CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Church

Caught a station wagon out to the Methodist church and arrived a little late…Enjoyed it all tho, especially the choir (with civilians). I’m enclosing the program.—March 12, 1945

Church was the center of our lives when I was growing up. So you wouldn’t think it would come as a surprise that my father often referenced church in his letters and even sent home church bulletins. But it did surprise me. It just seemed that things like going to church wouldn’t have a place for someone in the middle of a war. But then again, church wasn’t just a religious experience in my family. It was so much more.

As a child, church was about waking up on any given Sunday and knowing the day was set apart. We girls were dressed in our Sunday best: dresses that tied into a big bow in the back, with matching socks or thick leotards depending on the weather. We wore black or white patent leather shoes depending on the season, and ribbons and bows in our blonde hair. Dad wore a suit, mom a dress. We sat in the fifth pew from the front, all lined up like dolls in a doll house.

I took comfort in the directions: stand up here, speak in unison there, and sing hymn 545 there. My favorite part of the ritual was reading along in the bulletin. I guess one could say I was bored and figured out something to do with my time. But I think that perhaps I am like my father that way. I like order. I like things lined up and making sense. I like to know what is coming next.

During wartime, the routine of dressing the part, singing the hymns, and hearing the word of God spoken by a man of God must have brought comfort to my father. There was comfort in predictability. But for him, it was even more than that. Our family is, in fact, linked to the founder of the Methodist church, John Wesley.

My great-great-great grandfather, Richard Bunt, was a dear friend to John Wesley in the late 1700s in England. Wesley even stayed in his home a number of times. After my Uncle Raymond traced the family tree and learned this, my father took over, and through a lot of correspondence, finally got a copy of a letter sent from Wesley to my great-great-great grandfather. A framed copy hung on the wall of my parents’ living room for years. So the linkage went way back, which was something of pride particularly for my father.

My parents were married in the Methodist church. They made their home in Walla Walla, Washington, just a few highway miles from Dayton. My father built our family home, one he still lives in today. He likes to say he built it “a board a paycheck.” The church, like our home, was the framework to which much more was added.

Church was not just a place to go on Sundays from eleven to noon; it was where our friends were. It was where longtime members had children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who were raised together. The Klickers and Clizers were just a few of the family names that spanned generations in Pioneer United Methodist church. We went to Sunday school together. We enjoyed potlucks together after church. The Klickers were farmers and donated strawberries for shortcake in the summer and Christmas trees in December to adorn the stage around the pulpit. When we got to junior high, there was an active youth group. When the annual youth-group snow retreat moved up on the calendar, the friends that I’d begged, bribed, and even guilt-tripped into going to church with me were suddenly very interested in it.

Our family never missed a Sunday. Even on our five-week vacations to the Oregon Coast, my parents found a church to attend on Sundays.

April 3, 1945

Dear Folks,

Went to Honolulu as usual Sunday—arrived early and got some breakfast and a haircut. Then went out to church and it was jammed with a crowd out on the side walks. I was pretty early too. So of all days—I never got to church at all on Easter Sunday. Got the usual steak later and wandered all over the library of Hawaii for a few hours.

A couple of new guys around, in and back out again (my tent) all of them left today but then draft was canceled so they came back for the night.

I’m behind fourteen letters now. To fourteen separate people—that’s what I get for taking a three day vacation. Got ’em from everyone in the country.

Love, Murray

Though the Methodist genes are on my father’s side, it is my mother who can often be found with a Bible in her lap. She joins Bible studies. She studies and applies ancient words written two thousand years ago to her everyday life. But my father is different. In fact, I don’t remember ever seeing my dad read the Bible.

“Have you ever read the whole Bible?” I asked one day.

“Well, of course,” he answered.

“Really?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve read the whole thing.”

“Wow,” I said. I was truly impressed. “The whole thing, huh? That’s impressive. I can’t even say that. I get hung up on the Old Testament—all those thees and thous and begots. So what’s your favorite book of the Bible?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. That was a long time ago,” he said. “I read it when I was in the service.”

“The whole thing?” I asked.

“Yep,” he said. “Cover to cover. So now I can say I’ve read the whole Bible.” He laughed.

Leave it to my methodical father, I thought, to read the Bible from Genesis to Revelation while in the midst of a war.