Louis Martin's Daughter

Most of my childhood memories revolve around our Church, as both my parents sang in the choir, and my father was the Assistant Pastor in charge of the Adult Bible Class. When I was 7 years old, we moved to Aurora, Ontario to live with my maternal grandfather after he was widowed, but we continued attending Bayview Baptist Church in North York, Ontario, which was about a 40-minute drive. That same year, I skipped a year at school, so I’m not sure which of these events prompted the colossal screw-up that happened at Sunday School that September. Each September, the procedure was that all the Sunday School children would stand at the back of the room while each of the Sunday School Teachers took turns calling out the names of their respective students. As each child heard their name being called out, they would walk up to the front of the room. When each teacher had called all of their students to the front, they would go to their respective classes where they would receive a small welcome gift from their teacher… usually a pencil or bookmark with a scripture verse. I stood at the back of the room, patiently waiting to hear my name being called. Each of my friends from the previous year were called up to the front, but my name had not yet been called out. I continued waiting patiently as the next group of slightly older students’ names were called out, and they each went to the front of the room. Each group of students were getting older and older, as I continued waiting patiently for my name to be called out. Finally, the last student’s name was called, and I alone remained waiting at the back of the room. The Superintendent, who was the father of one of my best friends, looked somewhat perplexed and asked me if I was new to the Church. I wanted to answer, “No, you idiot. Your wife is best friends with my mom, and my father is basically your boss.” But I didn’t. Even then, I was a pathologically polite and shy little girl, so I just shook my head. I could feel my cheeks burning, and it seemed like everyone in the room was turning around and staring at me. The Superintendent then asked, “What is your name, little girl?” I replied, softly, “Laura Martin.” “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” he replied, and again he asked, “What is your name?” I was getting upset and trying not to cry, so I tried once more to tell him my name. “I still can’t hear you!” he replied, and he was obviously becoming quite impatient with me. I took a deep breath, and with every ounce of courage I had, I called out, “I am Louis Martin’s daughter!” Suddenly, the Superintendent’s face turned white, and there was a flurry of activity, as he desperately tried to find out why my name wasn’t on the list and to which Sunday School Class I should be assigned. This was not the first, nor would it be the last time I would feel such pride in declaring, “I am Louis Martin’s daughter!”

© Laura L. Martin