I liked to give talks. Mom usually helped me get ready. She would write it with me at her elbow giving suggestions. Then I started to memorize it. I got to the point where I could do the whole thing from memory, but it was a bit choppy. Mom didn’t seem to mind. She told me that she would give a copy of the talk to the Sunday School secretary who would be sitting on the stand. If I got stuck, she would whisper my cue.
On the Sunday morning of the talk, I nervously prepared myself. It was now Dad’s job to make the final polishing. He made me stand at the end of the hall while he sat clear in the living room. He said, “I want to hear every word clearly and distinctly.”
I then gave my talk as loudly and as clearly as I could. Dad would always say, I am going to be so proud, I just might pop all the buttons
off my vest.”
When it was time to actually give the talk, I sat on the stand anxiously awaiting my turn. The Sunday School Superintendent rose and spoke into the microphone, “Now we will hear from Billy Loveless.”
I got up and went to the pulpit. My heart was pounding. As I stood there, I was a little embarrassed since the people in back of me on the stand could see that my legs were trembling. I began my talk. If I got stuck, sometimes I looked over at the Secretary and she would tell me the next word. But most of the time I rolled my eyes up into my head and looked at a mental picture of my talk. Then I went on.
When the two-and-a-half minutes was up and the talk was over, I sat down. It was a relief to have it over with. But when it would be my turn again, I would do it willingly.
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