“Precious Memories, How They Linger…”: My First Church

Summer 1959.  Bill, Marge & Debbie Dykhuis; Mrs. Erickson (pastor’s wife) with baby; and Gordon, Harriet & Trish Short.  Pastor Erickson presiding over the babies’ dedications at St. Vincent EFC

I remember vividly being a child attending services at the St. Vincent Evangelical Free Church.  I remember a small, cozy sanctuary, with tiled ceilings, drop lights with opaque fixtures.  I remember hard wood pews (swinging little short legs, accidentally too hard and kicking the pew in front of me, then on purpose, then getting taken outside for a “talk”), and humble but inspiring communion tables at the center front, always supplied with fresh flowers by the ladies of the church on a rotational basis.  The candles, the offering plates with their red velvet lining.  The offering plates that as they passed, as you passed them along, made you feel obligated to give something.  Paper was always better than coins.  Paper meant a substantial donation, something you could feel proud of, and you could feel others would notice and you felt better for it.  Pride wasn't the goal, but it was often felt and thought of by more than a few, sitting in those pews.  

Families had their places, their pews.  We didn't sell pews as some churches did, but it was an unspoken assumption where families would sit.  So-and-so's family always sat on the left, by the aisle, seven rows back.  This family always sat on the right and towards the middle, on the third pew back on the right side of the church.  They were an important family for our church, the family that gave the most, and thus it was logical they sat near the front.  Other families that could not give as much, or felt a bit unwelcome but still felt strongly about attending church, sat further back, and slipped out first after the service, avoiding having to talk to others in the congregation.  

There were the women and men who worked tirelessly, being part of the Ladies' Aid, the Deacons, the Ushers.  Or they taught Sunday School, Vacation Bible School, produced/printed up the weekly bulletins, or led prayers at services.  Others who were musically-inclined, did special numbers, or played the organ or piano to accompany choirs, singers, or for the congregation as they sang the old hymns.  Hymns that rang out each Sunday morning and night, and Wednesday night prayer service, strong and true.  We sang with gusto, and we sang in harmony, and sometimes just singing became a spine-tingling spiritual experience and tears would come to your eyes.  Although I haven’t attended that church since 1968 (or any church since 1994), I can still remember all the melodies and words to those precious, old hymns, and often sing them around my house to this day.  And of course the potluck dinners in the basement!

Then there was the after-service visiting.  I remember so well as a little girl, wanting to get over to my grandma's right away, because I knew there was a delicious meal waiting for us.  It was a tradition for my family, you see, to go to my grandpa and grandma's house every week for a Sunday dinner.  Dinner was not an evening meal where I grew up.  It was a midday meal, while Supper was eaten at night.  Lunch was used for things like school, but at home it was not.  Anyways, back to after-service-visiting…

It was also, unfortunately for myself as a little girl, a weekly tradition for the adults to visit after church services.  There were a few that kept it to a minimum, but pretty much everyone participated.  I often noticed that my family were one of the last ones to leave, much to my chagrin!

There was an unspoken etiquette to the visiting, too.  Like the Stages of the Cross, it began as the benediction ended and everyone rustled, grabbed their purses, children, or coats; then they stood, often in-place in the pews, sometimes sliding out to the aisles, and a few words were spoken.  Church business, asking after someone, catching up on news.  Then the inevitable journey through the crowd towards the minister, where you would tell him what you thought of the sermon, and he would shake your hand and wish you well.  

If it was winter, everyone would stop to get their coats and boots, which gave over to more visiting.  Men would go start cars to warm up a bit while ladies waited and often visited some more.  In summer, there was more visiting by everyone - besides what was already mentioned, there were the chats on the tall front steps, the lawn chats, the between car chats, and sometimes even the in-the-car-with-the-window-rolled down chats.  I’d often think to myself, “Will it ever end?” I’m joking (somewhat), because if I was fortunate, there might be one or two families with kids my age still there that I could play games with or at least hang out with, but often not. For us in-town families that didn’t have to travel anywhere, no need to hurry off.  

Last of all, there were the inevitable talkers that you couldn’t get away from; some seemed to have a talent for drifting when  you thought you had a way out and then suddenly they would speed up again, and it was like you were pinned down simply by the sound of their voice and couldn’t get away!  Thoughts of Grandma’s roast chicken and gravy tortured me as I stood there suffering. Of course, we always got to eat her amazing meals, which she kept warm no matter how long the visiting took.

I can see, in my mind’s eye, every corner of that little, humble church.  I remember sanctuary windows being opened by ushers during hot summer Sundays, to let welcome breezes in.  I remember fussing babies and toddlers taken by young parents to the nursery during services, a separate small room between the sanctuary and the foyer.  I remember the basement where there was a kitchen, but the main area was open, and used for Sunday school ‘rooms’ separated by curtains; during potluck meals, folder tables and chairs were set up in the same space for dining.  I remember what the old pulpit looks like, and the two flags on poles on either side, behind it, along the wall - the American flag, and the Christian flag.

It was both an exciting day, and a sad day, when our congregation had their last service in St. Vincent, and soon after, the first service in Pembina.  Time marches on, but I will never forget my first church where I began my journey of faith…