We learned a fun hand trick in Bible School. Fold your hands together, fingers out: Here is the church; here is the steeple; open the doors; where are the people? Fold your hands, fingers in: Here is the church; here is the steeple; open the doors; see all the people. As preacher’s kids, we loved the church–fingers in and fingers out–but especially fingers out, on weekdays when all was still, no gatherings in the hallways, no people in the pews, Sunday School rooms and nurseries silent. There were plenty of places to busy ourselves while Daddy worked in his study. The most glorious place was the echo chamber behind the sanctuary where the organ pipes reached from floor to ceiling and the giant stained-glass window painted sunshine and sprayed it over your skin like a disco ball. Twirling and leaping, we’d sing in loud falsetto, in round with the walls, or just sit quietly and watch the light show.

Daddy’s study was another place of splendor, especially when he was in it. The amber-glassed bay in the tidy, velvety outer sanctum had a window seat where we’d watch the town go by from behind the golden curtain. The inner sanctum was not so pretty, but functional, in a chaotic, messy, Brotherly Bob sort of way. I liked to watch him work. He’d talk to people on the phone, scribble notes on his legal pad, type out sermons on his Smith Corona; shout corny preacher jokes to his secretary. But inevitably, the task at hand would bring him to his feet, when he would straighten his tie, don his coat, grab our hands and rush us out the door. Someone needed help. Daddy’s desk had wheels, the church grew fingers...and feet.