Last Sunday we attended church with our extended family.  My mother sat in the pew in front of me with my nephew and his girlfriend to her left.  Every now and then, when we stood to sing, the girlfriend placed her arm lightly around my nephew’s waist.  Each time this happened, Mom tapped the back of his girlfriend’s hand with her index finger, then turned and winked at me. 

I smiled watching the scene play itself out a couple of times—the arm around the waist, the tap, tap, tap, and the arm drop.  I’ve seen it all before.  My mother is not known for her good conduct at church. She tries to behave during the sermon; it’s the pre and post sermon parts that lead her astray. 

Aunt Elouise once said, “I don’t sit with your mother.  She shuts my hymnal in the middle of a song just for the fun of it.”  Mom also protests her least favorite hymns by choosing to sing a song she likes during the one she doesn’t. I admit I’ve caught myself doing the same thing. 

Hmmm…am I on my way to becoming my mother?

Kids love to sit near Mom.  They know her purse if filled with candy and she shares it with anyone in reach. My mother’s good humor goes to church with her, but she takes her faith seriously and taught us to prioritize from an early age. 

Growing up, skipping church was never an option for my brothers and me. Mom added an eleventh to the Ten Commandments: “If you’re too sick to go to church on Sunday, then you’re too sick to do anything else (fun) for the rest of the week.”  We had only to test her on this once to find out she wasn’t kidding.

The first church of my memory was an American Baptist in southern West Virginia.  The sanctuary was large, housing two sets of pews separated by a red-carpeted middle aisle.  Two narrow aisles ran up and along the exterior walls below stained glass windows.

At youth choir practice, the boys liked to jump under the furthest back pew and roll all the way to the altar. Our choir director Mrs. Murphy, chased up and down, fanning herself and pleading, “Now, boys, come out from under there. We need to begin.” 

Not that I was always innocent.  In those pews, my parents often attempted to reel in my brother John and me, nudging us with sharp elbows and locking their eyes on ours in a stern warning. John and I tried. We did.

When our five-year-old brother Donald belted Jesus Loves Me over the other Cherub Choir members, John and I held our breath, ducked our heads, but still fell to floor in front of our pew, unable to contain our laughter.

Once, for a reason Mom still cannot figure, Dad let us get a snack from the store around the corner between Sunday school and the worship service. During the opening prayer, the three of us strolled down the middle aisle, popping soda can tabs and ripping open bags of chips, while our parents wished themselves invisible.

From those pews my family watched my baptism. After, wet hair plastered to my cheeks, I walked outside and twirled under giant cottony snowflakes, before returning to sit with my family in the sanctuary.  

In those pews my mother often clasped my hand into hers and squeezed three times: “I… love…you.”  I returned four: “I…love…you…too.”  Then, Mom pressed my palm twice, asking wordlessly, “How…much?” 

I squeezed her hand with all my might.

Church provides a sanctuary for meditation and reflection, a place to rejoice in the gifts of love and life, and a pew to share a few winks and nods. In those pews, my mother taught me that God does have a sense of humor.