Finger Prints on the Font part 2

As a child growing up in the church I do not remember joy or laughter as something experienced in the sanctuary, and for that matter children of my era were given the status of silent observer. I recall my mother's long strong fingers chomping down on my leg, her squeeze just above my knee silenced any noise I might make or think about making. She was only doing what was expected of her as a parent. My duty was to sit and listen and obey as if I were a graduate student taking notes at a lecture or a highly cultured patron of the arts watching an intricate ballet. I was neither.

I was a young child filled with imagination and questions. Everything in my being longed to know, touch, taste, see and move. I wanted to be an active part of the family. Even as a young boy I was intelligent enough to understand the words spoken in liturgy. Standing at the table, belonging to the Lord, our minister would raise his arms in the air and say, "All are invited to come and partake in this holy meal." Then a suited army of Elders, two by two, marched down the middle aisle with military precision to distribute the trays to the congregation. One by one a tray of bread or juice was passed. One by one each person was served. One by one each person had the priviledge of serving, everyone that is but children like me. When it was my turn to receive a tray it was quickly handed over my head like a hot potatoe, out of my reach in fear that I might cause a spill or worse yet not properly recieve the gifts of God.

My famly sat in the pew below the third hanging light on the right side of the aisle in front of the large wooden pulpit. From this location my father did not have to turn his head to see the pastor when he preached. Though we sat in the same place week after week the pew behind us did not have regular dwellers. One Sunday a large family sat behind us....