Half Cent Sunday

Sundays were designated days of rest when I was growing up. Stores were closed - Blue Laws enforced that along with restricting the sale of alcoholic beverages and other activities deemed unacceptable for the holy day. Some of these restrictions still appear in various states, though not here in New York.

Church, of course, was mandatory. Sometimes we went to the church early with Dad who often was the one to unlock the door and stoke the heat, set the bulletins out and make sure everything was in readiness for the service. This was especially important on communion Sundays, which were not particularly regular in our denomination, but important nonetheless.

First there was Sunday School. We attended the class for our age group. Usually there were a half dozen to a dozen of us crammed into a small room with the teacher. We had Sunday School books that we read from and answered questions in and memorized verses out of. I liked Sunday School because we got to know one of the adults in the church better. You learned something about their likes and dislikes, their home life, their interests. And they paid attention to you!

Then we went to church proper. We kids all sat in the same pew as Mom, and believe me when I say that we were expected to be models of perfect behavior. No swinging your feet, no whispering, no crawling around on the floor, no tearing paper, no playing with toys, no reading a book, no telling jokes and especially - no laughing! God forbid you start because we were never successful at squelching the shoulder shaking tear producing belly laughs that sometimes just erupted.

Our pew was towards the front of the sanctuary where Dad could see everything that went on. One particularly horrible Sunday he had to come down out of the pulpit to reprimand us. That was a black day in our book. I rarely understood his sermons. This was a time of having to sit perfectly still on hard benches and be quiet. For a little girl who was a tomboy, it was agony.

If we so much as looked like we were about to step out of line, Mom would administer her infamous pinch. She would reach over and grab a handful of an arm or leg, pinch, then twist until it hurt like the dickens. And if we cried, we were taken outside - right in front of Father's eyes - and spanked hard. We knew better than to make a peep if we got the pinch!

Fortunately, the Presbyterians were not given to long drawn out services. Our service was always just an hour. Afterwards, people didn't linger for long and soon we were on our way home to a delicious Sunday dinner. Mom prepared everything before we left for church and put the oven on a timer. By the time we appeared the roast was done to perfection, the potatoes were waiting to be mashed and the vegetables were steaming.

Sunday dinner was always the best meal of the week. Sometimes visiting missionaries or speakers would join us and the conversation would be engaging, even for a kid. Best of all, there was plenty for everyone to eat their fill!

With contented tummies and sleepy heads, we would clear the table then head to our rooms where we would nap or read quietly until 5pm. I must have read my way through the local library one Sunday at a time. I could read 2 Nancy Drew or Little House or Black Stallion books of a Sunday afternoon with time to spare. Such wonderful adventures and enticing worlds I encountered as I lay quietly resting.

Once in awhile I would accidentally drift off to sleep, only to be awakened by the tantalizing smell of pancakes and maple syrup, our often Sunday evening meal, after which we would head back to church for the long and trying evening service. It was less stiff and formal than the morning worship, but still challenging for a kid. The only good thing about it was that the building was warm and beautiful and I was with people I knew and liked.

After service, we trundled back home and into jammies. We would watch the Wonderful World of Disney and enjoy a small dish of ice cream (make mine strawberry), and then, under protest, be sent to bed. After all, Monday was a school day and we had already stayed up later than usual.

Sundays were a completely different pace than any other day of the week. We did different activities, ate different food, wore different (Sunday best dressy) clothes and spent time with different people. We read more Bible, sang hymns, and talked about God all day long. I miss the change in pace and even now make every effort to somehow set Sunday apart - at least by taking a nap when I can! And believe me, now I really do sleep!

Recital Announcement

The big day approaches! I have been muddling around with this Master of Church Music degree since 2004! Seven years is a long time for just a master's degree. If life hadn't interfered, I would have completed this a long time ago. But here I am anyways. And in fact, the idea for my concert service has had time to mature and develop in ways it would not have had I done it on time.

I was most excited to send out my flier to friends and family announcing the big event. Here are the specifics. If you are in the area, I hope you will come and partake with us.

OUR FATHER: a musical exploration of The Lord’s Prayer

~ featuring settings by
Billings, Peeters, Kedrov, Durufle, Liszt, Stravinsky, Tavener and more

3 pm Sunday, March 6, 2011

United Methodist Church of North Chili
2200 Westside Drive, Rochester, NY (east side of Roberts Wesleyan campus)
585-594-9111

* sung by choirs under the direction of Esther Gillie *

in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the
Master of Church Music Degree, Concordia University Wisconsin

Port Flush

At last! As I head down the hall toward the infusion center, I realize that this is no longer routine for me, no longer a norm in my life. I don't belong here in the cancer center. I have graduated (at least, for the time being). What a terrific feeling!

I still know the way all too well, know the names of the receptionists and nurses, recall the process, know the ropes. But it has been awhile and so much life has been lived, life back to an active and joyful level. It's wonderful - a light hearted release from the bondage of constant medical intervention.

I smile as I wait to be called back and glance out the window. The sun is shining and the skies are summer blue. I can almost hear the birds singing. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. How good to be alive and feeling well.

They call me back and I joke with the nurse. She is quick about laying out the tray of paraphernalia needed to flush out my port and make sure it stays open and viable. We get that blessed tinge of red on the first try, then the quick zip zip of flush and heparin. She pops the needle from my chest and glues a bandaid over the port prongs. Good to go.

I almost dance down the hallway as I realize that the horrible hold this place has had over me in the past is now just a friendly tug. Yes, I will be back, but my life is going on and improving daily. Sigh. How delicious.