Between Grandma Soes and my Mother
Communion Sunday in my small village was never an ordinary day. It was a fixed point on the church calendar, marked well in advance – a Sunday when farmers from the surrounding districts and village families alike packed the church to the rafters, filling even the upstairs gallery.
The week before communion, the women would look through their wardrobes to decide what to wear and might even buy a new hat just to update an old outfit. The men’s suits – normally black – were hung outside to air, white shirts were washed and ironed, and shoes polished to a high shine. I could clearly remember my grandma Soes calling Salome’s General Store to ask if she had any new dresses in for Sunday’s service.
Some of the farming community had houses in the village that they used just for this occasion, so the whole village felt a sense of busyness and anticipation.
On Saturday, the church was decorated by local women with beautiful fresh flower arrangements, and a long table was laid with pure white tablecloths and small wine glasses filled with sweet red wine. Silver round plates were packed full of cubes of white bread.
Sunday meant an early rise for everyone. Women had to do their hair, men had to shave, and children had to be washed and dressed, because all the other churchgoers would judge them by these superficial values. Yet no amount of washing or scrubbing could remove all the oil from my father’s big, hard-working hands. I was sure every father warned his children that there would be hell to pay if they misbehaved on this one Sunday.
The single loud gong of the church bell at 8:30 a.m. was our cue to leave the house and start walking to church. We waved to other children we met along the way, but I always looked up to my father for approval of our behaviour. We waited outside the church door until my grandparents arrived in their white Volkswagen Beetle. I always felt a sense of pride and belonging walking in with my grandparents, parents, and siblings. We were not a rich family, and I might have been wearing my sister’s hand-me-down dress from the previous season, but we were all together.
At nine o’clock sharp, the organ began the service with a thunderous tune, and everyone stood to wait for the minister to enter and walk up the few steps to the pulpit, from where he would deliver his sermon.
By this time, I had made myself comfortable between my grandma Soes and my mum. For the first ten minutes or so, I would look around at all the new hats – some small, others with rims so wide they almost touched the person next to them. There were hats decorated with delicate flowers, colourful dresses, and carefully styled hair, all while I tried to ignore the overpowering mix of men’s aftershave, perfume, and the sweet scent of hairspray.
I loved sitting next to my grandmother. Her arm and shoulder were just the right height and softness for me to snuggle my small eight-year-old body into, and my hand would find Grandma Soes’s big, warm hand to hold as I slowly drifted into a light slumber. My grandmother would remain seated when the rest of the congregation stood to sing a hymn, careful not to wake me.
Sometimes I could feel Grandma Soes shift slightly to place her other hand on Grandpa Piet’s knee. He had a habit of crossing his legs, letting his head drop to his chest, and then moving one leg in a rhythmic beat only he could hear. Eventually, the whole church pew would begin to move and creak.
My interest would pick up again once the deacons began distributing the small glasses of wine and cubes of white bread, representing the body and blood of Christ.
The most fascinating moment of the entire service came when the deacons passed around wooden collection plates lined with green felt to collect donations. Some people looked around to make sure others saw how much they gave, while others kept their eyes down, careful not to draw attention to the few coins they could afford. It always made me feel uneasy, but as a small child, I did not yet understand why.
After the service, my parents and grandparents lingered outside in the church gardens, chatting with other congregants. By then, I was already impatient, knowing there was a wonderful feast waiting at my grandparents’ house. On these occasions, I always ate a little less, saving space for dessert, baked pudding, preserved yellow peaches in sweet syrup, and custard, my absolute favourite.
Those years were wonderful, carefree years that shaped my understanding of what family should be.
HannaliseR 
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