After my first marriage ended in divorce, I felt completely out of place in my Sunday School class.

I was a square peg in a round hole. How was a newly divorced woman supposed to carry on in the “Young Marrieds” group? The members of the class existed in pairs, but I was like an oddball sock missing its mate. 

It was not so much a divorce as it was a death. The tangible grief left me curled on top of a pile of dirty clothes in my closet some nights, with the lights left on and my notebook and Bible beside me for comfort. 

What was I to do at church? Friends were kind, and I was never made to feel unwelcome. But whenever someone tried to communicate empathy or express comfort, it was just one more reminder that I was a lone wolf.

My Sunday School class had an official name: the “ekklesia,” or “called-out assembly.” The Greek “ekklesia” is where the English words “ecclesiastical” (pertaining to the church) and “ecclesiology” (the study of doctrine concerning the church) find their basis.

Ekklesia makes a catchy name for a Sunday School class, and we felt so learned and so unique. We brought breakfast goodies some mornings, and couples poked fun at each other during chit-chat time: who snored the loudest, who left the cap off the toothpaste tube, who didn’t hang up their dirty towels. There were times the banter eroded into thinly disguised put-downs, with a couple’s body language and facial expressions indicating obvious irritation and even embarrassment.

I doubt there were cuddles during afternoon naps on those Sundays.

But one Sunday morning, after arriving a little late to church and finding the classroom door closed, I made the decision: it was time to go to a different class. 

The older ladies’ class, on the other hand, had no such fancy term to describe their morning assembly, nor was there any small talk beyond reviewing the weekly prayer list. 

They didn’t even have a coffee pot in their classroom.

The first Sunday I showed up, there were no questions asked. It was as if they had been expecting me to come and sit a spell with them. They did not look surprised, nor did they divert their eyes from mine.

The room smelled of Aqua Net and Avon Silicone Glove hand lotion. Most of the ladies were widows and well-acquainted with grief, but you’d never know it from their welcoming smiles as they smiled and scooted their black purses and weathered Bibles to the side to make room for me to sit next to them.

They wore enameled brooches on navy blazers, or else Alfred Dunner appliquéd sweatshirts with coordinating polyester pants, elastic waistbands for comfort. Shoes were comfortable and serviceable, chunky heels or flats all around. There was no hint of a bare leg, but I could see roadmaps of varicose veins through stockings when the ladies stood to leave the room.

After announcements and the prayer list, they took up their own collection for class mission projects. Sometimes it was to purchase cards to send to church members or prospects. Sometimes it was to provide a meal for a grieving family.

But always, at the start of each quarter, the arrival of the new edition of Open Windows created a stir of excitement.

One of those Sundays, Mrs. Myrl made sure I got a copy:

“Now, it’s important to do your devotion and daily prayer. I always do mine. You take one of these and enjoy it.” And she patted my hand as she offered me a copy. 

How could I say no?

I continued to go to the older ladies’ class, until such time as I felt healed enough to return to my former class. By that time the Ekklesia had begun to accumulate a number of individuals much like myself. Instead of being paired up as if for a square dance, there were adults of all ages, with a variety of backgrounds and life experiences.

It was a reflection of the blended design of church “small groups” today. Truly, it was a representation of what “ekklesia” is supposed to mean: all people from all walks of life, called to serve Christ as one church body.

But I admit: I miss the days of the older ladies’ and the older men’s classes, where life was more straightforward. It might do all of us middle-aged and below people some good to sit a good, long spell with the older set, where the only goal was to serve God and serve others.

Not busy yourself with bringing breakfast casserole or sausage balls every Sunday morning. Not making cutesy, cutting jokes about your spouse.

But it’s perfectly acceptable to get excited over the latest edition of Open Windows.