My dad, Neil Storms, was the piano player at the First
Baptist Church of South Holland. He played the glossy black grand piano wedged
into the front left corner near the pulpit. When he was not at the piano, my
dad always sat in the first pew.
At First Baptist, no one else sat in the front row, except
for the organist, who also sat in the front pew on the right side. The first
three pews were always empty. Baptists are known for
sitting in the back of the church. Our church sanctuary was one long
rectangular room with an unfashionable suspended ceiling. On each side of the auditorium were
long pews upholstered in nubby red fabric. The carpet was also red, and the church
walls were covered in brown paneling.
The red pews and carpet, which looked rather festive at
Christmastime, was often a problem for other occasions. I knew of many brides
who moved their wedding ceremonies to another church because the red theme
clashed with their chosen colors. The piano and organ resided on either side of
the front platform. Behind the pulpit and the platform was a small three-rowed
choir loft. Behind that was what we call the “baptismal.”
Baptists believe in adult baptism, where you are dunked or
immersed into a tub of water by the pastor as a testimony of your faith and
commitment to Jesus. Our baptismal (which looked like a tall hot tub
room) was located up front where it could easily be viewed. When someone was
baptized, they would flip on the light in that room and the pastor would enter
the baptismal in wading boots and a white choir robe to begin the ceremony.
Although there was nothing too out of the ordinary about our
sanctuary, there was one major difference between our Baptist church and others
I’ve visited. My dad played piano like no other Baptist musician I knew. The
tiled floor underneath the piano was literally indented a good inch down from
his foot, from when my dad would tap out a beat to our favorite old hymns. A
mild-mannered junior high school social studies teacher during the week, on
Sundays my dad became the Jerry Lee Lewis of the Baptists.
As a college student, Dad had played in an early rock and
roll band called Freddy and the Wildcats. He transferred that same sense of rhythm
to Amazing Grace and Blest Be the Tie that Binds. At my church,
we sang every hymn up-tempo and with great rhythm and syncopation. One time,
during a particularly rousing rendition of Victory in Jesus, Dad had the
entire congregation on their feet – almost like we were Pentecostals.
My mom, my brother and sister, and I sat two-thirds of the
way back, also on the left side of the church. That was our regular spot. We
always sat in the same place, just in front of the high school group, and just
behind Mr.and Mrs. Hodges, who were always surrounded by a troop of
squirmy grandkids.
I grew up in that Baptist church--I was there, literally,
all the time. No exaggeration. We would typically arrive at 9 am on Sunday
mornings and were among the last people to leave, about 12:30 pm. We’d return
again for Sunday evening service from 5:30 until 7 pm. Every Wednesday evening was
family night with kid’s Bible clubs and adult prayer meeting. Thursday night
was choir rehearsal. Friday night was youth group. We were there so much,
my parents had their own set of keys.
The kids I went to church with had grown up with me.
Janet and Rick and Bev and Scott and Julie. We knew each other as babies, as Sunday
School classmates, and as high schoolers. We had spent hours together in the
church nursery. We had eaten from the same box of animal crackers. We had
played with the same toys.
My mom and dad were a part of a church group called the “new
marrieds”: Jan and Neil (my parents), Chuck and Ruelene, Dick and Marge, Harold
and Bev. They prayed together, played together, and then had babies together. I
knew some of my friend’s parents almost as well as I knew my own. They were as
much a part of the church as the building itself. My family made church
attendance a priority. We even attended strange churches when were out of town
on vacation.
We would pile into one of our early 70s station wagons, the
kind with the wood paneling on the sides and leave the house promptly at 9 am
for the 10 minute drive to church.
We arrived at church just after the pastor. Dad always had
to be there early to practice his piano accompaniment for the day’s service.
Mom would make her way up to the nursery or Sunday school classroom to prepare
for the kids. I remember running back and forth in the still darkened hallways,
waiting for everyone to arrive. I liked the church in those early hours - it seemed
cooler, quieter, a place waiting to come alive.
9:30 am was Sunday School for everyone from babies to
adults. We met in every corner of the church. Since there were not enough
rooms, we made spaces in the cement basement with giant rolling wooden partitions.
The adults met in the sanctuary.
When Sunday School ended, we would head
upstairs to the foyer, and get ready for church. Dad would be busy, practicing
with the church choir, so I would find mom. Gathering all of our Sunday School
material, and colleting my sister from the nursery, we would make our way
down to our favorite sitting spot.
There was always a lot of visiting. Before services, the
church sanctuary would be humming with hellos, hugs, and whispered news: who
was sick, who had a baby, what was planned for the week, who was in the
hospital.
The Baptist church viewed itself as one large family. From
the nursery to the grave, we were enfolded into one another as one cohesive
unit. Like family, we didn’t always get along. Like family, there were those
strange odd members who you weren’t quite sure about.
Yet, we hung together.
Through thick and thin we cared about each other and really, really knew each
other. I felt as at home in that Baptist cinderblock church as I did in any
place I ever lived.
It was not only my church, it was truly my home.
Comments