She combed through my wet hair, clean from washing with green Prell shampoo, then parted off narrow vertical portions. One at a time she wrapped the wet sections around her finger, making curls she then secured vertically with bobby pins.
Gloria at age 4
It was Saturday night—bath night—and the pinned-in-place curls were soft enough to sleep on. By morning they would be dry, and mother would remove the pins, gently brush out the curls, forming shiny ringlets for church.
After our breakfast of bacon, eggs, and biscuits, she would pull my freshly ironed dress over my hair. I would find clean white sox with lace around the edges tucked into my black patent leather shoes to put on for church. Most of my dresses had a sewn-in sash that mother would tie in a bow in the back. She had made all of my dresses, as well as those of my sister and her own.
She was an expert seamstress, a skill she learned from her mother that equipped her to work before I was born at a designer dress shop in Battle Creek called the Francine Dress Shop where she was part of the designer sewing team. She also modeled these dresses in style shows and for magazine and newspaper ads for the shop.
My red satin dress
Mother was a stickler for finished seams and sculpting details that made a garment “hang right” as she used to say. And both mother and her mother loved quality fabrics. One of my favorite dresses when I was around ten years old was made of red satin with a white yoke. I felt so beautiful when I wore it, and at ten beautiful is important. I didn’t wear this dress to regular church; it was saved for special occasions.
Most of our life revolved around the church, since daddy was the pastor. Even special occasions were special services like New Year’s Eve watchnight services, area conventions, or performances of the Easter and Christmas plays and programs mother wrote and directed.
From the time I was four years old my parents pastored churches in small towns, churches that were struggling that they nursed into strong, stable congregations. This was a full-time job, and I don’t remember ever hearing the phrase “my day off” from my father’s mouth. Our phone rang at all hours and on every day in the week with calls from someone who was in trouble, in need, or in a hurry. We had weddings in our living room, cook-outs in our back yard, and area youth skating parties at the rink just down the road. Our car was the taxi for kids or older people who didn’t have a ride to church.
Like getting my hair set on Saturday night, watching my mother construct fine garments out of good fabrics, or hanging out in the barn where my dad made beautiful things out of wood, I saw my parents take whatever characters a community provided and love the best out of people, then patiently train and encourage them into a strong commitment to the Father of us all. Some characters were more difficult or complicated than others, but my parents thought everyone had the potential to become more than even they believed they could be.
Some of the toughest old characters were there just the best challenges to my dad. I watched him take on crusty men who wanted nothing to do with the church and persistently and consistently meet them where they were. Some never came to church but came to respect and embrace what the church stood for. Others became some of the strongest believers with the most amazing testimonies to what God can do in a life.
Burlington Church when we first went there
We went to the Burlington church when I was four. I literally grew up with many of the families that became (and are still) a part of that church. One family had children my age. I remember one Sunday when most of the families were snowed in from a serious blizzard and, for good reason, couldn’t make it to church. But daddy shoveled out our driveway and went to the church early to shovel off the steps and porch of the church. He turned up the heat while mother put some pine sprigs and holly on the communion table.
“Well, at least we’re here and God’s here!” my dad said. About the time we decided it would be just us, in drove a big farm tractor with George and Eleanor Funk and their three small children, bundled up to their noses in coats and scarves and hanging on for dear life to the tractor seats. They lived in the country and probably the farthest from the church. But, bless their faithful hearts, they were there to worship, snow and all!
Gloria at 14 with Sunday School class she taught Janet Funk right in front of Gloria
What an impression that made on this little eight-year-old! I have never forgotten the beauty of the Family of God. Just a few weeks ago on our 61st anniversary, we got this text from the woman who was the four-year-old on that tractor that snowy day in Michigan:
Happy Anniversary, Gloria and Bill! I just want you to know that I am thanking God for both of you...still impacting people with the gospel all over the world!! And, Gloria, you and your family have impacted my life personally for so many years! I know God is blessing your family. Have a special celebration of your years together.
Much love,
Janet
The Funk family were just some of the great “regular people” who have been giants along my path. And whether I’m called on to curl hair, make a dress right, shovel off a walk, or plant roses that won’t bloom until after I’ve moved away, I just hope that all I do today will be done right and for the glory of God.
