What your face, my dentist asked? I always hate it when someone notices something wrong with my face. Any part of it, but there I sat. Did you break your jaw? I knew he needed to know. After all I was his patient, and he was my dentist. I got it broken at church, I finally replied. It was hard for me to say this, after all my mouth was stuffed full of dental gadgets. Hoses, clamps, hydraulic jacks and other items of torture.

My dentist answered in awe. You got beat up in church? Yes, I answered. He backed up and looked at me with new respect. Why? What were you doing? What kind of Church? While I thought his questions were slipping beyond his professional needs, I told him I was in The Royal Ambassadors at the Baptist Church. “Yeah,” he answered, “I know a little bit about those Baptists.” Why did they get violent on you? “It was a basketball game.” The dentist backed up, obviously not about to back up until I gave him the whole scoop. “And what’s this Royal Ambassadors stuff?”

I knew I would have to relate my story. I told him the Royal Ambassadors were created by a bunch of irate WMU (Women’s Missionary Union) ladies because they felt that the adult male members of the church didn’t really understand missionary work and didn’t much support it. Thus, the reasoning went, their little boys were growing up to be just as bad. No great appreciation. So, the WMU, organized the RA’s (Royal Ambassadors) so the good ladies of the WMU could have a crack at indoctrinating them while they were still little boys and the women could shape their thoughts.

The program consisted of weekly meetings every Thursday when these motivated ladies would hustle us to think like they did—about our missionaries. After our Sunday School-like meetings were over we were treated to Kool Aid and cookies and then Ms. Markley would bring out the church’s basketball. Then we were let out to shoot buckets and stuff out in the church yard. Stonewall First had a pretty good grass basketball court. It also had a neighbor named Doyle, a big old 16-year-old who didn’t go to school and one who always seemed to be there and take our basketball away. We would have to get our “officious” woman teacher (Ms. Markley) to retrieve it from Doyle’s mother.

One day I suggested we just pull together and collectively deny the bully the ball. So, we did. Sort of. When our basketball grabber came out, I had the ball and I resolved he would not take it out of my hands. And told him so. I figured my resolve and the obvious intent of the team gathered around me would be enough. He moved toward me and reached for the ball. I noticed with my peripheral vision that I seemed to be alone. Very alone. I don’t know what happened next but soon a guy came back to look at my body and he poured some water out of a chicken watering trough on my unconscious face.

My nose was laying on the side of my face. Lips smashed and one tooth so loose it had to come out. My jaw never did work right after that either. The only plus on the matter was that I was the heroic center of attention of my friends for a few days. They say every dog has his day. Dr. O. H. Miller in Ada got to do the surgery but when he finished, my nose was as crooked as ever. I knew he had failed when several months later, Maudie a girl whose opinion I respected, tapped me on the shoulder as we sat in Study Hall there in Stonewall and said, ‘You know Wayne, you’d be halfway good looking if it wasn’t for your nose.” Like many other girls over at Stonewall, Maudie never dated me either. Nor did the dentist fix my nose or jaw.

Have a good week and try to keep your nose out of other people’s business and support your local WMU. Oh, and be sure and go to church Sunday.

Wayne Bullard, DPh cwaynebullard@gmail.com