Hello Friend,
How lovely to see you on this fine Sunday. The coffee cake is just out of the oven and best served warm. So, come on in!
I love Sundays. Do you? This morning as I was waiting for you, I was thinking back to Sundays when I was growing up. So many memories came flooding back.
Please have a seat here at the dining table. This sour cream coffee cake has been making my mouth water for the last thirty minutes. That cinnamon-y sugary warm smell. Mmmmm. It’s not easily eaten from a plate on your lap, so we’ll sit at the table like two proper persons.
Tea? I’ll pour.
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When I was a little girl, we went to church Sunday morning and evening. It was the kind of church where everyone knew everyone’s name. As a child it seemed big, but like a big welcoming family. And many of the congregants were family. Several of my aunts, uncles, and cousins attended our church and that helped to make the place feel like home.
The church building itself was very familiar because Mom cleaned it every week, and my three younger brothers and I helped. We all had jobs to do. And we knew every nook and cranny of that place, except maybe the pastor’s study. We probably weren’t allowed in there.
One of the main jobs my brothers and I had was to dust the wooden pews. I loved that job. As I remember it, we divided into two groups of two – one couple would dust the pews on this side of the center aisle, and the other would do the other side. Dust cloth in hand, one of us would dust the seat portion of the pew, spreading the cloth to cover the width of the bench and zoom down to the other end. Then move up a row, zoom back toward the centre aisle and so on.
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The other one would do the pew ends. That was fun. We’d begin at the back pew, with the dust cloth on top of the pew end, then zu-wip down the curved arm, jump up to the pew end just ahead and zu-wip down that arm. Zu-wip! Zu-wip! Zu-wip! all the way to the front of the church. Then, run back to the back row and do the pew ends along the side aisle. Knowing our competitive natures, we probably had races to see which side of the church would be done first.
All of my cousins at church were boys except for Darlene, who was close to my age. Most Sundays I would go home with Darlene, or she would come to our house. We’d play all afternoon and then meet up with our families again at the evening service.
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For me, the evening service had a completely different feel from the morning service. The morning service was bright, with sunlight streaming through the tall windows lining each wall.
Everyone was dressed up in their Sunday best. Shoes had been shined, socks straightened (I have a very clear memory of Dad perfectly aligning the vertical ribs on my white knee-socks before church as I sat on my brother’s bottom bunk), and hair in impeccably separated ringlets.
Dad was the choir director and Mom sang soprano in the choir, so we four kids sat by ourselves in a pew near the front. If one of us even slightly misbehaved, Mom would correct us with a look from the choir loft. I’m sure no one else even noticed it, but we four knew exactly what that look meant and tried ever so hard not to provoke it.
Let me top up your tea before we continue.
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The evening service was more relaxed than the morning. There was no choir, fewer people came, and for some reason the hymns seemed less formal. After a full afternoon of play I was tired and usually found it long. Throughout most evening services in the summer months, I would sit wishing and wishing that by some miracle we’d stop at the ice cream shop after church.
If we didn’t go for ice cream, we cousins and a few friends would raid the crab apple tree on the property next door. I’ve never tasted another crab apple to match those tart tasty treats. I wonder now, who owned that tree and if they minded that it was invaded by church kids on the odd Sunday evening. We never got into trouble for it.
Sometimes, the miracle I’d wished for came true, and we kids would be allowed to cross the vacant lot to the ice cream shop by ourselves. We’d take oodles and oodles of time choosing the perfect flavour. By then, the grown-ups would have joined us, and we all held on to the lingering day, as we enjoyed our ice cream and swatted at the odd mosquito.
Then it was home to bed with only the memory of another wonderful Sunday to tuck in with the rest.
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My goodness, I’ve prattled on and on. Thanks for listening, and thanks for coming.
See you next time.
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Featured image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay
Joy, this was a delightful read! It evoked memories and warm feelings of our own Sundays and church growing up. The church building was situated so it had east-west windows. In the mornings the sun would stream in from the east and make it all warm and inviting. And, on summer evenings, the evening sun would stream through the west windows. Warm breezes wafted through open windows and we’d hear the birds twittering. Kids and adults were invited to offer the hymn number of their favourite hymn, and then we’d all join in to sing it. I always loved to hear what everyone’s favourites were, e g. Mr. Liske would always choose ‘Out of the Ivory Palaces’, and the odd time I’d be brave enough to call out one of my own favourite, ‘There’s within my heart a melody’.
You’ve given me a lovely feeling on this sunny Sunday morning. Thanks, Joy.
Brenda xox
“There’s within my heart a melody.” Oh yes I loved that one too. And yes, your church experience sounds much like mine. The church we go to now doesn’t have windows from the sanctuary to the outside and I find I really miss that.