CHAPTER 3Strange, isn't it, how there are some happenings in our lives that stand out in memory so clearly, as if they took place a matter of weeks ago. That is how I feel about the stories I will now share with you. All connected to 'religion.'
As a child, I believed that everything had a consciousness. I still believe that... but I look at it in a much differently now. I believed that the pictures of Jesus that graced our big, two story house -- actually contained a divine consciousness and that Jesus was watching me. He was still, however, a 'good guy' and so that didn't bother me too much. We also had the original edition of the book "Dante's Inferno" of The Divine Comedy. It contained very graphic drawings depicting the various hells. They were horrible.
Our 'big family Bible' rested on its own table in the back room next to the living room. Later in life I would laugh so hard watching an episode from All In The Family in which Archie discovered someone put some little object atop the Bible!! (most likely Meathead :) Archie yelled loud and long about it. The same strict rule applied in our house. No one could put any object on top of the big Bible! This made my imagination run wild, of course...and I would place something on the Bible, then run to the next room and hide to see 'if something would happen.' It didn't. But I'm sure God was watching and keeping score. Bad girl.
I became well acquainted with superstition. Sometimes things 'came true'...Like a bird flying against one's window screen meant death was eminent...and sure enough...it would happen.
My mother told me never to eat bread during a thunder storm...God might strike me with lightening. Naturally!--I had to test this out, too. During a particularly loud and noisy thunder storm, I took a piece of bread and quickly ran into my mother's bedroom closet...hiding way in the back (it was a huge slanting closet) I ate the bread, wondering what would happen to me. The heat and stuffiness of the closet prompted me to emerge...carefully...but I would jump at every sound of even the distant thunder. God spared my life...evidently. I was wisely learning not to tell my mother of some of my 'trial runs.'
I loved going to the grocery store. Got me out of the house. I felt so free during those walks. I was standing in line, waiting to pay Mrs. Banman for the items, when I overheard her telling a small child of 3 or 4, (I was 9 or 10 at the time) why people in Africa were black. Mrs. Banman said, in a rather hushed tone, that the reason they were black is because they lived in sin. I thought maybe the their main sin, according to the pictures in the National Geographic magazines, was not wearing enough clothing.
One rather nice thing she told me one day, looking up at the sky when I was about to leave store....was about the clouds... The clouds were patterned in rows made up of many little clouds. She said that reminded her of Moses leading the children of Israel to the Promised Land. That was good. I liked that. To this day, I think of her and Moses when I see that kind of cloud formation.
Shortly after my Confirmation I had one of the most beautiful dreams ever. I dreamt I was sitting on the top step of the kitchen porch, all alone, when Jesus came walking down out of the clouds, looking very kind. I kept staring in absolute wonder. As he approached me, he extended his hand and said "Come, Betty Ann"... I took his hand. He led me towards this huge, shining silver castle like structure in the sky. It was all so warm and beautiful. I liked the feel of walking on the soft clouds. I can't tell you how often the remembrance of that dream gave me a feeling of hope and comfort.
I woke up, very startled from this dream, sat straight up in bed, mainly wondering if I was dead! Had I died and actually gone to Heaven? It took me a couple of minutes to realize that I was alive, in my body... The whole thing was so enchanting, so beautiful. I sat up in bed til morning, unable to lie back down and go to sleep. That was one...in fact, my only ...really good religious experience during my early years, for which I was so grateful.
It was my duty to pray before every meal. I always prayed in German...the way I had been taught. Thing is...I had NO idea what I was verbalizing. Later on I figured it out. I also had to say my prayers before I went upstairs to bed. I really did NOT like "Now I lay be down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, If I should DIE before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take." This, of course, taught me to be afraid to go to sleep. My nighttime prayers also included having to ask God to forgive me for all my sins that day and to make me a good girl--and to bless my parents. I was having to constantly pray for forgiveness of "my sins" even though I wasn't always sure what I had 'done wrong.' So there was no doubt I was 'sinful.' The nice part after prayers, was I always blew a kiss to both sets of grandparents up to heaven-- in the direction of where their houses were. I liked that. That was nice. That made me feel good.
