Church Angels

My Mother was very insistent that we attend Sunday school at the closest Lutheran Church.  The majority of Finnish people after all are of the Lutheran faith.  Ever Sunday morning for eight years, I woke up early and either skipped or trudged up Secord Street to the Finnish Evangelical Lutheran Church that sat at the bottom of Dufferin Street hill. It did not go unnoticed that there was an Italian corner store on the opposite side where they sold candy and ice cream.  What a dilemma that became.  Should I put the dime into the collection plate or should I go after Sunday school and buy candy?  I suspect the sweets won out at times and I wondered how God felt about that.  At those times, I was often reminded of a song we used to sing, in the Finnish language, with the following words.
...........

Little eyes don't look wherever you want
Little eyes don't look wherever you want
Since your Father up above looks down into a child's heart
Little eyes don't look wherever you want.
...........
Little hands don't touch whatever you want
Little hands don't touch whatever you want
Since your Father up above, looks down into a child's heart
Little hands don't touch whatever you want.
...........

And so the song continues in the same fashion for your mind; for your feet; and so on. 

Sunday school was held in the basement and there was quite a crowd of other little Finnish kids.  We were often divided into groups usually by age and ushered to another part of the large downstairs room.  When the numbers became too large for the basement room, some of the classes were held upstairs in the church.  We always felt lucky when our teacher led us up to the balcony to learn the day's lessons.  I had a white bible with a zipper all around it.  Inside the bible were some bookmarks and other tokens of good attendance.  Our attendance was kept in individual, small yellow booklets into which stars were glued each time we were there.  Once the book was full, we received a bookmark or other small gift.

The approach of Christmas meant each of the classes would begin to learn either a play, song or the words to some Christmas passage.  Of course the main event was the Christmas manger scene.  I loved being chosen as an angel.  It was exciting to dress up in the white gown and glittery silver angel wings and halo that were stored in the room behind the altar area.  It was always a mad house when the costume box was brought out.  Teachings of sharing and kindness were forgotten for the moment as all the children lunged toward the box in hopes of grabbing the best wings and halo.  The older kids and Sunday school teachers helped to pin the wings on yet they always seemed to be lopsided to one side or the other.  The years of use had taken their toll.

On the evening of the performance, we all became quiet realizing that there was a church full of grownups waiting breathlessly for the program to begin.  Mary and Joseph carrying a doll baby Jesus walked out to the altar first, followed by the three wise men and the shepherds.  The angels always came last as we arranged ourselves at the back and sides in a semi circle.  We then began to sing Away in the Manger in voices so quiet that hearing aids would have been a necessity for many in the audience. 

At the end of the evening all the children gathered on the altar steps in their finest clothing to sing 'Silent Night'.  The little boys often fidgeted in their white shirts and ties possibly wishing they were elsewhere.  The little girls, in black patent leather shoes beamed with pride.  I remember my Mother worked extra hard every night, during a six day work week, to sew a lovely little dress for me each year.  One of my favourites was a salmon pink taffeta dress with a pink sweater that my Mother knit from angora wool.  I recall she made a matching violet coloured ensemble for my sister.  I bet if I dig hard enough, I can still find that little outfit in my old chest along with that white bible that now has many other memories tucked between its pages.


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