True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 1

Each Sunday morning, come 11 am, you could find our whole family camped out in row two, opposite the gospel side, listening to the prelude and smiling at the preacher sitting up on the platform.

We were parked there, I think, mainly because my mother, armed with her stylish tortoise shell glasses, usually played the great brown organ located approximately six steps away from our pew. It's also possible that my dad, the assistant pastor who usually gave the announcements--those things he eventually renamed "opportunities"--wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible when ascending and descending off that stage. Then there's the best reason of all for making three Baptist pastor's daughters sit in the second row: there was little chance they would get distracted and a much greater probability they would sit still during the sermon. 

But if you visited our church one Sunday morning, you probably wouldn't even notice us sitting up there, not at first. Although the rest of the Baptist congregation preferred to be seated about halfway back, where the fire of the sermon would not leave them scorched, where they could be comfortable, while still moving forward in the process of sanctification. 

Here is the reason you wouldn't see us, and you have to trust me on this.

The carpet in this grand auditorium with its lofty ceiling and nifty drop down lighting, was gold. The pews? Vibrant purple and brilliant red. A fact we children did notice and comment upon early on, at which time we were told: "The decorations in this sanctuary were selected to mirror some of the elements of the tabernacle of the Lord." And that was sufficient for us, really. Soon they appeared absolutely normal, even mundane. (Though I would be curious to know what the casual visitor thought of the decor.) We were just grateful, I think, that they were padded. That's all that mattered to our backsides during the hour and a half service.

The bulletins announcing the order of service were a very blase tan with a brown drawing of the church building itself on the cover. "First Baptist Church," it read. And honestly I can't remember the slogan that accompanied it. The only thing that bulletin was good for was telling me that "A Mighty Fortress" was the next hymn and on which page in the book it was located. I sucked in my breath a little while waiting for the song leader to tell us if we would be singing verses 1, 3, and five. Or just two and four. I followed his conducting, as his arms waved toward the congregation,  and tried to hit every note like I was a professional.

I was only five, I think, when my voice got loud in church. I would sing those hymns with abandon and verve, and I think I got lost in the music every Sunday. Those rich lyrics sunk down into my marrow, and when I sit down to my piano today, I still remember them. Baptists back then never raised their hands in worship that I remember, but they were allowed to raise their voices and their hearts. And many of them did.

As many fundamental Baptist churches were wont to do back in the 70s and early 80s, each service included "special music." It was special because one person or two or three people would rehearse it especially to perform it in church. Except they wouldn't call it a performance. Oh, no. They would say "sister so and so will now minister to us in music," and then whichever pastor announced it would sit behind the woman while she approached the big pulpit, leaning forward toward the microphone, poised to croon her heart out to the congregation.

Many times it would be my father who announced this special music. As he sat down on the platform bench, we would look up at him and try to see what he really thought of this morning's special music by reading the look on his face.

Pastor Dick, as our father was called, would sit there, often in his polyester rust and burnt orange suit, with a pleasant smile on his face. And every few months or so, things really got interesting for us. 

I don't know who she was, except to say that she must have been trained in the operatic style. She seemed to wear blousy clothing to cover her ample frame, and she hit notes most of us could only dream about. Of all the special music performed in that church, I think my dad appreciated that style the least. And so we three girls would glance over at his facial features while the sister ascended into the high notes, with trills and frills. 

My father, to his credit, created a deadpan look that involved his mouth inching up slightly at the corners while his eyes slowly glazed over. I'm not sure if he was also gripping the binding of his dark Bible. But I like to think his inner monologue kept reminding him that special music could only last for about four minutes--five minutes, tops.

Perhaps, as those four minutes stretched on for what seemed like ten or fifteen, my father was daydreaming about the roast, potatoes, and carrots in the oven and how lovely it would be to top them with gravy. Perhaps he was thinking about the possibilities of a new outreach that would bring more people to the church. Perhaps he was asking God for forbearance. 

Whatever the case, special music always comes to an end. And the sermon begins.

Come back for part two...