Always the New Kid on the Block
Most people think of me as an extreme extrovert that loves being in the middle of a crowd interacting with people. It is true that I am quite comfortable in groups, and I love interacting with friends, or even strangers. I also am quite comfortable being by myself, which may be a hidden trait that would shock most people I know. I grew up feeling like an outsider in most circles. There are many contributing factors for why I saw myself as the guppy in a goldfish tank.
I was born in Waxahatchie, Texas, four days before my dad's graduation from Southwestern Assemblies of God College. The only way I could be more Assemblies of God is if I were born in Springfield, Missouri, the AG Mecca.
We moved immediately to my families first pastorate in Hammond, Louisiana, just northeast of Baton Rouge. It was a small church, and though I don't personally remember much about that time, there are stories that are in my memory because they were told over and over. I was the pastor's baby, so naturally I got passed around like a basketball in the two minute drill. Our family literally lived in an apartment which was attached to the back of the church. One Sunday I had fallen asleep on the pew, church ended and after everyone left my parents retreated to the living quarters. As they sat there decompressing from a day of ministry, they heard a little knock on the door. Their toddler son had awaken on the pew, climbed down and walked to the door of the apartment and knocked to be let in. They were horrified to realize they had left me on the pew.
Small churches come with small compensation and we were struggling to get by. A great story of healing faith is told about a time I had come down with a very high fever. All my mom and dad had was six dollars, so a trip to the doctor was out of the question. My dad went to the pharmacy and though he had no prescription, the pharmacist had mercy and provide some medicine that other children had been prescribed around that same time, thinking it was likely the same thing, and it just happened to be six dollars. My mom pulled it out of the bag to administer the dosage and the bottle fell to the floor and shattered. Her heart sank and she burst into tears. They put their feverish son to bed with a heavy dose of prayer and crying out in desperation to God. I woke completely healed.
I do remember a little about the next stop, Stephenville, Texas. This little Texas town was about twenty-five miles from my mother's home town of DeLeon. I had a neighborhood friend named Mary Alice. One time I went inside her house and was frightened by her father, who was bound in a wheelchair and very gruff. I was probably about four, so it didn't take much to frighten me. I know, these days you would never let your four-year-old wander the neighborhood, but it was a different time. I also have memory of starting kindergarten. My biggest memory of that school is being made to stand with my nose to the corner for throwing a crayon. Well, halfway through my kindergarten year we left Stephenville and my dad became an evangelist. I've since joked that I am a kindergarten drop-out.
The next three and a half years we traveled from town to town. Revivals were Sunday morning through Friday night and we traveled to the next town on Saturday. We had no home base, nor did we have a home. Another of my life jokes is to say my family was homeless for three and a half years. I look on that time with nothing but positive memories. My parents were child evangelists as well as holding adult revivals. One week we may be in preaching services and the next conducting a "Kid's Crusade," which involved homemade animal character puppets, life size Bible character cut-outs, and elaborately painted scenes. The kids would earn "crusade dollars" by being present, bringing a Bible, saying the memory verse, inviting friends, and at the end of the week they spent their dollars at the candy store. In the early years we would have a Saturday morning church picnic until one fateful event. At one of these picnics the park had a babbling stony brook with a picturesque wooden bridge arching over. The kids were all playing around the bridge and decided to play "Billy Goat Gruff." I was not really playing along, but just standing on the bridge leaning over staring at the water when someone walked by and just gave me a little shove. I went head first into the brook and struck my head on a stone. When I stood, the blood from my wound mixed with the water from the creek made it look like I was drenched in blood. My mom was in full panic and my dad sprang into action and took me to the hospital for stitches. That was the last picnic, but not the last injury. One summer day the church kids were playing softball and invited the evangelist's kid to stand by the pitcher, resulting in a broken nose when I caught a line drive to the face.