I spent nearly all my childhood and teen years being terrified of the dark...this is no exaggeration. I kept a little cross under my pillow and prayed earnestly for protection against--what--I am not sure...but something had to be there. There was NO WAY my mother would allow me to have a night light... Sometimes I was so afraid it was hard for me to breathe. Sometimes I would risk getting scolded in the morning, and crept quietly down the stairs to sleep on the chaise lounge...even in the winter time with no blankets. If the creaky steps gave me away...I was sent straight back upstairs. I was always relieved to find I was alive and well in the mornings.
A great, but somewhat embarrassing-at-the-time experience with prayer was the first time I remember being invited over to the Reddicks for supper. They were a nice family. Mr. Reddick drove the milk truck. Dorothy was my age and one of my very best friends. I remember especially that Mrs.Reddick always smiled a lot....when supper was ready, we all gathered around the table, and I sat down...the ONLY one to sit down...and was told, nicely, that we stood for the prayer...I wasn't used to people saying mealtime prayers using their own words, either. No body was mad at me for sitting down. That was impressed me. I think God liked that family very much. I know I did. I can't remember a thing about the prayer, but the chicken noodle soup was SO good.
My dear Daddy bought this big prayer book...sometime during my early high school years. We started a routine of reading the evening prayers as he and Mama and I sat in the living room. I eventually memorized those prayers...even though they were long. After the prayer, I would always play "Sweet Hour of Prayer" on the piano. My father was a true spiritual seeker. I know he internally struggled a lot. He was such a good man...but I'm not sure he thought so... no more than I thought that I was 'good' either. Even though I was adopted, my father and I were so much alike.
Whenever someone died, it took forever to finally get them buried. There were four separate services: beginning in the person's home (yes, casket and all), then in the funeral parlor, next at the church, and then finally at the cemetery. There were at least Four Funerals to every Wedding in Lehigh!...opposite the popular movie. Everybody made such a big deal about the casket and 'how natural the person looked.' Ha! To this day I can't stand the sight of quilted satin...which always lined the caskets.
Ever hear Bill Cosby's stand up routine on that? He totally captured it. "Looks just like he's sleeping." "Look how natural she looks." "Look at that nice smile." Oh yeah? Right! Try really dead looking and UNnatural with a pound of make up. We'd always sing "Asleep in Jesus" during a funeral service. I never understood that. And then the old thing about "The dead will rise again"...like what kind of a chance did they have, six foot under, in a sealed coffin to 'rise again'? No one could ever answer my persistent questions about that situation.
One night I had a horrible nightmare that I was buried in the same casket with my Sunday School teacher. I came back alive and was yelling and crying, trying to get out of the casket. When I woke up, I was so scared. Needing to relate this nightmare, my mother advised me to "Go back upstairs and go to sleep...it's just a dream." Sure. OK. You betcha.
Cremation was nearly unheard of. Some talked of it as a 'sin.' How were those bodies going to rise from the dead on Judgment Day. I couldn't conjure up a picture of that even with my wild imagination! Totally beyond me. The inevitable long line 'waiting to be judged by God'...often prompted me to rehearse some words that I hoped might sound good to God and he would go a bit easier on me.. No court appointed attorneys up there!
Cemeteries, however, fascinated me. I loved Decoration Day. I would make SO many little bouquets of flowers to place on graves. It made me feel good to do this. I especially was drawn to a doctor's grave. My father (and some others) was sure he was murdered by a couple of brothers in Lehigh because their sister had died during surgery. They made it look like a suicide. Since he was a 'suicide' he couldn't be buried near the 'good Christian folk' but was stuck way in the far north corner of the cemetery. No headstone. Only an iron fence around his grave. I always made sure he had flowers. I felt so sorry for him.
