Catherine Kenney Wilcoxson - Open Doors and Open Windows: A Journey with God

I always liked church. As a child, my parents would take the whole family; I liked to sing along with the choir. The songs we sang were anthems and marches; however, I did not know what we were singing nor, why.

On Sunday mornings, the Kenney kids were up early, making sure they were ready to walk the half mile to St. Johns church for Sunday school. I remember my father going to church regularly. For the first time since his childhood, my father was involved at this church. He had a friend, a Mr. Norman. They helped organize the yearly church picnic. I have fond memories of attending. I remember the steam rising from the dry ice used to make ice cream and the small toy that was given to the children. It resembled a Frisbee today but had string on both ends. You placed both hands on the string, pulled it and the disk would whistle. Something happened to hurt my fathers feelings, and he stopped attending and just stayed home. I believe my fathers responsibilities were given to others. However, my mother continued to take us to church. I do remember that my father would have dinner ready when we came home. In addition, I also remember it was very important to him that I was in Sunday school, and if I wanted, to go to church.

We only went to Sunday school and church in the fall winter and spring. I thought everyone took church off for the summer. Most of my family spent the summers at our cottage in Sheet Harbour. I was the middle child of six. My father would come down to the cottage from Halifax on Friday night and return on Sunday evening to work Monday, leaving Mother with the kids during the week. As far back as I can remember, he had four weeks' vacation and spent it all with us at the cottage.

Sundays were different from the rest of the days of the week. I can still remember my father telling us to be quiet. We were on our beach, which was right in front of our cottage. It was early in the morning and we were not allowed to raise our voices. My father said, Dont you know it is Sunday? Your voices will carry down the Harbour, now be quiet. Maybe church for my father was quiet fortitude among nature. I never heard him speak of God or speak to God.

In my mind, only children, ministers, or priests could talk to God. I did not know any adults that talked to God. Only the minister or priest, and he read it from a book. It sounded like words you would speak to a president of the United States or Queen of England. I surely did not talk to anyone like that. However, small children were different. They were taught to say simple prayers that had rhymed like, Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake. I pray the Lord my soul to take. God, bless Mommy, Daddy, brothers and sisters and whomever else you could put in there so you would not have to go to sleep. When you got a little older, you did not have to say that prayer any longer.

I was also taught that you were born in a church. Pick your denomination; it did not matter. If you were born into it, that was the end of it. You did not question it, and you certainly did not go to or visit other churches. God was at your church. You were required to take the time on Sunday morning to gather with those of the same persuasion. You were not important enough to ask any questions. Only the ones who wore the long robes, and the fancy braided rope, used for a belt, were important enough. The ones who carried the gold cross on a stick, as they walked up the aisle to the front of the church. You were expected to follow your little book of rules.

I was okay with all this. I liked to watch the pageantry around me. The organ was so loud it vibrated off the four walls and came right back at you. I watched the men and boys dressed in white robes up front. I always noticed the shiny black shoes that showed under their white robes. They walked from one spot to another. Each spot marked a place to say a blessing or a prayer. Then the voices of the people around me would answer all at the same time. I did not even know the priest had asked a question. Everyone knew when to stand up, when to sit down, and when to kneel on the prayer bench. That was the hardest for it hurt my knees.

My friend, Marilyn, who lived on Fredrick Avenue, just behind my house, was attending what she called an evangelistic church. We went to school together. Her parents allowed her to do things that my father would never let me get away with. She could stay out as long as she wanted. My mother would come looking for me.

I knew that she was born the same persuasion as my family. I actually asked her what she thought she was doing. She had better come back where she belonged. What does she mean she was studying the Bible? She should not lower herself to such a thing. Then she told me she liked it. She liked getting to know Jesus.

I was shocked. How can you get to know Jesus? Everyone knew that we were not good enough to have a personal relationship with Him. I never heard us sing What a Friend We Have in Jesus only, Onward Christian Solders and maybe an anthem telling God how great He was. I was christened as a baby, confirmed as a young girl, questioning my faith as a teenager.

Tragedy struck my life at the age of twelve. My older brother of fourteen was killed in a car accident. Wade was hit by a car while leaving a dance in Sheet Harbour. The driver was a young man who had been drinking.