Comment Comment

I was thinking about blog comments. That reminded me of this small childhood moment.

When I was about 7 (I now believe I was 7ish), our little nuclear family was visiting my dad's folks in Tennessee. Of course, that meant we had to attend services at the family church, located in a tiny town outside of Memphis (and I feel fine calling it the family church because everyone there had the same last name). If sharing a last name with dozens of strangers in a foreign institution wasn't freaky enough, seeing members of the choir get the spirit sure was. All of the sudden, this lady just spazzed out and she had to be carried off into some back room. I thought they should call an ambulance, but my cousin assured me that she was fine. Okay. People just didn't get the spirit in suburban Minneapolis.

Anyway, this was the kind of church where Sunday worship lasted at least half the day, so we had to attend Sunday school. My older brother sat in dread as class began. His fists clenched. His jaw steeled. He was bracing himself for the inevitable moment when I, in the tradition of younger siblings, would embarrass him in front of yet another community. When the Sunday school teacher finished her little lecture, she asked, "Does anyone have any comments?"
I raised my hand up high.
"Yes?"
"I have a comment!" I piped. "What's a comment?"
To my brother, my statement was completely illogical and unnecessary, but to me, it was an act of sincere curiosity. As the other children laughed, my brother's forehead fell to his fist, filling me with satisfaction. For I had fulfilled my virtue. By simply being me, I had embarrassed my big brother in every state we had ever set foot in.