In My Father’s House

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When my dad turned eighteen, he was not thinking of becoming a husband, a father, or a pastor; he was planning to become a priest.

He was raised in a Catholic New England family, and when he announced an interest in the priesthood, my grandparents were elated. The fall after his high school graduation, they bought him a bus ticket, and he traveled from rural Maine to Baltimore to begin seminary.

But their dreams were short-lived.  My dad had a front row seat to the scandals in the church that wouldn’t be public knowledge for a few more decades. It shook his faith, and he dropped out of seminary after three semesters. He was stranded in a big city hundreds of miles from home, which for his generation and his budget might as well have been half way around the world. He took the only job he could find, managing a Pizza Hut.

Cue mom, who was hired straight out of high school to be the restaurant’s assistant manager. As Providence would have it, it fell to my dad to train her.  They fell in love over the dough machine, and at the end of her first shift, as they were balancing the register, dad asked her out.

They were married a few months later, and the following year my older brother was born.  Dad was still interested in going into the ministry, but he found that Protestantism resonated with him more than Catholicism.  He enrolled in a Bible college in Pennsylvania, where my other siblings and I were born.   Dad finished his theological training when I was three, and took his first position at a church when I was four.

It seems that all children are fascinated with their parents’ profession, and we were no exception. When my brothers and I wanted to amuse ourselves, we didn’t play Cowboys and Indians or Cops-n-Robbers or even Hide and Seek; we played church.

My older brother Lenny was always the pastor. I was always the soloist, and our younger brother Matthew was our first congregant.  (We added my youngest brother and sister to the congregation when they arrived in our family a few years later.)

We’d set up our chairs facing the piano in the living room.  I’d wear mom’s heels and borrow one of her purses, and Lenny would sport dad’s shoes and a poorly-knotted neck tie.  He would stand on the piano bench and deliver a fiery sermon.  When he was all out of thunder, he’d jump down and take a seat at the piano.  “Now, won’t you come, Sister Sarah, and sing the special music?”

He’d wink at me, and I’d trip up to the piano in my high heels and belt out all the verses of “Jesus Loves Me” at the top of my lungs.  When I finished, Lenny would say, “Thank you, Sister Sarah, for that blessing.”  I’d nod a solemn acknowledgement, and trip back to my seat.  Then Lenny would strike slow, minor chords on the piano and in an earnest voice, he’d begin the altar call.  While keeping his hands on the keys, he’d turn his head over his shoulder and wail, “Sinners, won’t you come to Jesus?  Won’t you please come?”

This was my cue to round up my little brother Matthew, who was usually roaming about the living room in his walker.  Some days he was Arminian, responding to the altar call of his own accord.  Other times, he was stubbornly Calvinistic, and it took a strong working of the Holy Spirit (which was me, minus my heels) to get him to the altar.

Once Matthew arrived, Lenny would lead him in a convincing Sinner’s Prayer.  And then, while all the angels in heaven were rejoicing, mom would call us for lunch, which was usually peanut butter and jelly sandwiches served with lemonade.

We preferred to call it “Communion.”

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