My family was religious, in the 1950’s definition of religion. We were raised Presbyterian which consisted of one hour of Sunday church with the sermon being totally un-understandable. Our minister, Rev. William Harper, was a wonderful servant of God and a pillar to the community. He knew all his parishioners and was always available in time of need. I remember his visits to our house, with him sitting on the couch while counseling my parents. Rev. Harper had a ready smile which made you feel you were talking with a friend, not with “the representative of God.” But when it came to Sunday services, his sermons were at a theological level to be over the heads of anyone willing to admit it. Perhaps God got the message but I sure didn’t.

I had a few bad habits in church. Now I was Little Miss Goody Two Shoes, ten years of perfect attendance, partially due to Mom insisting we girls went every week. One must maintain a good appearance. My sister Denise and I would play “Hangman” on the back of the attendance cards, scribble all over the program hand-outs or even once got a case of the non-stop giggles while seated in front of two of my maiden school teachers. That was child’s play compared to my major fault. I would fall asleep. Yes, I had ten years of naps during Sunday services. The minister would give the opening welcome and blessing. We would stand for the first song, all three verses in the hymnal. Rev. Harper would then instruct us to sit and bow our heads. Being an obedient child, I would immediately do as told. I folded my hands, closed my eyes and proceeded to fall into a deep sleep – one which lasted through the prayer, through the sermon, all the way to the last song. It didn’t matter if my sisters on either side poked me, if my mother pinched my ear or even if the minister’s wife sat next to me. At least I didn’t snore.

The only time I didn’t sleep was when the Church Youth Choir sang once a month. I was a proud member. We would don our black robes with flowing sleeves, red sashes and detachable stiff white collars. As the last person was seated and the sanctuary doors were pulled shut, we would parade from the back of the church into the choir loft to the left of the raised podium, where Rev. Harper conducted the services. The church organist seated, her hands posed on the keys, played the procession music. Parents smiled sweetly on their children, except for my mother and father who only attended on the mandatory days – Christmas, Easter, Maundy Thursday and the four yearly communion services. The Youth Choir was a cherished part of our church activities. However, the entire congregation came to wish I had never joined. Yes, my voice was – and still is – that bad. But it was the other thing which I did. I fainted. Kerplop! Out cold. There was sweet Cheryl, flat out on the floor, her black choir robe spread about like a bad imitation of a snow angel. As a child, I was petrified to talk in front of people and would just freeze, unable to utter a word, to move, even to sit. I would make it through the first hymn, the choir and congregation, singing in one voice. Midway through the service, the choir would all stand and it was time. Every head would turn in our direction. I was trapped and began to panic. My ashen face matched the stark white of my collar. Heart racing, the dizziness would overtake me and I would crumble like a limp doll to the floor between the pews. So why did I try to sing? Because maybe the next month would be different. You know that definition of insanity – doing the same thing and expecting a different result. Maybe I could finally conquer my fear and sing with the group, just like in practice the previous Wednesday night. These monthly episodes became so bad that my sister Bonnie, embarrassed as only a teenager could be, denied knowing me. “Isn’t that your sister?” “No, don’t know her.” This was in church, before God, where everyone knows you. Bonnie, you just broke one of the Ten Commandments. Thank goodness this wasn’t the Catholic church where she would have to confess her sin in the confessional.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. The church bought a stretcher – because of me. With it must have come a year’s supply of ammonia capsules, the type where you crush the thin glass tubing wrapped in gauze and the over-powering stench of ammonia filled the air. Too bad no one was given instructions on how to properly administer them. You are supposed to wave it gently back and forth, a short distance from the person’s nose, not ram it under the person’s nose. I would gasp and then try to push the idiot’s hand away. “Oh, My God, she’s having convulsions!” No, but I may punch your lights out if you don’t get that damn thing away from me. Oops, no swearing in church.

It was ‘suggested’ that I resign from the Youth Choir, to turn in my robe and try lip syncing with the rest of the congregation. The church ushers never had to use the stretcher or the ammonia capsules again. I continued to sleep, now in the front pew. I gathered that my mother thought being ten feet from the Rev. Harper as he spoke at the podium, would deter my trips into slumber land. Unfortunately for the church members, that logic had little chance of success. Instead I would drift into a deeper sleep. I would even dream, like the time I grabbed the handles of two red-hot skillets. The imaginary heat was so realistic that I physically yanked my hands away. Kaboom! My elbows slammed into the back of the wooden pew, sending echoes throughout the entire domed sanctuary. Now that woke everyone up. Amen!