I remember those childhood Sundays in church as family time. With two pastors

for parents the Holy Spirit sat up front with us. After the service I would stand by

my mother’s side as she shook hands with each congregant on their way out.

Sister Carol drifted over to us on a cloud of perfume mixed with sweat. She

gripped my mother’s hand, saying,

“Sister, behind every powerful pastor is a God fearing woman,”

Out of the many confidences, whispered in my mother’s ear, this one was her

favourite. Something about the syntax of God, Fear and Woman, in exactly that

order had a special kind of music to her. Despite Sister Carol’s best intentions the

correction from mother came swiftly,

“Indeed, Sister, that’s why we are both pastors. My husband is Pastor

Charles, and you may call me Pastor Charmaine.”

This she would say earnestly - her glossy pink lips and fake pearls gleaming.

At home, to my two older sisters and I, they were just Mummy and Daddy. Dad

would spend most of his time in the study, writing sermons – while Mummy

would be on the front lines with us – laying down the law. She would line us up

in the kitchen, a battalion of three. The mission – ‘Operation Sunday Lunch’ –

prepped on a Saturday evening, much to the stifled despair of my teenage sisters.

As the eldest, Janice was on potato duty, seasoning them with salt and

rosemary to cure overnight. Edwina did the vegetables – sliced carrots and

smothered sprouts anointed with oil and spices. This was the secret to ‘Pastor

Charmaine’s famous Sunday Roast’. The delicious rumors of which wafted

down the pews of the upper echelon elders. Us kids called it the ‘Green Aisle’,

because God kept calling them home from that row. After each send off

Mummy would announce, from the pulpit, the availability of a seat at our

Sunday afternoon lunch table. Pearly gates anxiety approaching, the elders

would start tithing liberally, initialing their envelopes so we’d know exactly who

is most faithful. The highest bidder won Mummy’s deepest sympathy and an

invitation to our home after the service. With a direct line to the most high, the

elders banked on the joint prayers of the pastors to ensure a place in the

hereafter. Frill-trimmed apron tightly bound, Mummy made sure the Sunday

birds were royally stuffed and the elders well buttered.