My Memoirs

AMAZING GRACE On the way to our First Presbyterian Church in Santa Cruz, California, Mother stopped to pick up my friend Grace Puget. Yay Grace! Sunday School followed by church swallowed an entire morning, stretching my sitting span to the limit. Vibes from Grace were like quick little jabs to remind me we had an entire afternoon for fun. Grace and I were the last ones to enter the partition where 6th grade girls met each Sunday morning. Miss Marsh sat with her hands folded across her Bible waiting for the clock’s hands to reach 9:45. To me, that place was spooky quiet. I don’t remember if boys had separate classes or 6th grade boys simply didn’t show up. As I think back on that situation, I know for sure that none of my sons would have gone back willingly a second time. Miss Marsh bobbed her head up and down from girl to girl as she marked six members present on the attendance card. Then, she passed the collection basket, counted the money and recorded it on the attendance card as if such procedure were part of a high ritual. It’s difficult for me to believe six practically normal sixth grade girls sat in silence while this took place. But we did. “Now, let us pray,” Miss Marsh said in a voice that never rose more than a decibel over a whisper, and she reached for the hand of a girl on each side of her. We knew the routine. We held hands and recited the Lord’s Prayer but did not say “Amen” at the end because there was more. Starting with the girl who held Miss Marsh’s right hand, and you can believe I never put myself in that spot, each girl had to offer a prayer of her own. Miss Marsh did not allow silent prayers. I dreaded this. When I pray to God it is between Him and me and what I have to say to Him is not anyone else’s business. My out loud prayers in Miss Marsh’s class depended on the weather. I thanked God for the sunny day or whatever weather was happening. When it was Grace’s turn to pray out loud, it was like someone had popped the cork and the words kept coming. I knew Grace better than any of the others because she and I went to the same school and I nearly exploded trying to hold back giggles. She thanked God for the sparkling sunshine, the luscious green grass, the beautiful yellow flowers, the lovely purple flowers and especially for those little white flowers that look like bells but they don’t jingle. She thanked Him for her parents, for her school teachers, for Miss March and the President of the United States, the House of Representatives, the Senate and the Supreme Court. She thanked God for her dog, Licorice, and for helping the vet to make that ball Licorice swallowed come out of him without having to cut him open. Grace told God she was sure He hadn’t forgotten but wanted to reminded Him she was still waiting for a horse. She asked God to make her brothers nice to her all of the time, not just when someone was looking, and she asked Him if He’d mind giving her a new bike because her old one was a boy’s bike and she needed a girl’s bike .On she went for at least ten minutes. Moments before giggles turned to hysterics, Miss Marsh held up her hand and whispered, “Amen.” I don’t remember whether or not there was time for the lesson. After Sunday School we went to the sanctuary and sat with Mother in a pew near the middle. Our church was new, clean, and had heavy glass windows that would one day be replaced with stained glass. The sanctuary echoed because it didn’t have enough in it yet to absorb sounds. Reverend Van Camp, the minister in 1934, ar-tic-u-la-ted each syllable so carefully his jaws must have been near collapse at the close of each sermon. The Reverend had a red-headed wife who moved about like she had ADDHD before ADDHD was invented and if their four year old son didn’t grow up to be a demolition expert, he was headed down the wrong career path. I don’t think Reverend Van Camp cared a whole lot for his flock and I doubt if his sermons warmed many hearts. When my Uncle Albert, a Presbyterian missionary, came home from Thailand on furlough, I overheard him say, “That man gives me a tummy ache,” and Uncle Albert had a big tummy. Reverend Van Camp’s sermon on that particular Sunday could have been delivered in five minutes but he concluded it as the clock struck twelve. Grace and I had removed pencils from the pew holder so we could doodle on our church bulletins. A few minutes into the sermon, I began tally marking each time the reverend ar-tic-u-la-ted the phrase: “God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.” I noticed Grace was making exclamation marks, the fat kind that looked like baseball bats with balls on the bottom. Grace’s vibes turned edgy and she pressed so hard she broke the lead in her pencil when the reverend let loose his (possibly twentieth), “God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.” In a stage whisper that was heard across several pews, she said, “If he says that again I’ll scream!” Well, he did say it again, and I braced for the scream, but Grace sat with eyes open wide and mouth zipped shut. People in front, behind and beside us craned their necks to look at Grace, and I’m convinced that some were disappointed. Mother pretended she didn’t know us. In case you want to know if we ever took Grace to church with us again, of course we did. Every church needs a Grace Puget.