I did not prepare this Sunday school lesson yesterday...because I do not have a Sunday school class. Even though I participated in church activities from my childhood days until I was about 35 years of age, I have not since my teenage years taught a Sunday school class. When a member of Drummond's Church of Our Saviour in Pennsylvania, I was not among his inner circle -- You know what I mean; the special folks who are most eager to feed any Dear Leader's insatiable ego. Given a few chances to speak before a group of women (a Bible study?), I would reference well-known women outside our church as exemplars of strength and creativity. This was the 1970s; I once mentioned Jane Fonda. Obviously, perhaps, this name-drop was not met with enthusiasm. I meant well. Afterall, Jane Fonda attempted to Speak Truth to Power. Even if we did not agree with every action she took; we as women should have been empathetic to the exercise of her freedoms and perspectives. Yikes! If only we had known then the behaviours that pleased Dear Leader most.
But forget him. I think about the women. And I have often reminisced about my Sunday school teachers, the women who taught me the Bible lessons purchased from the Southern Baptist Publishers or the Baptist Bible Fellowship headquartered in Springfield, Missouri. The lessons have diminished in value; the teachers hold their valued places in my memories.
Three of the women who stand out most were married to men like my dad who did not attend church services or monetarily support the churches. When a child and then a teenager, I assumed these men were using their Day of Rest as wisely as they could...and that they did not enjoy being Preached At. Now that I look at them from several decades ahead, I wonder if these men who fought during World War II were simply too aware of the shenanigans of powerful men to appreciate the rantings of those who aspire to power from the pulpit. But many of their wives had also sacrificed much during the Great Depression and the War; they wanted an honored seat in the Amen pews; they wanted to influence a different world for their sons and daughters.
One teacher, Mrs. Day as I knew her then, was a nurse by profession. She worked in doctor's offices and hospitals for five decades before retiring. I remember her for two reasons: voice and dignity. She was not only a medical professional; she was also an operatic singer who did not pursue a career in music but with great skill played the organ and sang gospel. She sang at my wedding in 1971, Always. In contrast to other women, Lorella was meticulously coiffed and attired whether we saw her in the doctor office or the church or visited in her home. She balanced self-confidence, humility, and devotion to others very well. Lorella Elizabeth Day, I adored you then for showing me how to stand intelligent and beautiful among stupid and selfish men, and I admire you now for reminding me that my talents thrive as long as I thrive. Always.
Mrs. Coffman was vibrant, talented, and intelligent as well. Although I have reservation saying that some women who believe in God and the Hereafter are also intelligent, I understand their time and their religious indoctrination. These were women born and raised in New Mexico and Texas; their faith in Jesus and the Bible was the most enduring aspect of their lives, having lived through a world war, as well as the uncertainties and deprivations of the Great Depression before that. Billye M Coffman owned a hair salon near her beautiful home on the outskirts of town. She advertised her business this way: If you're not becoming to you, you should be coming to us. It was an apt description of her in every way. I remember her presence in church and near the pulpit in the Amen section as a reassurance. Her marriage failed when her two sons were teenagers. After the divorce, the boys moved to another state with their father. She did not carry on as a grieving or resentful victim but as a woman who believed that her sons would eventually understand her faith in the greater good. They did. She raised her grandson. Of all I appreciated about Billye Coffman's influence on my life, the most important was that she praised and helped other women. She was generous and kind to women, always supporting their lives in all the various circumstances in which they lived them.
I feel sad that I cannot remember the name of one woman. But how well I remember her features and her habits! She and her husband were farmers. Although she worked outdoors on the farm most of the week, she dressed beautifully for every church service -- pearls and nice shoes and lipstick. She was still ironing bed sheets when I stayed one night in her home in the 1970s. Most important, she also was kind and generous. Thank you for showing me that every life is valuable and honorable.
The odd part of this post is that none of these influential women was ever invited to our home. My mother did not extend invitations. When I was a child, I thought she was shy. I later formed the opinion that my mother was purposely ungenerous. She expressed her religion as a faithful attendee of all services throughout the week but, Jesus' teachings apparently did not apply to women who stayed home to raised five children. Although my mother had more classicly beautiful facial and body features that the other women I mentioned here, the insecurities she nurtured by comparing our lack of wealth and her lack of independence to others were evident. She carried resentments like a badge of honor.
This lesson has shaped itself into a lesson about Confidence and Generosity and Happiness. I looked to my Sunday school teachers for happiness that my mother could not express. Over time, I've realized that they showed me how women could support each other and share what they have to give. The Sunday school lessons are a blur...However, the women's demeanor, their independence and generosity, their kindnesses even to my mother who was never the first to acknowledge them, their strength during difficulties...I remember them as they had also shown genuine affection for me. I was not invisible in their presence. The lessons they taught were the lives they lived.