Along the windy country roads of western North Carolina, amidst the rolling hills and Rocky Mountains, nestled in between two valleys a red brick church with a gleaming white steeple stands with pride dripping from every inch. I want to elaborate on the process my family went through to walk through those wooden white doors every Sunday morning. We may not all attend the same church, or share the same theological views but if you think I am sure you too have Sunday morning memories that you cherish as much as I cherish mine.
Sunday morning at my house truly started on Saturday evening. My grandfather is a proud Christian man steeped in tradition and full of love for family, church, and country. On Saturday afternoon you could find him in a quiet place in our house putting the final touches on his Sunday school lesson. My grandmother who sits down a total of five minutes a year was busy going from one room to another making sure all outfits were wrinkle free, checking everyone’s pantyhose to make sure no one had runs, depending on the season she would be checking either my black Patten, or white Patten shoes for scuffs. After all outfits were laid out Ma would make sure her Sunday morning solo was as close to perfect as humanly possible. This was always my favorite part of Saturday nights there was always a guarantee of some old fashion hymns bellowing out of our upright piano, and my ma’s voice echoing through the house. The last touches of the evening included me in a wooden chair with my hair being jerked in every direction possible as Ma would load it full of pink sponge curlers. Every Saturday night the process seemed to take longer and longer. My butt developed a case of the worms and I wiggled and squirmed until finally a pair of silky white panties was shoved on my head and I was sent to bed.
Sunday morning Ma would begin preparing Sunday dinner, so that when we returned home after church a piping hot home cooked meal would be awaiting us…the smells of pot roast or fried chicken wafted all over Cowee valley. Pa would still be in bed awaiting the Sunday morning call to Little Granny. After discussing all current events, the death toll, and sweet things only mothers and there sons understand the call would end and pa would begin to get ready. I still haven’t decided if Ma ever did go to bed on Saturday nights but if she did it wasn’t for long because by the time I would wake up on Sunday morning she had already put 2 people through her beauty chair. She meticulously did my mothers make up, and teased my mom’s hair until it was a perfect red football helmet. She would blow dry and do something to my grandfather’s balding head….I say this with the utmost respect because for a balding older man Pa’s Sunday morning hair still looks good!
Then after helping me with my white lacy panties, my pantyhose, and my dress which always had a big bow and thick with crinoline (which she always purchased on the clearance rack at Jack and Jill’s). The task of my hair was now at hand. The pink curlers would be removed and my hair would increase exponentially. If I was super lucky I would get some lips gloss for my lips. Then Pa would round me and my mom up, and remind us to get our bibles because as my ma always says “going to church without your bible is like going to war without your gun!” and I surely didn’t want to face a war without a gun…or my grandmother at church if she found out I left my precious moments pink bible at home. Then we would load up in the mini van and Pa would honk the horn until Ma would come storming out the garage door, carrying her shoes, makeup, her bible, her Sunday school quarterly, our tithing check, her purse, and the hymnal. I know all that sounds impossible to carry…but we are working with wonder woman don’t try and understand it. Upon arriving to the church parking lot Pa would circle the lot like a vulture looking for food. He would then back into the perfect parking spot so that upon the benediction prayer we could exit church quickly and get home to that wonderful smell that had been torturing us since the wee hours of Sunday morning.
A simple story can’t convey what these memories mean to me. They are manna to my being. Never was there a question where I would be on Sunday mornings, or where my family was. I was singing hymns to the most high God with my family by my side. I learned how to pray by watching my family pray, I learned how to sing by listening to my grandmother, and I learned to love because of the example set before me. Church wasn’t a babysitting service, church was a family experience shared every single Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. These are my Sunday morning memories I shall forever cherish them.
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