To a boy the sound of a church bell Sunday morning triggers but one thought: Thank God. It's time to leave.
When you're a boy, going to church is about as appealing as hopscotch or pink leotards. Boys are part Roman candle, part spinning top. If the good Lord had intended them to sit still for 60 minutes, he wouldn't have given them the composure of a hummingbird or the attention span of clay.
I didn't so much like going to church as a boy. But I didn't loathe it, either. It was something that had to be done – like bathing.
In a lot of ways, Sunday mornings at Our Savior's Lutheran Church
On those mornings when it was only us, he would have a hymnal, and I would have a hymnal, and he would sing, and I would sing although neither of us sang loud. His, you could say, was a quiet conviction. And so then was mine.
Still, whether it was all six of us in the pew at Our Savior's or only my dad and me, I was forever anticipating the sound of its bell signaling the end of the service, and if some morning Pastor Blegen had been exalting the power of prayer or the wonder and magnificence of a joy-filled heart, once I heard that bell, faint at first and then heavy and deep, I was living proof of everything he said.
I was reminded of all this the other day when I heard a church bell ringing while walking the dog. Lately, walking the dog is how I've been spending Sunday mornings. Now before you begin to fret for my soul, let me assure you I am not suffering a sudden loss of faith. Nor am I disenchanted in how religion is practiced today and have convinced the dog to join me in crusading against it.
I like church. It affords reflection, and scarce places in life do. I also like my particular church (Lutheran, still, though no longer Our Savior's). It has old people. I know that sounds strange, but not all churches do.
The sight of old people at church gives me comfort. In the grind between sin and salvation, I find their determination to keep plugging away encouraging. Plus, old people seldom are in a hurry, and on Sunday mornings, neither am I.
I like to think of my infrequent – some might say miserable – attendance at church recently as a sabbatical. But you know what they say: Out of sight is out of mind. So I have enlisted in the meantime an emissary whose church-going habits – like all her habits – are far better than my own to say a good word on my behalf while she is listening to the sermon perhaps or waiting for the offering plate to be passed.
She tells me, of course, that it doesn't work that way, that one cannot pray by proxy, that appeals to God cannot be forwarded like e-mail. If I expect him to hear me, she says, the voice ought to be mine.
When I tell her I do talk to God while she is at church and I'm walking the dog, she looks at me like she does when I track in mud or use up all the hot water before she has had a chance to take a shower.
It is true, though. God often crosses my mind when I'm out there trying to keep the dog and me from looking like a couple of popcorn balls. Typically what I say to him takes the form of a question:
"January is the devil's doing, isn't it?
"Sometimes I feel like giving up. How 'bout you?"
"Did you make all dogs stubborn or just this one?"
"When she said, 'I do,' was that a miracle or just crazy luck?"
"Is it true that what goes around comes around, because if it is ...?"
"Are kidney stones anything like hell?"
"Would you say South Dakota
"You forgive. Why don't I?"
"Other than reading to a child, is there anything better than jigging for walleyes?"
"What is it you want me to do?"
After I finish walking the dog, I make blueberry pancakes for when she gets home. If I join her at church, I say as I pour the batter onto the pan, there won't be anyone to make the pancakes.
At this she just shakes her head.
I suspect she's not the only one.