One of the greatest demonstrations of my father's faith happened during this time. We traveled by Buick pulling a four by eight foot trailer, which contained everything we owned. It was full of sets, sound equipment, office supplies and all of our worldly possessions. On this particular rainy Saturday trip, I remember sitting in the back seat with a pillow in my lap, entertaining myself conducting a wrestling match between my left and right hands (this was before portable video games and back seat video players), no seat belt or car seats in those days, when an oncoming car lost control and swerved partially into our lane striking the front fender of our car. The impact caused the trailer to swing out into the path of the oncoming car. When the car plowed into our trailer, it sent everything we owned in a thousand different directions. I still have the vision in my mind of my mom's typewriter hanging from a tree by the ribbon, equipment and suitcases scattered all about, and my dad's Bible laying in the ditch with his sermons blowing in the wind. We chased down the sermons and he tucked them squarely into the pages of his Bible. He gathered us together, held his Bible up and said, "We still have God and each other. Everything is going to be okay." His angels were camped around us that day and no one was injured. This remains an anchor memory in my life to remind me of what is truly important.
It wasn't all trauma, though. We had some really great experiences and cultivated some friendships that I still have more than fifty years later. One family, who had us come to their church seemingly a couple of times a year, had kids about mine and my sister's age. They had a big tree house and I loved going up to play. I've had tree houses of my own since then and I always fondly remember those times. Traveling to many cities and states was amazing and I realize not many children had such experiences. In the last couple of years, ages seven and eight, my dad gave me assignments with sound and lighting during the kid's services which has been a field I have been involved in ever since. There were many experiences that had a positive impact on future roles I would play, including sound and light production and traveling.
These years shaped my perception of myself as the perpetual new kid. I would never have the experience of having a childhood friend that I grew up with, or the cousins that stuck with me through thick and thin. Every week was new friends and maybe I would see them again the next year. Even for a called evangelist, the road takes its toll, so at age eight my dad settled down as pastor of a church in Seguin, Texas. I was the new kid, but quickly made some good friends. I had my tenth birthday in Seguin where I received a black and white Polaroid camera and a tape recorder. I put the tape recorder to use immediately conducting an interview with everyone at the party. I still have that recording and listen to it occasionally. I also still have a photo album of photos taken with that old camera. Another memory of Seguin I have is the stream and wooded area a few blocks from our home. I could ride my bike to the end of our street, take a left and proceed down a steep hill where the road took a sharp right turn, but going straight off the end of the curve there was a short field before a babbling brook. It was fun to go play in nature. In the early 1970's it wasn't strange to let your eight or nine year old child wander off by themselves.
The most impactful experience from that time happened at camp. I was praying in the altar and my friend Chad, who was at the birthday party and I have his voice on my tape, came over to me in a panic. He said he was praying and had a vision that his mom and twin sisters where in a car accident and all three killed. We began to pray for them. This is the first time I remember hear the voice of God speak to me. He told me to go outside and look up at the stars, and if I see three bright stars in a triangle it would be a sign that all three were ok. I got up and exited the building, looking into the sky and saw the unmistakable sign. Now, my adult self things about that and knows you can look at the stars and always see three stars in a triangle somewhere. My nine year old self didn't think so critically and just believed I saw my sign. I went back in and told Chad his mother and sisters were fine. In fact, there had been no accident at all. The enemy had tried to attack my friend with fear, but God used it to teach me to listen to Him and obey, and that I can speak on His behalf.
Right after I turned ten, we left Seguin and moved to Ferriday, Louisiana, where my family would pastor Evangel Temple in Ridgecrest for the next seven years. Once again I was the new kid. Most of my growing up memories and childhood friends are from that time. I learned how to have friends, and how to be a friend, and I still have connection to many of them and though our lives have taken us many miles apart, we still look back fondly of our time together.
