Memory Lane

Certain experiences call up distinct memories, transporting you instantly to a time and place long forgotten. Oddly enough, the doxology did that to me the other day.

For those of you unfamiliar with the doxology -- in this case the Gloria Patri, or lesser doxology -- it is a brief expression of praise to the Holy Trinity used in many traditional Protestant and Catholic services. Let loose with a hearty doxology around any random group of worshipping Christians and chances are they'll be able to hum the tune and possibly catch some of the words before you finish. You could even call it a drinking song if communion is being served.

Having grown up in a family of Methodists (we drank grape juice instead of wine), I sang the doxology every Sunday when I was a kid. So, it came as no surprise I didn't need to read the lyrics from the program the other morning when the doxology popped up in the Presbyterian service we were attending. Twenty-plus years of Methodist training took over and I bellowed the Gloria Patri to the best of my ability. Unlike the Lord's Prayer that changes slightly from church to church -- seriously, why can't everyone just use the word "trespasses?" -- the doxology was played exactly as I remembered it.

Instantly, I was taken back to the church of my youth. I could have been sitting next to my Mother, fighting for pew space with my brothers, our Dad leading the ushers in their weekly collection duties. Even the familiar aromas of the old church seemed to surround me.

The United Methodist Church of Hempstead, located on the corners of Washington Street and Front Street on Long Island, is a modestly majestic structure built in the 1800s and expanded over time. It has that old-timey feel to it that keeps you mindful of why you're there. My brothers and I whiled away many hours at the church as our parents attended meetings and served in various leadership roles. Once we were old enough we got involved, too, helping run flea markets, painting Sunday school rooms, and serving as waitstaff for fundraisers. We knew every nook and cranny of the old and new buildings and the various passages between them by the time we left for college.

It was easy to get lost in the beauty of the historic sanctuary. With seating for several hundred people in classic wood pews, it opens tall and wide when you enter through the swinging doors from the narthex. Towering stainglass windows line each of the side walls, my favorite of which depicts an angel speaking to the two Mary's outside Jesus' tomb. The muddled darkness of a grainy cellphone snapshot does no justice to the artistic rendering best viewed at sunrise service on Easter morning as the light pours through and illuminates every last detail of the story. The other seven windows also are lovely to behold, but they pale in comparison.

We typically sat near the back of the church, preferrably the back row, center section, on the left. From that vantage point you could watch the entire ceremony unfold and people-watch all of the other parishioners. You could easily spot which of the old ladies had a new hat, which couple had the prettiest daughter, and which family was kind enough to bring a baby at which to make faces during the service.

The front wall of the sanctuary held two massive banks of pipes our organist would employ to rumble the foundations of the building with the thundering voice of God, or maybe just Bach. Whichever you prefer, the effect was impressive. He literally would pull out all the stops, his hands and feet flying from key to key and pedal to pedal during the postlude. Many times I would remain in my pew and wait for the end of the mini concert. I suppose that organ is one of the reasons I prefer a traditional service to this day. Church simply doesn't feel like church without the dynamic range of a pipe organ rattling my dry bones.

I had the pleasure of revisiting the old church a couple months back when I traveled to New York on business. Rather than waste the lunch hour sitting in some fast food chain, I drove to Hempstead and wandered in through the main doors of the newer building near the small office. Immediately, I was eleven years old, fully expecting to see my Grandfather rounding the corner from the old social hall, his full head of hair slicked back and a broad smile stretching under his bulbous nose.

I'd like to say the old place hasn't changed, and in many ways it hasn't, but as I moved through the familiar spaces I could feel the age of the structure weighing it down. Cracking paint, water-damaged ceilings, worn out carpets, and a general lack of capital improvement could be spotted at almost every turn. And the building stands now like a box in the open, all of the beautiful shrubs and bushes that lined the outside walls long since torn out. I wouldn't say the building was being neglected, but it was easy to see the money wasn't there to sustain its former glory.

Even so, the nitpicker in me fell away the moment I entered the sanctuary. Yes, the carpet inside the main door is threadbare and paint is cracking off the walls, but you simply cannot deny the grand effect of the design of the worship hall. Just entering the room causes you to speak more quietly, tread more lightly, and approach with respect.

I found it difficult to keep a dry eye as I meandered up and down the aisles, recalling who regularly sat where, envisioning my Father putting up the hymn numbers for the next service, watching the little kids leave for Sunday school after having their moment with the minister before the sermon, standing near the altar railing for my brother's wedding, kneeling at the railing for countless communions, sitting at the front of the church with my Grandfather's casket on display in front of the altar as the minister's voice faltered during the funeral service... If not for work, I could have lingered for hours.

