again.  It still didn’t smell like pepper to me.  There was only one thing left to do: an autopsy.  Carefully, I ran my thumbnail along the length of the ‘pepper’, and then peeled it open.  Inside the limp carcass, I saw little collections of white seeds.  Aha, this is a tomato, I thought, though the now more noticeable scent seemed to contradict that notion.  My scientific mind was racing as I considered how to present my discovery to Mom.  But, as she still seemed to be quite focused on the sermon, I thought better of bothering her.  Instead, I decided to pick the seeds out, dropping them into the hymnal rack in front of me.  It was at that moment that the hazards of improperly dissecting mysterious fruit came to light.  Perhaps it was the lingering chemicals I had released into the air, perhaps it was just a coincidence, but I had the urge to rub my eyes and proceeded to do so.  My eyes were suddenly seared with an agonizing burning sensation.  I was sure my eyes were melting.  Tears began streaming down my face.  Had the pastor noticed, I’m sure he would have been gratified to notice my fervent response to the message, unless he discovered the real reason for my emotional state.

Shortly, Mom noticed my discomfited squirming.  In a fearful, quavering voice I whispered my dreadful symptoms.  She told me to keep my hands away from my eyes, gave me a Kleenex or two, and let the tears do their work.  After a few minutes, the misery diminished to a painful memory.  By this time, the service was drawing to a close, and though a bit blotchy-faced and red-eyed, I was no worse for the wear.  On the drive home, Mom explained about peppers, a spicy vegetable that people use to add flavor to certain dishes like chili.  It was entirely plausible, but I still questioned way sane people would want their food to be so painfully hot.  More importantly, I learned that while the devil is advertised in scripture as wearing an angel costume, or roaring about like a lion, he also enjoys appearing as something more in keeping with his nature: a bright red vegetable loaded with the fires of hell.