IT’S FIVE MINUTES TO ELEVEN and I’m still in bed.
It’s the 1990’s. I’m 5-9 years old, and my parents are trying to drag me to church. Again.
There were a million things not to like about church. The sticky pews, the priest that rambled on about a Jesus character (who at that time was no competition for my Ken doll), the fact that I always ended up sitting behind a pole or having to look at the rear end of a father in front of me.
I loved God, I loved him with all my belligerent soul. But I hated church.
So I did what us stubborn folk do best: I made things difficult. While Mom was putting on her floral skirt and dad his plaid shirt, I stayed in bed boycotting the idea of giving God an hour of my “BUSY” afternoon. I mean, Christ! That’s a whole hour I could be counting my Beanie Babies!
But I knew they’d march in at 10:58 like clockwork, demanding that I put my church jumper on for 11:00 a.m. Mass.
“You’re going.”
“NO I’M NOT!!!!”
“You’re GOING.”
“NOOO I’MMM NOTTTTT!!”
I’ll admit, my behavior got a little ridiculous. Even my younger sister gave in, crawling out of bed and getting gussied up in her best jumper. And it was only to my disadvantage, because her and I had to dress alike and whatever jumper she chose, I had to wear that day, too.
“Are they twins?” family acquaintances would ask. In hindsight I wish I would have responded with some sort of satirical, “Yes. The zygote was wearing a plaid jumper when it divided, the two embryos each got a piece, and bam! Jenny and Heidi, identical twins. NO, dum-dum, we’re sisters. Can’t you see? I’ve got a mushroom cut and she’s got a mullet. Plus, I hate this jumper. She likes hers.”
We never made it to church on time, in fact we were infamous for marching in 10 to 17 minutes late. I can only imagine how disheveled I looked with my weird mushroom cut, flat on the side I was sleeping on (but still mushroomy on the side I wasn’t) and the jumper that my dad wrestled me into (or just verbally, by means of some “If you don’t…then…” statement). By that point there was hardly a pew open that would fit seven, with the exception of the pew that was tacitly “Our Pew.” No one touched this pew, I suspect, because they’d seen, Sunday after Sunday, all of the greasy children sitting on it, and they didn’t even want to mess with the bacillus it held.
It was always my luck that I had a runny nose during church. This was like nails on a chalkboard to my mother, who sat with her songbook and watched five children with two eyes. She despised that sniffling sound with much fervor, and any child of hers that was going to make it was sorely mistaken. As my luck would (further) have it, my parents always carried tissues on them—but they were never clean. The good Lord dictated that it wasn’t bad enough to have to sniff my brains in to hold back what was trying to creep out my nose, and ergo sent me the saving grace of my father’s well-worn, pre-used, warm Kleenex to alleviate my symptoms. Praise be!
There was nary a way to keep me to sit still during those interminable 70 minutes of holy blather. I must have asked 6-8 times per Mass if I could go use the bathroom. Somehow my mom knew I would stay in there for 20 minutes and play with my frilly socks, and rarely let me out of “Our Pew.” When I look around the church nowadays and see couples with young children eating Cheerios and coloring, I wonder why on earth my parents didn’t utilize these cheats. Honestly, I would have been in my jumper in .02 seconds and sitting awfully restrained if they would have let me bring along a box of markers and a friggin’ coloring book. Heck, I might have even drawn Jesus a picture!
Then there was the dreaded Sign of Peace. Not dreaded for my family, but for the families surrounding us that had to shake the hands of greasy small children. (I would say five greasy small children, but my oldest sister always had her ducks in a row.) We were always overly-eager for this part, as it was an opportunity to TALK REALLY LOUD and touch other people with permission from the Lord.
As the years progressed, the choir director heard through some pious grapevine that I played the trumpet. I knew two or three songs at the time, something along the lines of “Hot Crossed Buns”, “Yankee Doodle”, and “When the Saints Go Marching In.” This was skill enough to get into the church band, and I was elated to be handed a novel binder of sheet music to “practice.” It was only a matter of time before said choir director realized that “On Eagles Wings” wasn’t going to fly. Nuh-uh. I resorted back to “Our Pew” and sulked in the presence of my heavy nasal-breathing father and songbird mother.
Meanwhile, my mom proceeded to push singing on the kids. As the only woman in the entire parish that carried a songbook up to Communion and sang every chord save the thirty seconds that the holy Eucharist disintegrated in her mouth, it was expected that her children do the same. She’d “subtly” thrust her songbook under our noses with hopes we’d belt out some sort of Hallelujah, to no prevail. This subsisted until the year I was rejected from the Western Plains Children’s Choir (sore subject), then continued once more when she thought I was “over it” (I never was). Her and I both knew that my younger sister, Heidi, was the better songstress, having displayed such ambitions of becoming the “next Celine Dion.” We frequently practiced “I Will Always Love You” on Saturday nights, Heidi on the vocals and me pushing the “PLAY” button on the stereo. This was probably the reason why I didn’t want to get up for church in the morning—I was just too worn out from our jam sessions.
Not to say that going to church didn’t have its occasional advantages. Every once in a great while we’d go out to The Donut Hole afterward and I’d get the most righteous maple long john as a reward for all of my rigamaroo. This, of course, is where I got my sturdy physique from. (An entirely different story ending with my older brother comparing me to Igor and imitating my voice with creepy deep breathing noises. Another sore subject.)
I’m not too interesting during church these days. I don’t play my trumpet, or sing in the choir. I don’t even try to go to the bathroom anymore, and when my nose is runny—I make sure I have something to take care of it with.
I’m nearly 21, and I wear “jumpers” on my own accord. The Donut Hole has long since closed, my sister gave up on her musical career…
…and I am still stubborn, sensitive and grieving over my rejection from the Western Plains Children’s Choir. Like I said, a little ridiculous.
Amen.
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