The church of my childhood was a singing congregation. The choir was robust and talented, plus
the people in the pews belted out the hymns. What did John Wesley say? “Sing lustily.” While I
squirmed in anticipation of fried chicken, deviled eggs, and strawberry cake, they vigorously sang
the blessing before the potlucks:
From thine all-bounteous hand, our food, may we receive with gratitude.
I heard “all-bounteous” as “all-bouncing,” which was confusing to me. But when the “Ah-men”
was sung in four-part harmony, I tingled inside and out.
I was often bored in church. I recognize this, too, as a blessing, for a bounty of time allows the
mind to wander freely, perhaps gazing out of the window, nestled beside your mother in the pew.
Once, my father preached about a man who had fastened enough helium balloons to his lawn
chair that he was able to float up to the sky, and I pictured myself sailing beyond our backyard,
waving to an astonished next-door neighbor, Mrs. Stevens, before gliding over my buddy Ben’s
house where his older brother, David, stood in the grass turning green with envy. In another
sermon, Dad wondered what it would be like to replace the cross in front of the church with an
electric chair. I imagined sitting in this chair, which made me shiver.
Whatever the daydream, I’d come back to myself as the congregation rose for the doxology,
which I thought of as “The Glory Bee,” even though I knew we were singing praises to God and
not a giant pollinator. I thought of the Father as the sunlight behind the clouds — bright,
beautiful and distant. At Christmastime, we sang “Jesus, our brother, kind and good,” and while I
was a benevolent dictator toward my younger brother, I admitted I couldn’t boss Jesus around. I
knew He loved me, even before I could read the Bible, because Ms. Joyce told me so in Sunday
School. Once, she accidentally cut her hand. Despite the bright red blood flowing down her arm,
her eyes remained calm. Her gaze became the image I had of Jesus on the cross, a look that said
everything was going to be alright.
In worship, Dad would end the service with a prayer. Instead of closing my eyes, I would sneak
glances around the sanctuary to see if anyone else wasn’t paying attention, like a robed member
of the choir. I remember Mr. Manning, his head bowed toward his tie, his left hand on top of
Mrs. Manning’s hands that were clasped in her lap. He had an essential tremor, an all-bouncing
hand. The sanctuary floor was made of brick, and I could picture a face smiling at me. One of the
bricks was dark, resembling a closed eye, as if it were winking. When the worship service ended, I flew outside like I was a winged insect, and the world was magic.
