"The Sunday Girls"

I was drawing a blank for what to write this week.  It's been a busy time at our church, as we are calling a new pastor.  My participation on the call committee has been eye-opening.  I have learned a lot.  We have been meeting with the final three candidates (one through Skype, and two who are visiting our church in person).  Last night we met with the second candidate, and I was just struck with the realization at what a wonderful thing it is to be a part of a church.  It really is an extended family.  I have learned so much from the people I have worked with on the committee; I have had wonderful conversations of people of all ages; I am blessed to know such a diverse group.  With that in mind, I am sharing with you an essay I wrote nearly 10 years ago.  It's not finished, and to be honest I am not sure where this essay is going, but it captures the essence of why Sundays are such a bright spot in my week.  I hope you enjoy it!

"The Sunday Girls"

It takes several tries to parallel park my Honda in the shade of elm trees that line the sidewalk on the west side of Christ the King Lutheran Church.  Even though it is only 10:45 in the morning, the July heat already hangs thick and heavy in the air.  “At least the car will be cool when we come out,” I say as I unbuckle the seatbelt and secretly congratulate myself for finding a spot near the entrance.  Gramma is still unbuckling her seatbelt by the time I’m out of the car and around to the passenger side to offer my arm when she’s ready.


"Waiting for this slow old lady,” she says while she swings one leg onto the curb, reaches for her black cane, and swings the other leg out.  “You’re always waiting for this slow old lady.”

            “We’re not in a hurry.”


            Gramma thrusts her cane toward the sidewalk, grips the car door, and pulls herself onto the pavement.  After she takes a second to gain her footing, she pushes the door shut.  “Lend me your arm, darling.”  I crook my right elbow, she links hers through, and we make our way into church.


            Gramma is little – “petite” is the word she likes best – and she always remarked that she wished she had my long legs, which must have come from my grandpa’s side of the family because he was so tall he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the archway into the dining room.  But despite her small stature, Gramma was a speedy walker in her day.  When I was young we used to go for a walk every day during the summer, and neighbors would marvel at our fast pace.  At eighty-two years old she has slowed down, which has become a daily frustration for her.

            After we make our way up the sidewalk, I pull open the heavy wooden door and anticipate the cool blast of air conditioning, but the air feels the same inside as outside.  I presume that it is because of all the people gathered in the foyer after Bible study.  After answering several inquiries about the missing third member of our trio – my mom, who is spending the week at a cabin on Pend Orielle Lake – we turn toward the “tunnel” that slowly descends into the church sanctuary.  The passageway that leads into the sanctuary is lined entirely with cedar – walls and ceilings – and has a quieting effect whenever I walk the 100 feet or so before it bends like an elbow and opens into the back of the triangular sanctuary. 

If the passage is like a tunnel, the sanctuary is like the sky.  The ceilings rise maybe 40 to 50 feet up to a point just above the altar, where a large but simple pine cross hangs behind the altar.  Rock walls topped with rectangular windows flank the entire room showing glimpses of blue spruce and dark green pine outside.  The rest of the room is lined with cedar, including the ceiling.  Though it isn’t grand in size, it is grand in effect.  It’s a gasp of wide space against the closeness of the passage.  Sunlight trickles in through a thin band of skylights that run both horizontally and vertically in the roof.  From the center row of pews where we always sit, the skylights form a cross that spans the entire sanctuary. 

Gramma and I sit in our usual section while the choir practices the day’s music, though today we are two rows closer to the altar than normal.  There are only a few people seated, so we open our bulletins to read the announcements that are printed after the order of the day’s service.  I note that the first song is a little calypso number that always makes me want to dance, and I’m about to point it out to Gramma when one of the elders approaches us.  “Hey, sorry about the heat today.  The air conditioner isn’t working and it’s going to be a little warm in here.”

“Oh, we’re tough.  We can take it,” I say, and when he moves to the next group I lean over to Gramma and say, “Well, at least the car is in the shade.”

Every Sunday my mom, gramma, and I meet at a little cafe called “Down the Street” for breakfast, head to Bible study at 10:00, and then attend the praise and worship service at 11:00.  Every Sunday I eat the same thing – two poached eggs and burned white toast – and drink several mugs of Pike Street tea, which they brew to perfection.  But this Sunday I change my routine and order two poached eggs and a homemade cinnamon roll.  Three bites into the sticky plate-sized roll I groan. 

