Sunday Morning Musings

It is time. We begin the fifteen-hour drive to visit National Asset's parents. Neighbor Boy is minding the cats for us, and it is simply luxurious to travel by car without them. The sky is an endless cornflower blue expanse. Orchards are blooming. We leave the Sierra Nevada behind and delight in our first distant glimpse of Mt. Lassen, at the south end of the volcanic Cascade Range. We drive in the shadow of Mt. Shasta, its round, snowcapped peak appearing incandescent, the only thing still touched by the sinking sun. 

Now, after several days in the home and town where National Asset grew up, it is raining on this Sunday morning. We drive a few blocks to church and sit in the center back section, under the balcony, where Mom and Dad have always sat. I gaze up at the low hanging ceiling.  This is The Balcony. The one where we sat upstairs in cast-off seats from an old theater for Sunday night services during our courting days. Still teenagers, Pre-Asset was trying to teach me Morse code. We practiced by holding hands and squeezing dot-and-dash messages quietly during the sermon. 

Okay. Some subdued giggling may have been involved.

Can't say that I remember much of that Morse code anymore, beyond SOS, of course.  But being in this sanctuary has opened a gate and memories are a-flooding.

We studied catechism down in the basement, and met there for youth group, too. Pre-Asset and I used to sneak into the dark library for a rendezvous now and then, until the custodian, his grandpa, caught on to us. I dressed for my wedding down there in the kitchen by the gleaming pots and pans, and climbed the narrow stairs to the sanctuary to walk down the aisle and say I do. Then it was back down to the basement for our reception: punch and ham buns and cake. The same menu for most funerals as well, ably served by the Ladies Aid.

This morning I sit quietly in my seat. I see bits of ruby and turquoise stained glass, a semicircle peeping over the top of a large, white, rectangular screen hanging on the center front wall. I spent hours savoring the rich colors in the that window all those years ago as we sang and read Scripture and listened to sermons, but now I can't remember what the rest of it looks like.

We sing this morning, too, but not like I remember. The organ pipes large and small are hidden upstairs in the loft gathering dust. Pre-Asset took me up there once, and we walked carefully through this small, crowded forest of metal tubes. This organ was the pride of the church, back in our day. But I think it has been retired for some time now.

Although all age groups are represented, this morning many of the seats are filled with silver-haired folk like us, people who used to be a Sunday-morning choir of mixed parts: sweet sopranos and fluid tenors, altos and basses adding warmth and depth. Now we try our best, but the instrumentation and key signature are not in our favor.

Ours - National Asset's and mine - was the generation that suggested, encouraged, and politely but persistently pursued adding contemporary music and variation in instrumentation to the repertoire for worship. We were delighted when the church leaders agreed, and we took joy in being able to participate as teenagers and young adults with piano, drums, guitar - and even a choir of our own.

But, and this is a BIG but, we never desired - or envisioned - Christian worship that would throw out the baby with the bath water, musically speaking. On this Sunday, the very last congregational song is How Great Thou Art, the only hymn for the morning. And it is the song that comes closest to making me feel like I am actually part of a throng of worshipers instead of an observer, singing meaningful words that have stood the test of time.

We, the silver-haired contingent, give it our best. We try to adapt the traditional parts we know by heart to the limitation of guitar chords. Would it be so bad if someone actually played the organ or beautiful grand piano for just this one song?

Our minds and hearts engage... and when I think, that God, his Son not sparing, sent him to die, I scarce can take it in... while trying to keep pace with well-meaning musicians who either can't hear us or are untrained in the subtle art of accompanying singers. 

The service ends and we are excused. We exit to the front steps. When I walked down them forty years ago as a brand new bride, I could look up and see blue sky. Now the steps are enclosed with walls and ceiling sheltering us from the rain, and packed with chattering people. The Asset and I see faces we recognize, people we knew in high school. Some names come easily. Some we have to work at or just apologize and ask.

I see Mr. Kredit, my high school biology teacher. One of my all-time favorites, he still teaches at the Christian high school, still engenders love for all things living in his students.

"You were Kathy's favorite teacher," the Asset tells him, loudly enough to be heard above the other voices in the small space. I am not sure if he really remembers me or not, and who could blame him? He has been teaching roomfulls of students for longer than we have been married.

"I am thinking about retiring," Mr. Kredit confesses.

"Oh, no!" I say. "Not yet!" And then I remember how old I am and wonder how old he must be. I sincerely hope that more students will be able to benefit from his teaching in the years to come.

We make our way to the car and drive the few blocks home. We will have 'Coffee', the traditional time of visiting with extended family over hot cups of coffee (or tea) and sweet cookies (or cake). The family circle is smaller, a visible reminder of grandparents and aunts and uncles who have gone Home before us. There is a sadness in this, but we are not without comfort:  

We do not want you to be uninformed, brethren, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Jesus...*

After all, Sunday mornings are for remembering and rejoicing in the Resurrection, are they not?




*1 Thessalonians 4:13-14