Mrs. Goggins: Certs & a Smile

My grandmother, Gabba, was Virginia Slims, heavy rouge, and Chanel No. 5. Not Mrs. Goggins. Her less cosmopolitan aroma suggested a Beasley’s Drug cologne with a hint of Scope. Smells are distinctive, memorable.

As a child I ended up next to Mrs. Goggins each Wednesday night church supper. I sat on the piano bench as she played during dinner, her pocketbook between us. In Sunday worship, Mrs. Goggins sat on the front row and would repeatedly open and close her purse. The clasp would snap open and snap close. She’d need a mint, snap; a pen, snap; a handkerchief, snap. Open and close, snap, snap, snap. Today that’s what others remember most about her.

I remember, however, her love. Mrs. Goggins lured me to her side each Wednesday evening with the same gift delighting any five year old boy. Her voice is lost to me now, but not the smile. She was a small woman; I was a small child looking up towards her gray, stiff perm. It haloed a face caked with blush, blue eyeshadow, and dappled pink lipstick in need of a refresh.

Each Wednesday afternoon after school the butterflies in my stomach began to flutter. Were we going to church night supper? Would I get my gift from Mrs. Goggins? Then the treasure, a fresh dollar bill, was more tangible, concrete, relatable to a boy. Today the treasure of Mrs. Goggins’ gift goes deeper, much deeper.

This Methodist church in an Atlanta suburb had a drab fellowship hall by today’s standards. Heavily used, frugally kept, functional. Handmade curtains and linoleum flooring were enough. Mrs. Goggins and the space were on brand. And beautiful. In the classical Greek sense, she and the hall were right, true, and good.

Before I could sit with my octogenarian friend, my parents insisted, week in and week out, that I stop on my way over to the piano to learn a lesson in the French resistance of World War II. Mr. Jacques, last name I forget, was a large gangly gentleman at dinner each week. His Frankish features still shape my imagination for all things French. Whether I spill the blood of angry men in a dark theatre or imagine myself drinking wine in the Provencal countryside, Mr. Jacques’ sharp, distinguished nose and soulful eyes sculpt my mind’s eye.

My parents, Baby Boomers, relished Mr. Jacques’ courage and bravery for his role in the French resistance during world War II. In the car each week driving to supper they lauded his bravery. He opposed Vichy France, and took risks to fight Nazi oppression! To a kid, Nazis, Vichies, and even the French were as foreign as they were foreign. I just knew two things: he was a man to be honored, and a toll booth to my friend, Mrs. Goggins.

Mr. Jacques sat at the table next to ours. As I would finish eating and rise to leave, either mom or dad would point me to Mr. Jacques and require a brief chat. I silently walked up beside him. He joyously reached his long arms to embrace me and talk. He smelled like Wednesday night supper, and a Frenchman.

After paying my dues, I bee-lined it to the piano. I’d hop on the bench while Mrs. Goggins was deep into playing a hymn. She’d give a quick glance, smile or wink, and finish the song. I’d watch her hands masterfully tickle the acrylic keys like a secretary punching out 100 words a minute. Strong chords with the left hand undergirding the melody on the right. Later in childhood I would master the piano and the same method required for Southern hymnody.

Between songs, snap, she’d open the pocketbook on the bench between us. Mrs. Goggins would reach deep inside and bring forth the first gift: a Certs with a smile. Snap. A Certs for herself, and one for me. Snap. She’d play another song. Song over, wink, snap. She’d open it back up and pull out a (drum roll) fresh, crisp one dollar bill.

I had won the lottery! Each week my little torso erupted with warmth and tingles. A whole dollar, and a firm, unwrinkled dollar! And it was mine. All mine. Not my sister’s or my parent’s. Mine.

On the one hand I doubt Mrs. Goggins knew the impression she was making. As I age myself, I think she knew exactly what she was doing.

Churches seek to shape people into the likeness of Christ, or to seek union in Christ, as my tradition states it. Christian formation through prayer, Bible study, worship, and local and international mission service define church discipleship programs. Wednesday night supper teaches the Way of Jesus, and deserves a place in the pantheon of being a Christ follower.