More families begin settling into the pews, most in the same places as every Sunday, just like us.  We again explain to the husband and wife behind us that Mom is at the lake (I think our little three-generation trio has become quite a fixture after all these years) but will be back next week, and then I wave and mouth “hello” to one of my students and her parents.  Gramma leans over and says, “I’m not feeling very steady on my feet today.  I hope I can get down there for communion.”  I once suggested that rather than walk down the center aisle to kneel at the altar for communion, she should have one of the elders bring communion to her pew.  “Oh no, I’m not that bad yet!”  So when Gramma expresses this fear today, I just say, “You’ll do fine.” 

Service begins and things progress as usual through the first two songs, including the calypso number (which one year ended an Easter service and caused my mom and me to not walk, but dance out of church).  Maybe it was the extra bodies, the singing, or my wiggling to the music, but man was it hot in there.  I try to act tough.  After all, church-goers 100 years ago didn’t have air conditioning. 

I don’t like to make a spectacle of myself at all.  I prefer to blend into my surroundings and watch what other people are doing, and I don’t feel comfortable breaking general rules of decorum.  So no matter how badly I want to, I don’t wave my church bulletin wildly in my face like a southern belle to cool the film of perspiration that was beginning to appear under my hairline.  Tough it out, kid, I repeat through the third and final song.

Pastor Hemingway begins the opening prayer, so I decide that while all eyes are closed in reverent prayer, I will go ahead and be that southern bell and wave my bulletin wildly, first on my face, then in Gramma’s direction.  The prayer ends and I immediately cease flailing.  To my relief we sit for the reading of the epistles, and I am glad that I don’t have to stand in front of the congregation this week to read the two sections of scripture.  Instead, I lean over to Gramma and whisper in my best southern drawl, “Why, ah feel just as though I am deep in the heart of southern Geo-ja.”  Gramma begins to giggle. 

Gramma and I have called each other “two peas in a pod” ever since I was young.  While my socially-active older sister was at her Brownie meetings, Gramma and I would “shop” at the grocery store and not buy one thing; we’d just walk up and down the aisles, looking at all the items on the shelves.  When I lived with her for a few years earning nearly a pauper’s wage teaching at a private school, we could practically read each other’s mind.  I’d come home from work and say, “How about dinner at Applebee’s?” and she’d say, “That’s exactly what I was thinking!” and we’d order the Chinese chicken salad and each have a Long Island iced tea just to be a little scandalous.  After my first long-time boyfriend broke up with me she told me about her first love and said, “When I look back, I shudder to think what my life would be if I had married him.”  I did survive.  And she was right about that, too. 

My southern belle routine isn’t that funny, but we’re both suffocating our laughter and trying to be reverent in our maroon-cushioned pew.  The giggles have us though, and our shoulders quake silently until Pastor Hemingway stands and faces the congregation to read the New Testament passage.  I sober up, stand up, and try to be an adult.  Throughout the rest of the service my feet feel clammy, so I slide off my shoes.  I don’t know how God would feel about being barefoot in church (He probably wouldn’t care much at all), but I worry that the man sitting in the pew across the center aisle will think me irreverent, so I hide my bare toes under the pew in front of me.  Each time I cross my legs a puddle of sweat forms under my knee, so I cross and uncross my legs throughout the message.  But I don’t wave my bulletin, not once. 

After the message comes communion, and when the elder nods to our row to proceed toward the altar I can feel my Gramma’s apprehension return.  Last winter she was exiting a grocery store and became frozen with fear when she attempted to cross an icy parking lot to her car.  She said, “I just stood there and couldn’t move.  And then I prayed Lord, help me to cross this lot to my car, please, and forced one foot in front of the other.  Somehow I made it to my car.”  Since that time Gramma has had trouble finding her balance and feeling confident on her feet. 

The ushers motion for each row of pews to proceed to the altar for communion.  I watch a parade of shoes this week until the usher gives us the nod.  We step into the center aisle.   Usually my mom handles this, and I know that Gramma, though she has fears, doesn’t want to appear needy.  I am in front of her, so I put my hands behind my back in case she needs to grab on.  My movement is smooth and casual, and after the first steps toward the altar I can feel her small, cool hands grasp mine.