I’ve been fortunate to become better acquainted with a couple from Peace River. They had relocated to Carstairs a few years ago although I didn’t become aware of that move until recently. I had begun by introducing them to friends as people from my previous church then corrected myself. I attended their church. Peace River had been their hometown long before I moved there.
Sometimes I meet them over Sunday lunch and reminisce. I lived in northern Alberta for 12 years minus the time that I attended SAIT to upgrade my skills as a library technician in the public library. During much of that time I was a regular participant at First Baptist Church.
When we arrived, Harold Peters was the interim pastor, filling in while a committee was seeking a candidate for the position. Rev. Peters had been in Olds some years prior and was my parents’ pastor. The Lord knew I needed a friendly face. Each Sunday I walked in to a warm greeting and firm handshake, like an old friend. The Peterses agreed to accept the position themselves and remained for another five years or so.
I was reminded of the Sunday school programs during those years. My eldest son joined his age group, with an abundance of male adolescents. All seemed to be gangly, long limbed, most wore glasses and had a rumpled appearance, like they might have been wrestling when no one was watching. Luke was always tall for his years. Trevor and Nathan were still small of stature. Their friend Daniel Hill was often referred to as the Karate Kid, as mine was Luke Skywalker. And then there was Allison, one sole female in a large class of boys. Their teacher, Doug Hall, was much appreciated, by mine especially. Luke felt he was listened to, encouraged to question and offer his own ideas. Dr. Hall was a father of four girls but did wonders with his group of rowdy boys.
I seem to recall the classroom space was a cramped spot; a tiny room nestled over the back basement stairs. Most likely built for storing extra chairs, not large kids. It was likely the location of the impromptu wrestling shenanigans.
Nick’s first class was in a small room off the bright, open basement area. His teacher, Vi, worked at the health unit. She was firm, but patient, a good guide for the younger ones.
When I first started attending, the church rented basement space to the local daycare. Actually my eldest attended there while I was on a job search and later while I looked for a babysitter. Pam, the director, was a loving, gentle mothering lady. Shortly after I arrived the daycare was asked to vacate. The church had expanded quickly and needed all the space.
We were a good mix: older couples, singles of all ages, families and a swarm of laughing toddlers squirting away from guiding hands.
The kids’ classes often were dismissed before our adult class was finished. My class was also in the basement but well away from Nick’s room. He habitually wandered around, loudly calling “Mommy” rather than approaching and waiting for me quietly. We were often engaged in closing prayer. One of my friends tried to hush him until we were finished. She was quick to hug him and ask to see the craft project or hear his Scripture verse.
I was soon involved in small group Bible studies and included in the library staff, although the church library was tiny. I even slid in the bench when the choir practices began. Sharon was an enthusiastic director and we embraced her choices wholeheartedly, singing with praise in our hearts to the Lord.
Wayne and Anne Arthur were introduced in our midst during one of the Sunday school classes. I had known them when we all attended the Bergen Missionary Church. There Mom was the teacher for all of their kids, as well as her own. Their arrival was a gift to me, a piece of home, right across the street.
I was always grateful for the friendships and compassion I found there. It was a bustling, active church but never too busy to offer a hand and a listening ear to the weary.
- Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist
