In the deep recesses of my mind, tucked away in a well-protected crevasse is Heartland. Memories of my boyhood reside there. It is a place where a boy’s picturesque view of his world makes time stand still. I do not often go there, but when I do a warm memory always welcomes me. Let’s go there now. A memory of my boyhood is waiting for us.
It is Sunday morning in Corydon Iowa. The bells atop the United Methodist Church are sending forth one final plea for townsfolk to come worship. No one comes forth. All now occupy a church pew. They came earlier.
Patrick and I stand in the narthex. White cottas over black cassocks adorn us. Our hands hold long two-pronged poles. On each, in one prong there is a taper that we use to light the altar candles. When the press of the organist’s fingers on the organ’s keys let loose a mighty flourish, the Congregants stand, and then sing.Patrick and I step into the nave. As we head down the aisle toward the altar, the choir follows us—two columns, one column behind him, and one behind me. In unison, right left, we step forward. Each step we take, every choir member replicates. As we proceed, behind us, two by two the choir members enter the nave. Two by two they progress down the aisle. With each new couple entering the nave, the volume of singing increases slightly.Midway to the altar, I glimpse at the Wayne Dietz family. Next to them are the Millers, Carolyn and Kenneth Willey, and the Frizzells. Over there is my teacher, Mrs. Nelson, her husband Lloyd, and son Lloyd Jr. Up ahead, are Pearl McMurray, Corydon’s mayor, and Bennie Hughes, editor of the Times Republican. Mrs. Bains, with no one near her, stands alone. Even though the sanctuary is full, and everyone is singing, their energy is low.As Patrick and I go up the steps to the altar, the choir members behind Patrick proceed to the choir loft left of the altar. Those behind me go to the one on the right. Patrick and I go forward to the altar.
At the altar, Patrick and I bow to each other, then bow to the cross, and then lights the candles on the altar. Then, pivoting crisply, Patrick turns to the left and I to the right. In tight sequence, we light each candle in our respective candelabra array.
As we light the candles, choir members continue to enter the nave, two by two, and march down the aisle. With the entry of each new pair, the volume of singing increases a wee bit, however, the passion remains low.
Candles lit, Patrick and I go stand by our seats near the lectern. There I start to sing. Our collective offering to God lacks oomph. As the hymn drags on, I look around. Mom and Pamela are in the front pew. Mom gives up a wink, and Pamela flashes a big-sister smile. They and I, listening to the pitiful singing, know what comes next.
I watch the last choir-couple enter the nave. Behind them, Reverend Mark E. Weston steps into the entryway. Wavy black hair, combed back, dressed in a black robe with purple piping, holding a hymnal in his right hand and a bible under left arm Reverend Weston is the epitome of an evangelist. I see him lick his lips, inhale deeply, wait for a note, and then start singing.
Standing in the entryway, his voice is steady, strong, and pure. His volume is low. Upon entering the nave it slowly rises. As it does, the beat of the music picks up. The organist plays faster. The congregants stand straighter, dig deeper, and sing louder.Midway to the altar, the Reverend’s voice is strong, pure, and full on. The congregants and organist can barely keep up. I see him nod to the mayor, smile at my teacher, and reach out and touch Mrs. Bains. When at the last pew, he pauses to kiss my mom. At the steps to the altar, the entire congregation is feeling God’s spirit.
After bowing to God at the altar, the Reverend, heads to the lectern. When he comes by me, he stops, bends down, and says, “Mark Edward, you can do this.” To which I reply, “Yes Dad, I can.”
On this trip to Heartland, a memory of a Sunday morning long ago awaits my arrival. It is about a time my father used his powers of attraction to fill a church with townsfolk seeking sustenance and salvation. How his God-given talents met their needs, lifted their voices, and touched their souls. The memory reminds me that personal power is for helping, not harming, and for serving others not self.
From the vantage point of the present, I now see how on that Sunday my father taught me how to inspire, motivate, and serve people. That his processional to the altar put me on a path of serving others, providing advice, and helping them press on when all seems lost. Along the path, I learned to be humble when in positions of power and to focus on the greater good rather than personal aspirations.
My father’s faith is within me. It is why I offer myself to the universe, and stand ready to share my gifts (which do not include singing) with whomever comes forth. I welcome them in his honor and do so with deep gratitude. Yes, Dad, I can. I am your son.
Note: This is the 23nd post in the Heartland Series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.