Timber’s Story August It was eleven o’clock on Sunday morning in 1981. The bell tower on Corinthia Fall’s old church welcomed our local faithful and spiritual, the traditional and established, the dutiful as well as other self-comprised souls. The late morning sun hovering over the small northeastern Oklahoma town was piercing and oppressive. The congregation greeted one another upon entrance with simulated enthusiasm as each proceeded to the simple security of their customary and long recognized seating arrangement. The pianist and organist struggled mightily to play the prelude hymn in unison. By the way, Timothy Oaks is my Christian name, but only Mom calls me Timothy. Everyone else just knows me as Timber. I’d say I’m fairly handsome, with shaggy-brown hair and of solid build. I made my way up the stairs of the balcony followed by my teenage entourage. The four of us teens found our special spot where we could observe ‘the show’ down below. One charismatic group was made up of those who occupied our lower left in the sanctuary. This grouping we nicknamed the Standers. They would stand throughout most of the service, raise hands and shout amens and blessings which I and my young associates thought was some sort of contest in attracting attention. The assembly was completed by the Setters, seated in the balconies to the lower right. These folks sit stoically during the church service, quiet and almost frozen, standing only when instructed. Their stationary status gave us an impression of disgust toward their counterparts on the left. “Showtime,” announced Anthony Bearkiller, a pocket-sized 4 foot, 8 inch Cherokee lad. “’Fraid so, Ant,” I acknowledged. Thomas Johnson, the son of the local presiding deacon and only black family in the small community fiddled with his church bulletin. A couple years younger than us, a red-headed, freckled Becky Hooper sat silently behind in the fold-back chairs, adjusting her glasses. Our church could conveniently seat about 300. From the upstairs, the church was in full view. We could even see the parking area from the clear glass windows surrounding the upper loft. We noticed some late activity occurring outside. I rose and moved to the window on the right side of the balcony. I motioned for Ant and Thomas to join me. “The Sam’s!” exclaimed Anthony. Becky stood at her seat and peered over her glasses at us. We were now a good twenty feet away. Old Doc Pyle looked over the top of his morning sports page with a questioning expression. The rest of the sparse balcony patrons seemed uninterested. “Shhh,” I hushed Ant. “This is gonna be good,” added Thomas, better known as TJ. Doc Pyle nodded affirmatively. Becky’s blue eyes seemed to double in size behind her clear rimmed glasses as she covered her mouth with both hands and held her breath. Sammy Sampson, his brother, Sandy, and their cousin, Gib Sampson, were scheming outside the east exit door in the adjoining parking lot. Though seldom used, this entrance opened to the front of the church just below the choir loft and pulpit area. The Sam’s were local farm boys always out for a prank. They had with them a leashed billy goat that been coated with red paint. Gib was trying to keep the protesting animal under control while Sandy finished a similar paint job on Sammy. Sammy, barefoot and shirtless, was colored devil red, torso and feet. Gib and Sandy put on the finishing touches by balancing a head from the carcass of a male deer on top of their leader’s head. An old pair of red suspenders was added for stabilization by overlapping the antlers of the deer to Sammy’s blue jeans. “Don’t forget the pitch fork!” reminded Gib, equipping Sammy with the tool of the devil’s choice while all three went delirious with laughter. The slightly graying black man, Deacon Johnson, entered from the back of the raised platform, approached the pulpit and announced to the semi-full congregation, “Let’s all join in our opening hymn on page 327, Nearer My God to Thee.” The deacon’s wife, Martha, portly yet elegant, stood in front of her small, golden robed choir motioning for all to stand. The Standers on the left were already upright as the reluctant Setters joined them. The Observers from the observation deck stood. Ant, TJ, Becky, Doc and I didn’t even pick up hymnals. Our heads leaned forward with great anticipation. Mrs. Sharp played the introduction on the pipe organ and the singing began: ‘Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee! E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me, Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God…’ The side door bashed opened. The beast-headed red devil in jeans raised his pitch fork in one hand. Leading the restless crimson goat in his other, he busted in to the front of the church of Corinthia Falls. “Repent, you naughty sinners! Repent!” screamed Satan. “Maaaaaaaaaaaaaa, maaaaaaaaaaa!” cried the goat. The music stopped. The goat and devil quickly made their way around the pulpit area. The Standers kneeled in front of their pews. The Setters protected their women folk, while the choir made a run for the back door. The widow Fullbright fainted. Those of us in the balcony roared with laughter and applause. The deacon chased the two demonic creatures down the middle aisle of the church waving his Bible. “Repent! Repent! Or you will turn into a goat! Repent!” repeated the devil. “Maaaaaaaaaa, Maaaaaaaaa, Maaaaaaaa!” went the demonic goat rushing the crouching Standers. “Away with you, Satan!” shouted Deacon Johnson as the intruders made their way to the back of the church and out the front entrance where they piled into the back of an old green Ford truck. With Sampsons and goat in tow, the howling pack of mischief makers sped out of town. The congregation was in a full state of shock. The Deacon, covered with perspiration, centered himself in front of the pulpit area, looked upward and stared sternly at his son, TJ, who was choking with amusement. The members gathered themselves. The choir reentered the sanctuary as Doc Pyle made his way down to the Stander’s area to attend to the widow Fullbright. Donna Bearkiller, mother to Anthony and a popular member of the Standers, assisted the town doctor. “Stand back and give her some air,” ordered Doc. “Yep. Better yet, ya’ll set down.” suggested Emmitt Sharp, the self -appointed leader of the Setters and town mayor. Doc got the 89 year-old fragile lady in a secure sitting-up position. He nodded to an inquisitive Deacon Johnson that she would be fine. The Standers shouted praises. The Setters whispered of retaliations on the impostering intruders. The amused balcony compared notes. Ms. Martha led the choir in Amazing Grace. The Deacon kneeled and prayed for guidance. Before the service was over, the Corinthia Falls Church had four testimonies of faith, five rededications, and one conversion. Doc Pyle who had rejoined us in the balcony leaned over to us and suggested, “Boys, looks like the Sam’s and a goat brought more people to the Lord today than this here church has done on its own in the last ten years.” Continues... | 
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