Fathermothergod: My Journey Out of Christian Science Read Online Free PDF Page A

from Scheherazade too. Aunt Kay is wearing a silk blouse, a skirt, and patent leather boots and is chewing on a piece of gum. (I wonder what Mom thinks about that!) Aunt Helen is wrapped in a luxurious mink coat, which I’d like to touch except for the fact that it’s a dead animal. She always leaves her coat and gloves on for the entire Christmas Eve service. Little Annie Johnson is wearing a green silk taffeta dress and a huge matching bow in her hair. She is sitting on Uncle Jack’s lap now. Poor Teddy. He is sitting directly behind Uncle Jack and Annie. What with Uncle Jack’s size, and Annie’s hair bow, Teddy won’t be able to see a thing.
    Mount Olivet has thousands of members. I know why. It has an adult choir, a teen choir, a children’s choir, and a cherub choir, and youth groups that go on camping trips. At First Church of Christ, Scientist, in Excelsior, Minnesota, we have none of these things. We just have a boring soloist. We don’t have candles or kneeling benches either. I would love to kneel down and pretend to pray like a Lutheran right now, but I think Mom and Dad might feel betrayed.
    Grandma keeps turning around, searching for the Bowmans. She looks so pretty in her ruby red pantsuit with the beautiful corsage that Uncle Bear pinned on her lapel as we were walking in.
    What I don’t understand is why Grandma is Lutheran, when nobody else in our family is. We Ewings are Christian Scientists, the Bowmans are Episcopalians, I don’t know what Uncle Jack and Aunt Helen are—maybe they go to Wayzata Community Church?—and Aunt Kay told me when I was in second grade that she is agnostic but used to be an atheist. I feel sort of sorry for Grandma that nobody stayed Lutheran. I would switch just to be in one of the choirs.
    The sanctuary is filled with hundreds of poinsettias, the ones with the dark red leaves, and everywhere I look I see even more glowing candle flames than plants. This is what a church is supposed to look like at Christmas.
    The service starts, and still the Bowmans are nowhere to be found. This would be a lot less painful with Mimi here, fun even, playing hangman or passing each other notes. Last year she scribbled on the collection envelope “Did you know that so-and-so’s mom got a boob job instead of going to her Smith reunion???” We got snickering so loudly that Mom and Aunt Mary gave us both the evil eye. Now, Smith reunion, or just plain Smith, is code for boob job. As in, “Did so-and-so go to Smith?” Or “Gee, I think I may go to Smith after high school!”
    My favorite part of the candlelight service at Mount Olivet is the cherub choir, the way they all toddle up the center aisle in their little choir robes, some of them singing, a few of them sobbing, most of them looking out into the sea of faces for their parents. After they’re done with “Silent Night,” I just drift off, thinking about what we’ll get for Christmas, and where Mom and Dad have hidden all the presents.
    The service is over. Grandma wants us to stand in the long line to shake hands with Pastor Youngdahl
—young
Pastor Youngdahl. His father, the older Pastor Youngdahl, was the minister here when Mom was little. It’s hard to believe that this Pastor Youngdahl, in his beautiful vestments with the embroidered wide scarf draped elegantly over his shoulders, used to wear a leather jacket and ride a motorcycle, but that’s what Mom says.
    “… and this is my fifth granddaughter, Lucia,” Grandma says proudly, nudging me toward him. I stick out my hand.
    Pastor Youngdahl smiles at Grandma, and nods to Mom and Dad, as though they have done something extraordinary by producing me. I shake his hand and gaze up. He is almost as tall as Uncle Jack. He cups my hand in both of his, and for some reason a line from the Twenty-third Psalm pops into my head.
    Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over
.
     
    The robe, the warm hands, and a smile that seems genuinely concerned for his flock