One of the most romantic things, to me, were the graves of my Uncle David (Daddy's brother) who was accidently shot by his future brother in law... and that of Julia Herbel...his fiance...who simply pined away and died a year later. They were buried side by side and their tall monolith type tombstones leaned towards each other. To me that was such a romantic tradgedy. I always placed identical bouquets on their graves.
Visiting in the cemeteries on Decoration Day was fun. Strangely enough, it was a bit like the Day of the Dead in Mexico, when people gather to celebrate and be happy about the lives of their loved ones who had gone on. That really makes a lot more sense. Decoration Day in the cemetery was a lot more fun than the services in church!
Besides Mennonites and Lutherans, our surrounding communities had what was called "Holdermans"... an offshoot of the Quakers. Those people seemed so perfect. They never did anything wrong. They never said anything wrong. They were sort of like smiling zombies that just sort of floated around, being perfect. They wore those little black caps, VERY plain clothing with no trim.
Mary Ellen Koehn was a Freshman when I was a Sophomore. I was so impressed with her radiant goodness. Since it would be awhile before I could become a saved Catholic I thought I'd give Mary Ellen's 'way of being' a good go. She had a brother named Vernon. He always wore blue overalls and smiled a lot.
I started in to act as much like Mary Ellen as I possibly could. Hmm...I wonder if my folks would consider getting a horse and buggy and getting rid of our fancy car? Probably not. Anyway, my actions and speech patterns changed drastically. I tried being as PURE as I possibly could. At home, too. My mother just sort of pawned it off to more of my 'hopeless case' persona... but even my father said, "What's wrong with you...why are you acting so strange?" I just said I was trying to be 'really good' ... he just shook his head. Probably struck him funny. During that time I didn't even wear lipstick! I wondered if God was taking note.
I always felt so extremely different from everyone. And not just because I was adopted. Beings I was adopted, however, I was definately thought by many of as being 'less than' others. "You don't know what kind of blood she has in her." In highschool I was told by two boys that their parents told me they couldn't date me because I was adopted so I couldn't be trusted. To some people, I might have well have been black. I know all about prejudice.
I envied my friends and classmates for their simple acceptance of 'the way things were.' They never seemed to question anything about God or the things they were taught. They seemed so at ease with everything. I remember trying hard to find the right words in asking Dorothy and Ethel (we were all 9 years old at the time) if they ever went through these 'soul struggles'...but they both just looked at me.
Ethel lived catacorned across the street from me. Another really nice family. They had some kind of strange religion. They didn't go to church. These people would come over to their house and they would sit around and read and talk. Ethel couldn't explain it to me. I was invited to attend once. I remember sitting on their sofa between Ethel and Donna. I couldn't figure any of it out. I'm not even too sure if English was spoken...it could have been German. They were happy people, though.
To me, 'happy' as a family was not commonplace. My dear Aunt Eva was an angel in my life...of this I have no doubt. She was always SO kind of me. She was always smiling. She would sometimes sing as she walked from her home (down the alley from house) to the grocery store (we called 'downtown.') All of my cousins from Aunt Eva and Uncle Fred were so nice. I was in awe of AnnaMarie. Harvey and Kathleen were like a brother and sister to me. Once, when I was only 6, I took a few marbles from my cousin Harvey's big glass chest of marbles. Walking home my mother knew I was hiding them and became very angry with me. We turned right around and marched back to Aunt Eva's house where I had to apologize and confess. I felt scared and just awful. I knew Aunt Eva felt sorry for me and she weakly attempted to defend me and say it was 'alright'...She even said I could keep those 4 marbles, but my mother said NO, it was stealing and that was a sin. I will never forget the look of compassion on Aunt Eva's face. Never. I cry even now, as I write this, remembering how good and kind she always was to me.
Thankfully, we do remember those kindnesses.
