One for the little bitty baby

For years I attended a tiny, public elementary school in a town with a name like Short Creek. The school had about 50 students in each grade who were all related in some distant way and everyone had last names like Miller. I was a transplant. I fit in well enough, was ahead in most subjects, and made friends. But only one experience has stuck with my: three times a week my class would go to music with Mr. O. This was my first introduction to a life long love affair with band and friendly men with musical backgrounds. We learned to play the recorder, to read treble clef, and of course to sing hymns. This last one always seemed to make my mother uncomfortable. Whenever I would come home singing, “Our Savior, Sweet Jesus” she would freak out a little. She wasn’t anti-Jesus; she just didn’t think he belonged in public schools. This is why she never came to see our class production of the Christmas story and why she didn’t like hearing my renditions of beloved Christian classics. Like everything else my mother disagreed with, I began to love the songs even more. Now, over a decade later, I still wake up with “How Shall I Send Thee” in my head. Despite my mother’s loving attempts to protect me, Mr. O indoctrinated me completely with campy Jesus tunes.