Some of our sweetest blessings are wonderful memories from our childhood. 

When God Smiled.  By Arlene Hendriks.

When I was a child, going to church was as predictable as sunrise and as boring as Thursday night in a small town. Trapped in the pews, I couldn’t look out the windows because all that colored glass blocked the view of freedom, I would have to content myself with counting the squares of ceiling tiles or playing mumblety peg with my finger on my dad’s outstretched hand while the preacher droned out his interminable sermon.

But one Sunday of the year wild horses could not have kept me from church. If I had been sick, I would have pretended to be well so as not to miss that day, the first Sunday of our family’s vacation, when God wore a smile.

Every summer we would escape the confinement of town to my grandparents’ farm, a day’s journey from our home. Early Saturday we would start, arriving in the evening. There Grandma would meet us at the door, wiping her hands on her apron, smoothing back her hair and enfolding us in her warm embrace. From the kitchen behind her the odors blending and wafting toward us brought the promise of favorite delicacies. Inside, the aroma of freshly baked Boston Brown Bread would greet us, along with the pungent smell of corncobs burning in the old wood stove.

Soon the men would arrive from the fields, dinner would be served, and bedtime would be greeted with none of the usual reluctance; rather an anxiousness to be nestled into the big old bed in the upstairs bedroom.

Sunday morning, everyone would be stirring. The stomping of the men cleaning their boots before coming in to breakfast, along with the clank of the stove door closing and the murmur of voices from the women’s conversations would penetrate my dreams, drawing me inexorably to consciousness and the excitement of this day. Soon it would be time to go. I would jump out of bed and head for the breakfast table.

The church spire would come into view first, then the building itself, solid and familiar. The floor would creak as we stepped inside the door. The smell of many freshly scrubbed bodies would be mingled with after shave lotion and perfume. The low buzz of subdued greetings would sound sweet to my ears. The men would look funny, somehow, with their coveralls and work boots replaced by suits and ties. The ever-present hat would now be missing, leaving a sharp line of demarcation between the darkly tanned, weather-beaten face and the smooth whiteness of the forehead.

At home, children were to be seen but not heard. The same kids who made my life miserable at school had an extra chance to throw their darts at me in Sunday School. The adults all had their friends to greet, and no one paid attention to a lonely little girl. God was sort of picky at my church at home. You always had to observe the rules, like “Sit still! “Stop squirming.”

God seemed distant, unapproachable.

At Grandma’s church it was different. Walking in, you would always see one of the relatives who would be delighted to see you. After they talked to your parents, they would actually start talking to you, giving you hugs and asking how you were, telling you how much you had grown that year.

The cousins would grin and there would be the promise of pulled pigtails and horseback rides, climbing in the loft, racing to set irrigation tubes in the corn fields faster than the others. That day it seemed vacation would last forever.

Squeezed in between Daddy and Grandpa, I would begin to look around. Great-aunt Grace would catch my eye, her twinkling smile saying that she would wave, but it wouldn’t be quite proper in church, you know. Behind me, Great-Aunt Fern would be coming down the aisle, followed by cousins, Wes and Gil. She would stop to say hello and give me a hug.

The entrance of the choir would signal the beginning of the service. Yes, Uncle Lloyd and Uncle Vernon would be there, as always, with old Dan next to Uncle Vernon. Uncle Lloyd’s eyes would always sparkle as the slow smile spread across his face in response to my very undignified waving. Well, I didn’t actually wave- I just sort of wriggled my fingers at them. But on this first Sunday of vacation, you didn’t get frowned at for almost-waving.

Uncle Vernon would almost certainly have waved back, but for Aunt Grace reminding him gently with her eyes of the importance of Propriety in the Sanctuary. Instead he just promised with his eyes the good times to come. Old Dan’s wife was not so concerned about keeping him proper. He would actually wink at me.

Church was always much shorter at Grandpa and Grandma’s. I would barely get through dreaming about horseback riding at Cousin Royal’s, setting siphon tubes in the corn fields with the men, shooting the .22 rifle with Uncle Burt, going up to the hills to look at the cattle, munching through all the goodies Grandma had saved up for me from the garden and baked during the weeks before our visit, when suddenly the preacher would be calling for everyone to stand for the closing hymn.

That first Sunday of vacation, when God smiled, was not to be missed when I was a child.

“Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.” ~ Ephesians 4:32

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Today is Palm Sunday, the first day of Holy Week. Look for our blog every day this week for a very short devotional message as we follow the steps of Jesus to Resurrection Sunday.