MOM, DAD GET THE LAST LAUGH
A Widow Bit – Dec. 6, 2009
By Mary Koch

            It was not appropriate to giggle, though I wanted to. I was at the church where my sister is organist, listening to the minister’s lovely chant resonate to the high ceilings. And I couldn’t help but smile. It occurred to me that Mom and Dad, who are both enjoying the eternal promise, had won the battle.

            I was checking in with my sister on the way home from visiting my brother in North Carolina. My visit to him also included – as a matter of course with no discussion – going to church.  Who could’ve dreamed that all three of us kids would turn out to be dutiful church-goers? Well, my parents dreamed it, true. But even they might have thought it too much to hope for in a land that is becoming increasingly non-churched (see http://www.religioustolerance.org/chr_tren.htm).

            As PKs (preacher’s kids) who grew up in Minnesota (the land of three Ls – lakes, lutefisk and Lutherans), we didn’t just go to church – we lived church. There were, of course, the 52 Sunday mornings of the year, plus observances that ate up the week days – Ascension, All Saints, Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Wednesday services in Advent and Lent, Saturday catechism lessons, parochial school in the afternoons following public school, Luther League on Sunday evenings and – to keep our summers from being too carefree – vacation Bible school and church camp.

            It’d be enough to make any kid rebel. By the time I was a teen-ager, I certainly intended to. As soon as I’m out of the nest, I promised myself, I’ll be free of church. But my clever parents had set the hook deep by providing my sister and me with music lessons. Following her example, I was only 15 when I got my first paying job, playing the organ for a small church. By the time I was in college, I was playing for bigger churches and earning pretty good money. Weddings and funerals were especially lucrative.

            As soon as I get a real job, I promised myself, I’ll be free of church. Then I got a real job on a real newspaper and fulfilled my promise. Though only in my 20s, I retired from my short-lived career as a professional church organist. I devoted my Sundays to sailing, sleeping and even working. But I wasn’t free.

            The Buddhist monk and author, Thich Nhat Hanh, teaches that we cannot be at peace with ourselves until we are at peace with our spiritual roots. Doesn’t matter if they’re Christian, Islam, Buddhist, or whatever. Spiritual roots run deep, a nurturing lifeline that we can’t always pick and choose. So, like my older siblings, I can be found in church every Sunday. And Ash Wednesday.  And, and, and …

            During this season, I’m sure I as a child harassed my parents with Christmas wish lists. I remember a few of those childhood gifts. But the greatest one, the one I never thought to ask for and nevertheless received, was their gift of roots, meaningful, spiritual roots.