This past week I have been remembering the “church ladies” who helped to form me. This was prompted by a video my friend Arn sent, called “Church Ladies”. It was full of images from the South of the women who shaped a sense of love and ministry. It was both very funny and poignant. Recently I heard a snarky comment from someone who never lived in the 50’s and 60’s, making fun of the church of that era. The implication is that whatever we call church now is an improvement on their misconceptions and stereotypes.
I will try not to stray too far into the realm of ecclesiastical foibles, and share a story of unconditional love that moves beyond church walls and Sunday School classes.
When I was nine years old my parents told us we were going to look for a new church. The explanation was that they needed a church that had a youth program. I was in the fourth grade and mom (which I later found out) had recovered from postpartum psychosis. This condition wrecked havoc on her for three years. I can remember exactly how it felt pulling up in front of this big church in downtown Pueblo. Standing out there greeting the kids showing up in car after car was a grandma type lady. She had blue hair, red rouge, and exposed ‘jiggly arms’. My parents introduced me as a new kid who was coming to Junior Fellowship. The next thing I knew I was engulfed in those arms and receiving a hug and hearing those words. “My name is Alta Loveland and I just love everybody”. She did not disappoint. By my first night there I belonged. Alta gave the new kids a ride home in her 23 ft long Chrysler Imperial. Five of us piled into the the Land Cruiser and Mrs. Loveland said, “Now we won’t do this every night but I am taking you new kids to Dairy Queen”.
She and her husband John did not have children so the 100 + kids at the church were theirs. She was a realtor and she had hearts 💕 on her logo. “Loveland Realty”. She made church fun and safe. Behold the classic “church lady” who lived her faith and it smelled like perfume.
This past Friday I went back to the church of my childhood to share a memorial service. Only a remnant of the folks I remembered growing up there, and later serving as their Associate Minister from 1981–86, were there. The first thing I did when we arrived was journey down the long hall to the fellowship hall where the reception was being prepared. The gal heading it up was in high school when the nine year—old Mark showed up. I was greeted with the warmest smile and welcome. Soon a few folk gathered to enjoy each other before the service. I looked at her before we headed out and said, “Judy, we have become our parents”. She laughed and replied, “Boy, have we ever”.
I hesitate to make a list knowing I will forget many but here are the names of my Church Lady Honor Roll— Roxie, Myrtle Mae, Alta, Zelma, Marge, Lolita, Oleta, Ada Beth, Pat (momma), Wilma Faye, Helen, Shirley, Jo, Ruthie, Lois, Ruby Lee, Margret, Jean, LaVonne, Kay, Kaye, Gerre, Phyllis, Ruthie, Ruby, Eileen, Lois, Gretchen, and on and on. I am sure others will come to mind, but this is the best I can do right now.
I had the privilege of sharing in Alta Loveland’s service. A pastor friend, John Nesby, told me “Mark we preach our own funeral”. Somehow if and when I pass to the place that knows no tears, I truly expect to be greeted in the bosom (and I mean that literally) of the Welcome Committe, and it will smell like Avon.
Onward and Upward,
Mark
Lyfting Me Up 