It was a store-bought dress. I don’t know how I knew that at such a young age.
The little dark-eyed girl's favorite Sunday dress was a pale aqua dotted swiss with a smocked bodice and short ruffled sleeves, like fairy wings with white lace on the edges. She felt like a butterfly when she wore it, and every week in the old Presbyterian Church in downtown Memphis, someone always stopped her mother or father to comment on how beautiful she looked. Her mother would smile down at her, sometimes placing her white gloved hand on the top of her head gently, or reaching out to touch her if her father was holding her in his arms. The little girl thought she had the most beautiful mother anywhere.
The chapel was large with three sections and it sloped down toward the front. The little girl, her parents, and her older brother and sister always sat in the same place, the right side section, fifth row from the front. The little girl liked this spot because whether she was sitting or standing, she could see all the beautiful stained glass windows--the tall elegant ones in the front above the altar, and the more simple but still pretty ones on each side of the big room. She never got tired of looking at the blues and reds and yellows, the intricate designs and the way light through the glass made patterns on the opposite walls. She especially liked the stained glass window of Jesus with a kind look on his face, holding a little lamb, and when the sun was in the right place in the sky, it shined through the stained glass, lighting up Jesus in a way that made people stop and stare.
The little girl thought that the tall, dark benches they sat on every week always smelled like lemons and the same smell that came from the crack between the cushions of her grandmother's couch. She had to stand up to see over the backs of the benches, and her mother let her do this because she was a quiet child, obedient and sweet. The big round woman sitting on the row behind the little girl's family always raised her eyebrows and held out her large wiggling fingers to invite the little girl to sit on her ample lap. The little girl was rather shy and she'd smile and look away, but she was fascinated with the strings of shiny round beads hanging around the woman’s neck and down the front of her clothes, so she'd look at her again when she thought the woman wasn't looking at her.
There were many colorful hats in the congregation too, soft pink or green ones with little nets that hung down over the women's foreheads, or hats with beautiful flowers on the front or back. The little girl thought the hats were very pretty and she’d spend time looking, comparing one hat to the next. She thought some hats looked funny, especially the ones with feathers sticking up, but she always loved the tight simple little hats her mother wore that matched her dresses perfectly.
About the time that the little girl began to grow bored, the little girl's mother would say, "Look! There's your daddy!" while one by one, the choir members came through a special door in the corner behind the pulpit. It was a small round door like the one in a fairy tale. It opened in the wall, and many of the men had to duck to walk through it. The little girl's father was rather tall and she thought he looked so handsome standing in the back row of the choir in his long blue robe. One time she waved and said, "Hi Daddy!" real loud. Her father laughed, but her mother whispered in her ear that she had to be quiet in church. The little girl noticed that her father would always smile at her, but once the music began, he put on his serious face and watched the choir director. He sang with his mouth open wide like an egg and little lines in his forehead. Then the choir members would go back through the little door and after a few minutes, the little girl's father would appear next to her in his dark suit. Then the minister would stand up, walk to the pulpit and hold on to it with both hands. When he began speaking, the little girl’s mother and father would sit up straight and encourage her to listen. But the little girl didn't understand all of the minister’s big words and she would soon lose interest.
Sometime later, another man would walk down the aisle with a large silver plate in his hands. The little girl knew that people put money in the plate and sometimes the little girl would watch her father reach in his pocket and give a few coins to her older brother or sister, who put them in the plate just like a grown-up. When her father passed the plate across her to her mother, the little girl would look quickly to see the shiny nickels and dimes. She always wanted to play with the tray and its contents, but this was not allowed. So she would stand up again and watch the plate going from hand to hand, down the rows, around the room, and listen to the little plinking sounds as the coins were dropped.
After awhile, the little girl would fall asleep leaning against one of her parents with the sound of her father's warm, rich voice and her mother's sweet clear soprano singing: "All creatures of our God and King, lift up your voice and with us sing, Alleluia! Alleluia..." Later, the little girl would wake up for just a moment, long enough to know that someone, usually her dad, was carrying her out to the car to go home where a delicious Sunday dinner was waiting.
