Esquire Coffinberry's Great-Grand-Nieces and -Nephews

In the back-country of south-east Iowa stands a little red-brick Methodist church I remember well from my childhood. Beneath an ancient pine out back, many of my kin are laid to rest. Coming in the vestibule, I walk beneath the bell tower, where my grandpa sometimes let me help him pull the rope to ring the big bell that reminded the farmers round about that it was time to get going to church. On one wall is a big chalk drawing of praying hands; behind the pulpit is a print of DaVinci's Last Supper. A pair of enormous stained-glass windows grace the sanctuary; the south window features a crown and a cross, the north bears a cluster of Easter lilies. This is where my grandparents and great-grandparents (those descended from the Coffinberrys) worshipped, where my father and aunts and uncle learned their lessons about Jesus, in the Sunday School, downstairs in the basement.

When I was a little girl, we'd go to church with Grandpa and Grandma. My grandparents would often sing for the services, my Grandpa singing Tenor and my Grandma in her sweet warbling Soprano, with Grandpa on the guitar. And on some visits, they'd have us grandkids sing with them. I remember one Sunday walking down the aisle with my Grandma, past the beautiful lily window, to stand up and sing a duet with her. I couldn't have been more than seven years old.

I don't suppose my memories of that beautiful church were much different from those of my cousins.

Which is why what we did on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend was so special. We gathered at that same church, and all of us walked down that aisle and gave back to the congregation what we've cherished all these years, the gift of song. Grandpa and Grandma are long gone now, resting just outside, but I like to think they were there in spirit, joining in our song.

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