A significant identity element became apparent during these years. I was Bro. Bud's son. My dad, having been an evangelist, and a high profile pastor in the Louisiana District of the Assemblies of God, was known all over the state and even multiple states. Anywhere I would introduce myself as Keith Alexis, the reply was usually, "Oh, you must be Bro. Bud's son." I didn't bother me, though, because it was usually a compliment to be such and unlocked doors and bestowed privilege I may have not otherwise experienced. When I eventually graduated high school and went to college at Southwestern Assemblies of God College in Waxahatchie, Texas, I felt like it was time to be my own person. The first time I went to the cafeteria and showed my ID to the lady at the counter, she lit up with, "You must be Bud Alexis' son." She was the lady who ran the cafeteria and had done so all the way back to when my dad went to school there eighteen years earlier. I guess he had made a big enough impression to be remembered for eternity. Fast forward, I'm married and a minister. Terri and I had taken a trip from El Dorado, Arkansas, where we lived, to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where we attended a conference. Just north of Alexandria was a community called Dry Prong that we often passed through on our way south. Dry Prong Assembly of God was a literal trailer house set right be the road. I mused, "I've never been to church in a trailer house," so we planned our return trip to stop for morning service at Dry Prong Assembly of God. We walk in, sit down in movie theator style seats, and the pastor walks over and greets the strangers. When I said my name was Keith Alexis, he said (you guessed it,) "Are you Bro. Bud's son?" I confirmed his suspicion but wasn't ready for the next question, "Do you preach? Would you like to preach this morning?" So, not only did I get to attend service in a trailer house, I preached to the small congregation. Good thing I had some sermon notes folded up in the inside cover of my Bible. I served as the youth pastor at Westside Assembly of God in El Dorado, Arkansas, and one time my parents were up for a visit and had been asked to sing a special. Pastor Don Ashcraft introduced them by saying, "At this time Keith's mom and dad are coming to sing." What? The tables have turned. I now have my own identity! And my dad is known by MY name!
For years I strived to walk in his footsteps. Not to be him, for I knew how to follow my own callings, but to live like him, to serve like him, to make people laugh like him, to lead like him. On September 19, 2013, my dad changed his address to heaven at the age of seventy-four. It was unexpected and difficult for a family who had a clear patriarch to look to. The parade of friend's hugs helped, but I started paying more attention to the condolences of friends who I knew had lost their fathers within the last few years. As I had many conversations with God during this time and reflected on these friends who had walked the same road, God clearly spoke these word to me, "The great ones are leaving you. It is time for you step up now and be the great ones for the next generation." Those words are the heaviest revelation I have ever received. In the months that followed, several more of my friends also lost their fathers. I began to share these words with them. I found we all felt the same, that we could never adequately fill the shoes of our fathers, but we agreed that it was our responsibility to try.
On a visit to my mom to take care of some of the family business I saw, in my father's workshop, the red hammer. Besides ministry, my dad was also an accomplished carpenter. In 2008 I decided to completely renovate my house. He wanted to lead the project at the age of sixty-eight. We had an incredible time working together on that project. He had a special hammer which he had for many years. This hammer was a well balanced master carpenters hammer with a red fiberglass handle. He had other hammers in his tool box, but this hammer was his. No one else could touch it ... except me. You see, I was his son. We joked about there being a hierarchy in hammers. The other helpers could use the wooden hammers, or the yellow or blue hammer. But only qualified master carpenters could use the red hammer. When I saw the red hammer lying there, I asked if I could have it. It hung on the wall in my office for years as a constant reminder that the hammer has been passed. The red hammer was used to teach me much more than how to drive a nail. It represents a life lived to teach me how to love, laugh and learn. To be a great man of faith and pass on what I learn to the next generation.
Twelve years later I took the red hammer off the wall, at least for a time. Not that I no longer appreciated the heritage and life lessons it represents. I realized I do not live in anyone's shadow. I have been given my own opportunity to make an impact, create legacy, and pass down what God has instilled in me. The only father I have to please is my Father in Heaven. It is His "well done" I live for.