After we moved when I was eight to a suburb, no one took me to any church. My mother firmly believed I wanted more than anything else to make my First Holy Communion. I just wanted that sense of being surrounded by mystery, though I couldn’t name it.
Up the street—a barren tenth of a mile cut from what had been cornfields, still being developed by people who believed in shrubbery but not trees—lived a family with one little girl, Carol Ann. She was too young to be a playmate for me; in fact, there were no children my age on the street. But she wanted to earn a watch in the Sunday School contest, and for that she needed points. Visitors were worth points, so her parents loaded up the station wagon with any neighborhood kids willing to go. I don’t remember if Carol Ann got her watch, but her parents got stuck with me. I rode to church with them for years. I was an earnest child in the back seat with their daughter and Grandma Aladich, Carol Ann's maternal grandmother, whom we also picked up on the way. I soon became involved in the joy of earning points myself. A child earned points, charted on a hanging poster in the Sunday School classroom, for any number of good works: attending, bringing one’s Bible, memorizing Scripture, completing the lesson in our quarterly, bringing visitors. We weren’t really competing against each other, or at least I wasn’t, not until Bible bowls or Sword drills. Instead, we were earning pins for our Jet Cadets hat (which we also had to earn) or a trip to camp. Or a watch.
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Baptist GirlI was a conservative Baptist girl who grew up to become a career Christian, working first in a Baptist school and then in a Baptist college. For about three decades, it was very good until it wasn’t, and I had to leave. But the Baptists formed me. This is my homage to the good times and good people of the world I left, finally, at forty-three, when I became an Episcopalian. These are my memories; others might disagree with my recollections. So be it. Archives
January 2024
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