By Frances Stebbins
{Frances Stebbins has been covering events in Western Virginia, especially those relating to faith communities, since 1953. She lives in Salem.}
A dozen members and friends of the church I attend in Salem gather each summer Thursday morning in one of the city’s parks. Until the weather grows too cold around November 1, we discuss either the Scripture readings scheduled to be used in many churches the following Sunday, or for the three summer months we’re reading for enlightenment a book by a contemporary theologian, Dr. Marcus Borg.
The book’s title is “Reading the Bible Again for the First Time.” I may offer further comments on it later, but a chance phrase is good for reflection now. It refers to when a young person became “spiritually aware.”
At my church recently there was a newcomer, a single woman with a small girl about three years old. I had met the pair last month when the mother identified herself as being part of the local medical community. What I noticed, however, was the well-behaved child whose name I’ve forgotten, for she could have been me in the 1930s when I attended the historic Episcopal parish with my widowed mother.
Because she had to take me everywhere she went–we walked the equivalent of a few blocks to church—my mother sat near the rear on uncomfortable straight-backed pews so we could leave quickly if needed. I don’t recall that happening even when we attended the Centennial service of St. Thomas and had to rush home before a violent afternoon storm chased us.
There was no nursery for the tiniest children in those days; I got a ride with Baptist neighbors in order to go to Sunday school when I was four. I proved to have a good memory for the three standard documents of our particular faith; the Lord’s Prayer, The Apostles Creed and The 23rd Psalm.
My teacher, a childless woman who loved many of the town children, became my mother’s best friend. I was happily nurtured in the Episcopal faith of my father’s people until I was 12. (For my mother, the switch from her devout Presbyterian Shenandoah Valley upbringing to the Eastern Virginia roots of my dad’s people, I think never entirely “took” but she dutifully saw that I attended Sunday school regularly. She was Confirmed in the Episcopal Church at around 50.)
By Sixth Grade in Sunday school our teacher was a worthy, but childless soul whose life was centered on her boxwood garden and “cottage” of antiques. I knew she was terrified of my cats, for she bought fertilizer from my mother’s small poultry farm.
I didn’t like Mrs. Browning, and when she assigned us Bible readings as homework, I openly rebelled. (Readers know from my recent recall of the small town school I was attending that we few kids were loaded with homework. I naturally resented more being imposed by Sunday school.)
Two boys in the class joined me in objecting. At home I told my mother rather proudly what had happened. She insisted I call the teacher and apologize, and after a memorable fight with parental authority, I obeyed on condition that I could drop Sunday school and attend worship. There I loved the choir’s music, but my spiritual life went downhill for a decade.
My years at a Richmond professional school were dramatic for me personally; I’ve written of the changes, deaths and love that came to me at 19 when I lost my mother and endured the breakup of a serious romance from my love’s mental illness.
It seemed during this period that God did nothing for me; I found a piece of Chinese philosophy called “Resignation” which was somehow comforting.
Things rapidly improved when the man whose company I enjoyed for 60 years entered my life, and on our move to Roanoke to work for the daily newspaper, we were moved to visit on Easter Sunday a small new parish, for Charlie’s religious background was remarkably like mine.
It was not all smooth sailing spiritually, for in my mid-thirties the stress of rearing children required professional counseling; as a result I experienced a sense of God’s Spirit living within me. The newspaper writing that I was assigned kept me constantly in touch with people who took a Deity seriously, and in my old age this remains.
At around the age of 50 I briefly considered becoming a religion educator of adults, and that too happened though not exactly as I had planned.
The answer remains unanswered as to when I became “spiritually aware.” The seeds of my faith were planted early with my squirming on the hard pews at St. Thomas’. The rebellion began to be evident in the Sixth Grade incident. I think now that God brought me back to church on that first Easter in Roanoke, tested me in dealing with school issues and opened for me doors that continued my family heritage.