Perhaps some day the old church will be properly restored. Maybe an anonymous donation will fund improvements, or it will be declared an historical treasure and restored for future generations to enjoy as a living museum of religious art and architecture. Who knows? I'm just happy to see it's still there and know I can return to wander down memory lane if I'm ever feeling so inclined.

In the meantime, there's always the doxology.

© 2011 Mark Feggeler

That's How We Do Things In America!

"That's how we do things in America!"

I'd like to say I pulled that quote off some uber-patriotic banner or online ad for the military. Or I could say I heard it in a country song on the radio, but I didn't because I don't like country music.

Fact is, the quote came from the mouth of my Lovely Wife while we were in the middle of Colonial Williamsburg, one of our nation's most popular historic tourist attractions that was restored and is maintained, according to Wikipedia, to educate the modern world about "how diverse peoples, having different and sometimes conflicting ambitions, evolved into a society that valued liberty and equality."

Well, the people from Wikipedia never met my Lovely Wife. They also never met the woman we encountered during our day at Colonial Williamsburg two years ago. But I should set the scene before I get into the details.

For anyone who has not visited Colonial Williamsburg, it is the restored former center of government of the Colony of Virginia. The houses, shops and other buildings are as authentic to the period as possible, while actors in period garb speak and work like those who lived in the 18th Century.

Unfortunately, on the hot July day we attended the site, the festivities were not very festive. It seemed the curators of this living museum were going to great lengths to show us that dodging horse manure and shifting a few inches at a time to stay in the shade of the largest tree along the dusty main street were the most exciting things colonial-era people had to do each day.

To escape the glaring sunshine, a hundred or so of us gathered in a small outdoor amphitheater behind the historic coffeehouse to hear one of the few costumed actors who showed up to work that day pretending to be some famous historical figure who did something important in knee-high stockings and a powdered wig a couple centuries ago.

Across the amphitheater from us sat a couple with a young son who kept whining in that special way only certain simpering brats can accomplish. His mother was no better. She prattled on in some eastern European language, unsuccessfully reprimanding her child out of one side of her mouth while clearly brow-beating her hapless husband out of the other. When he reached the point most of us in the audience had already surpassed, the husband stood up and started walking away from them. All I could think was, "Ten years too late, buddy."

His son launched after him loudly squawking "Papa" over and over again. Showing the same lack of fortitude and self-esteem that likely got him married to his shrewish wife in the first place, he returned to his seat for the remainder of the show.

When the performance was completed, it was announced that there would be a short wait before the re-enactment of the reading of one of our country's founding documents from the balcony of the Capitol building next door. While many of us sought out ye olde lavatory, my brother found a spot along the edge of the street where his kids and ours could sit while watching the re-enactment. My Lovely Wife and I joined him as our family rejoined us for the event.

Long story made short, the prattling nag from the Eastern Bloc attempted to annex the space we had saved for our children and seemed intent on parking herself in front of them, blocking their view with an ass as wide as the Berlin Wall. Gestures and nasty glances gave way to angry mutterings which eventually led my Lovely Wife to ask the woman if there was a problem.

I hate to sound like I'm rationalizing, but given the heat and the overall lack of enjoyment of the experience to that point, we were already a little cranky. The prospect of a late lunch wasn't helping, either. So, when Helga, who clearly was accustomed to getting her way, decided to square off with my Lovely little Italian Wife, she might not have expected a retaliatory strike to rival Operation Shock and Awe.

Starting off by explaining how people attending these kinds of functions usually don't stand in front of each other, especially in front of children, my Lovely Wife decided to go for the big finish by adding -- "That's how we do things in America!"

There are times when everything seems to slow down and you realize just how much data you're capable of processing in a very short span of time.

I remember with great clarity the "Oh my God" sensation in the pit of my stomach and how it mixed quite uneasily with my desire to burst out laughing at what I thought was the most deservedly, harshly, caustically funny thing I had heard all year. I remember the "she didn't really say that" look on my brother's face as his eyes popped open. And I remember the instantaneous rushing of blood to every surface of Helga's face and the complete draining of color from her husband's as he took a quick step away from his wife.

Perhaps realizing that her husband would not be backing her up, Helga simply sputtered that she was an American, too. Not content to leave a wounded animal writhing in pain, my Lovely Wife went for the finishing blow by saying, "Then act like it!"

Upon reflection, I am appreciative that the woman's husband was by degrees more spineless than I, and that the woman herself backed down like most schoolyard bullies do when someone stands up to them.

Do I think Helga deserved what she got? You betcha.

Do I love my feisty little Lovely Wife? Hell, yes.



© Mark Feggeler