A hug from Sister Wilma

Editor’s note: Continuing a series of stories and articles written by the late Pastor Tom Goetz, with the support of his wife Jeanne Goetz of Odessa. Jeanne Goetz is working to get the items published in book form, but for right now, interested readers can read his work in the series of articles that continue in this issue of The Record

I’ll never forget my first Pentecostal hug. It holds a special place in my memory Hall of Fame, right next to my first visit to the dentist, my broken arm in the second grade and the time our milk cow stood on my bare foot and my mother couldn’t hear me screaming because she had the vacuum cleaner running. The hug took place in 1970 on a Thursday night in San Francisco at 8:15 p.m.

My wife, Jeanne, and I were living in San Francisco where I was stationed with the U.S. Army. For several weeks we had been attending the Night of Miracles rally at the Teen Challenge Center. Located in the center’s old San Francisco row house in the mission district, the rally lived up to its name. Week after week we saw the San Francisco street people transformed by the power of God. It was our first exposure to the charismatic dimension of the Christian Faith and some things made me uncomfortable, especially the hugging.

Most of the meeting followed the same format. There was singing and worship, then a time when everyone greeted each other with a hug. So far I had managed to escape by heading for the restroom just prior to the greeting time or b y remaining seated with my Bible spread open on my lap in an apparent attitude of deep prayer. I had discovered they would not disturb a man who looked like he was receiving a revelation. Besides I was praying that they would leave me alone.

But after several week of witnessing their undeniable joy and love, my resistance and my Baptist backbone began to weaken. I had even gone so far as to stand up during the greeting time, shake hands and mumble “Yes” when someone exclaimed, “Praise the Lord, Brother!” Once, in a moment of total religious abandonment, I even conceded to the Lord that I might be ready to hug someone, anyone, that is, except Sister Wilma.

A Dedicated Hugger

Sister Wilma was a roundish black grandmother of seventy-five years who stood four feet, ten inches tall and weighed about two hundred pounds. She attended all the meetings at the center and had become the honorary grandmother to all who lived there.

She was a wonderful old lady whose love for Jesus was matched only by her dedication to hugging His people. Furthermore, she had a special hugging technique that put the fear of God into more than one visitor. She would grab the “huge” around the waist and with the strength of Goliath would hug and bounce her victim around the room. Many times I stood and observed, like a man watching a school of piranhas devour its prey, as she bounced another one closer to God.

In addition to her physical assault, there was also a constant verbal; barrage of phrases such as “hallelujah,” “praise the Lord,” “I love you, brother,” and assorted other religious “threats,” guaranteed to strike fear in the heart of any Baptist bystander like myself . Nevertheless, I felt ready to try a few hugs, with anyone except her, and I began looking forward to the next meeting.

“Tonight, I’m going to raise my hands and even hug someone, maybe two or three people,” I resolved that appointed night.

I assumed the Lord knew I meant anyone but Sister Wilma. Besides, God wouldn’t do that to me. I had told Him “anyone except her,” hadn’t I? And hadn’t I said, “I might be ready?” If you can’t trust God, who can you trust? ( I have since learned that statements containing such words as “except” and “might be ready” should not be uttered to the Lord under any circumstances.)

It’s Greeting Time

The meeting began as usual. We sang and prayed for a few minutes and then it was greeting time.

“Okay, everyone, turn to someone and give him a hug in Jesus name!” prompted the young man in charge of the meeting.

I had been gradually psyching myself up during the first part of the meeting, getting ready for this moment, and had concocted a plan. It was simple. I would begin by hugging my wife and then move on to another timid newcomer. If all went well, next week I would try a fanatic. Now it was time, and I was ready.

Confidently I stood and turned to embrace Jeanne, but she had disappeared. Quickly, I searched the crowd, but she was nowhere in sight. Suddenly realizing I had been set up, I cautiously turned toward the middle of the room. There before my eyes unfolded a miracle comparable to the parting of the Red Sea.

One by one the people were moving away from each other, leaving a long open space running the length of the room. At the other end, ready for action, stood God’s hugging machine, Sister Wilma. Desperately I looked for a way of escape but saw none. I began to pray.

“I’ll tithe thirty percent,” I pleaded with God as she started toward me.

“I’ll become a missionary, Baptist missionary,” I quickly added, lest He get the wrong idea. She was moving with the determination of a woman with a cause.

“I’ll start getting up at four in the morning to pray, even Saturdays.” She was a jungle cat stalking its prey.

“I’ll give up pizza and get a haircut.” She was a heat-seeking missile, and I was the target.

“I’ll call my third grade teacher and tell her the truth about those frogs in her desk,” I offered as a final negotiation. But it was too late.

The Bouncing Baptist

“Ain’t Jesus good?” She screamed as she grabbed me around the middle and began to bounce me up and down.

My first inclination was to run, but she was hanging on so tight I couldn’t. So we kept bouncing.

“Praise the Lord!” she yelled. (Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.)

By this time I was fighting back wild urges to do something desperate. “Maybe I could place both hands one on the back of her head, pull her face into my sweater and suffocate her,” I thought. But there were too many witnesses, so we kept bouncing.

To further complicate matters, I found that she was so short I couldn’t return her hug. All I could do was rest both elbows on top of her shoulders and hope for the rapture.

“Hallelujah! I love Jesus better every day, don’t you?” she asked as we continued bouncing around the room. “ Just love seeing all these youngsters getting saved. Are you saved?” “Well, I was when we started,” I stammered between jolts, “but, I think you bounced it out of me.”

Undaunted by my agony, she kicked into overdrive.

“Ga-lor-eey,” she squealed. “Can’t you just feel the joy of the Holy Ghost?”

“Is that what that sharp pain is?” I thought to myself, trying to maintain what dignity I had left. (I was secretly afraid I’d ruptured my spleen.)

By this time we had gone full circle around the room and all the Baptist has been bounced out of me. It was lying in little puddles all over the floor. Finally I thought, “Oh what’s the use?” And in a moment of desperate surrender destined to change my life forever I said, “I love you too, Sister Wilma. I love you too!”

And I meant it.