Episode 26 Sundays Language

On a Sunday morning, a few years ago, Connie and I found ourselves in my hometown.  When the worship times at Methodist Churches we belonged to did  not jibe with our schedule, we decided to go to the church that I grew up in. We arrived a bit late and sat in the back. During the greeting time, Margaret Anne made her way from the choir loft to the back rows to greet us. After greeting us she made a hasty retreat back for the anthem. We then settled in for the sermon. Almost immediately, I disagreed with the preacher. Feeling some theological frustration, I whispered to Connie “was the church this conservative when we worshiped here?” Connie put her finger to her mouth to shush me as if I was eleven. I was tempted to play Spelling Bee or check announcements on my phone, but resisted. I tried to re-engage but my frustration deepened and I released my mind to holy day dreaming. My mind wandered over to the stained glass windows that I loved as a child. I noticed John the Baptist had blonde hair and blue eyes. Jesus was almost as white. I wondered if our church homecoming was a mistake. Then, I thought of Margret Anne and how she taught Youth Sunday School with my Mother for decades. I thought how proud my dad, the chair of the deacon board, was when our Baptist church elected her as one of the first female deacons.  I saw Don and Matt, two of my dad‘s good friends, faithful deacons always taking care of people. I remembered how Connie and I first chatted standing around the pulpit, how Barb West decorated Fellowship Hall for our rehearsal dinner, and how we exchanged our marriage vows right there. I laughed thinking how my home church made me the youth director at nineteen. I thought of dad’s and then mom’s funerals in that sanctuary.  When friends asked about church, during brunch, there was no thought of theological frustration, I simply remembered so many people who had poured love into Connie and me.