I remember one Sunday morning quite vividly. I was eight or so. We were Catholic, but because of the mutual respect each side of the religious divide had for the other, we would sometimes attend the Bate’s Mennonite church in Chino, and they ours. This usually involved baptisms, confirmations, marriages or funerals. They had a visiting preacher this particular day who told the story of David and Jonathon, how they were friends and all, pledging their loyalty to each other, come what may. It sounded much like my two great-grandfathers, and I began to wonder just how people became friends anyway.
Was it by chance that this happened? Was there something placed in the human soul that made this possible? I wanted to think so. About the time I was about to once again drift off into my typical daydreaming, the preacher stopped talking and looked around at us, back and forth. What was he thinking? What was he going to say next? The seconds ticked away. I saw one man in a pew up front lean forward a shade as if he were thinking about stepping up to the pulpit. Another reached over, put his hand on his shoulder and whispered something. You could have heard a pin drop.
I’m guessing that when he thought he had everyone’s attention, the preacher said something that just about knocked me off my pew! “What is your story? Who will write the story of your life? What is the story of your life that you will tell, and others will read? Amen!” I’m told that I sat with my mouth open and had to be hauled to my feet for the benediction. Who was I anyway? By all accounts I was a tomboy with a curiosity that knew no bounds but surely came by it quite naturally. I was also born to privilege, as others were to accuse me, with a silver spoon in my mouth. That may have been, but it was hardly my fault. I became obsessed with discovering my story.
