Going to Church with Mama

I come from a long line of Mormons on both sides of my family. But by the time my parents grew up and married, their religious experience differed. While my mom grew up seeing her grandmother read scriptures every morning and her bishopric grandfather offer 20-minute family prayers, my dad watched his hard-working cowboy dad chew tobacco and go to the local saloon to have a beer in the evening.

Though my parents were married in the Mormon temple--and my dad never drank or used tobacco--for many of the early years of their marriage my dad was much more concerned with making a living than going to church. He worked hard and figured Sunday was a day to rest.

So, when we children were young and living in Oakland, California, we mostly went to church with Mama. Sunday mornings she always got us up and dressed in our Sunday best. Dad would be in his golf clothes, heading out for a morning on the links. We followed Mama to church. There was never a question about where we should be. We should be in church.

In those days we had Sunday School in the morning and Sacrament Meeting in the evening. So in the morning Mama took us to the downstairs Junior Sunday School room where we would learn “Sacrament Gems” (short scriptures to recite) and give “Two and a Half Minute Talks” to each other. After singing “Jesus Once of Humble Birth” or “Reverently and Meekly Now,” we would take the Sacrament with the other children. We would go to our Sunday School classes and then run out in the sunshine to meet Mama and go home.

In the evening, after a good pot roast dinner, we would leave Daddy snoozing on the couch in front of the TV and go back to church for Sacrament Meeting. There we would take the Sacrament again, and hear talks given by the grownups. When I was little, Mama would take a clean handkerchief from her purse and fold it into a little cradle with twin “babies” in it. Or I would take Mama’s white gloves and stuff one glove into the other and play with the funny white hand. Sometimes Mama would quietly show me how to make a church with my hands: “Here is the church, here is the steeple. Open the doors and see all the people. Close the doors and hear them pray. Open the doors—they’ve gone away!”

On a weekday afternoon, we went to Primary after school—the children’s organization. There we sang songs and had religious classes, but we also made crafts and played games. We sang “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” and also “Jumbo Elephant.”

Mama not only made sure we went to church, she went with us. She taught in Primary or Sunday School. She played the organ or the piano; she sang in the choir. She showed us that going to church and serving there was not only the expected thing to do, it was a happy thing to do. We knew that she loved the church, and we loved it too.

Even though Mama and the children went to church and Dad didn’t, I don’t remember any friction about it. Mama never said anything bad about Dad not going. Dad never seemed to resent the time we spent in church. Each respected the other.

I don’t remember a lot of talk about religion in our home. We always said a blessing on our meals, but there was no family prayer or family scripture study. The influence of the church, though, was a strong current through our lives.

We children, all four of us, all developed strong testimonies of the church, and brought our own children to church, teaching them the joy of participating in all the services and activities. Eventually, when most of the children were grown, Dad started coming to church with Mama. He showed his love for God as he led our family in prayer, with tears in his eyes.

My mom never preached the gospel to us. She lived it, and as we watched her, we wanted to live it too.

I think now about the great strength Mama showed in staying strong in her faith when she lacked the support of her husband. I’m sure many times it would have been easier to stay home with Dad, to go on a picnic or watch TV. But she didn’t.

I think of the families I know where one spouse believes and the other doesn’t and how hard that is. Knowing now the blessings of growing up in faith--how the teachings formed a bedrock moral foundation I could build on, how the love of God comforted me in my sadnesses and joys, how prayer became a source of safety and calm—knowing all this, I am grateful my mama took me to church.

Note: The photo above is my Sunday School class in 1960. I am peeking out from the back row, about 4th from the right. Sister Nackos was our teacher.