Sundays followed a predictable pattern. Our family arrived at the brick church building about five minutes before Sunday School was scheduled to begin. The boys would head off to their respective classes; Thomas repeating his memory verse to himself and Cameron excitedly catching up with friends he found along the way to his assigned room.

Some Sundays, I had to be there early to practice music for the service with the soloist or the choir. I’d always be sure I was done before ten o’clock so I could be in the classroom to support Jeff like a good wife. He did not demand that, but I knew it was expected of me. He was a good teacher; but we often laughed that our class was where all the misfits seemed to congregate. Looking back, I’m a bit proud of that now.

Twenty minutes to eleven and it was time for me to slip out again to the practice room. I would meet the singers for the day or go over an offertory one more time before being on the piano bench to begin the prelude no later than five minutes before the service start time.

Morning service, lunch, a nap on the couch, and then it was time to return to church for choir rehearsal at five. Sometimes I would accompany and sometimes I would direct – I could not lead as I was a woman – but I could direct. Funny how that made sense once upon a time. Evening service at six followed by rehearsal for the following Sunday. Of course, we always had the mid-week service on Wednesday night for more practice if necessary.

Much of my life revolved around Sundays at church, as it had since I was a little girl. Before I was playing the piano or singing in the choir myself, I would sit next to my grandma on the organ bench, following along in her music and adding my own notes as my skills grew.

Then one Sunday when I was in my late forties, my church broke my heart.

The damage did not occur all at once, but rather over months and years of shifting voices and failing leadership. Yet I remember the moment of the fracture like it was last week. A song I had chosen for the congregation was passed over by the leadership and I found myself standing in the church office with three male deacons – for there could not be any other kind – and my father, who seemed to be caught between loyalties. When the chairman told me “you’ve always been a troublemaker”, the pain in my chest was palpable. I ran out of the room in tears, clutching my notebooks of music and my Bible.

For thirty years, I had been passionate about two things – my family and church music. Those years of Sundays spent pouring my spare time into learning a new song or planning a Christmas program were diminished in thirty seconds. My identity as a church girl was lost.

Tami Parks

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