How I Came to Be a Church Lady

I am the last of the Little Old Ladies at my church, and have been for at least the past fifteen years. To look at me, you might not think so – I'm only beginning to wear purple and flaunt a Red Hat – but it's true. I am the last of the Little Old Ladies. And it's partly because of being with the Little Old Ladies that I was finally able to achieve the status of Church Lady.

I grew up in churches. Some of my earliest memories are of Sunday School classes, I came to like liturgy, and stained glass, and hymns with reasoned verse and discernable melody, Later, when my family changed churches, I went through long-form confirmation, and, unlike many of my classmates, did not disappear from the pews upon its completion. I went to college locally, and drove in for Sunday School and the worship service. Later, I moved back to town, and remained a common sight around the place on Sundays. . .and Tuesdays (board meeting night). . .and Thursdays (women's group meetings). . .and Fridays (newsletter printing). These acts of devotion, however, did not qualify me as a "little old lady" or a Church Lady.

No, while I was still in my twenties, I became a Little Old Lady, because I used to sit with the group of women the rest of the congregation referred to as "The Little Old Ladies."

Now, among established church attendees, a strange ritual develops. When they find a spot in the sanctuary where they like to sit, they will always sit there. Eventually, that spot becomes associated with them. As I was growing up, my family sat on the left side, slightly more than halfway up. In the pew ahead of us, a group of elderly widows had lighted. They were gracious, pleasant ladies, who were delighted with the way my father would tease them. Eventually, my parents moved away. (It isn't likely to surprise anyone that I am such a homebody that my parents left home before I did.) I was left alone in the pew. Before long, the little old ladies noticed I was by myself, thought I looked lonesome, and invited me to join them. I did, and, in time, their Sunday station became mine as well. I had become one of the "Little Old Ladies."

As the elderly do, however, those ladies started to disappear. One moved closer to her children, another went to a nursing home, others died. One Sunday, I was sitting in my regular spot in the Little Old Ladies pew, looked around, and realized there wasn't anyone else there! All the genuinely old ladies were gone! And so I became The Last of the Little Old Ladies!

But even that didn't make me a Church Lady. That requires a special level of acceptance by the recognized church ladies: an acknowledgment of equality. My mother had been a church lady, so, after she moved, I was still granted some of her reflected honor; but I was not one in my own right. Making casseroles for the potluck, salads for the salad luncheons, attending women's circle, and teaching Sunday School don't guarantee church-lady-dom, either. But, through the casseroles, salads, Sunday School, board service, and being a "Little Old Lady," I did finally achieve it.

It was at a baby shower that the women's circle was holding for several young women. I was sitting at the same table as several of the Church Ladies: matrons of my mother's generation, some of whom had probably been with the church since before the new building (the "new" building, incidentally, is as old as I am!). They were women who had the respect of the congregation. That day, however, they were not in the best of moods. The gifts the young mothers were receiving were particularly excellent: expensive gadgets and conveniences that looked to these experienced campaigners in the conflicts of child-rearing to be, well, extravagant. They told of having to use cotton diapers, not convenient disposable ones. One described how her child had to sleep in drawer for two years because they couldn't afford a crib, The conversation went on like this for a while. Finally, I said, "Well, things are different than when we were that age." They agreed, and the conversation turned to other topics. Not one of them remembered that I had been a classmate of their own children, and was only slightly older than the mothers being honored. Those church ladies evidently thought of me as one of themselves! I had truly become a Church Lady!