Losing my religion

People don’t believe me when I tell them that my first grade teacher didn’t speak English but it’s true. And this was in Southern California. I went to a parochial school and my teacher was a nun fresh off the boat from Italy. Which is why I can recite the Hail Mary in perfect Italian but still have trouble recognizing when to use there instead of their.

I mention this because while at one point I did, in fact, want to be a priest, I guess you’d say that when it comes to religion, I’m a little bit to the left of Bill Maher. If that’s possible.

That said, yesterday Auntie persuaded me to accompany her and her male friend Albert (she doesn’t like to call him her boyfriend) to the Wai`oli Hui`ia (joyful waters) Church in Hanalei. I convinced myself that it was worth going just because the green shingled church, originally built in 1912, is so elegant and, having survived three hurricanes, a survivor. The most recent hurricane, Iniki in 1992, did significant damage, but the community came to the rescue and the ol’ gal’s restored belfry tower looks better than ever if you ask me.

I kind of snooze during the reading of the gospel and the accompanying sermon but perk right up when the Wai`oli church choir starts singing early Hawaiian hymns. Those beautiful Hawaiian voices rising up inside that little church—well, like I said, no one would ever accuse me of being religious, but listening to Auntie and Albert join along with the choir in singing Ka Pule A Ka Haku would send goose bumps up the arms of Bill Maher himself.

The other reason to hang out with Auntie and Albert is that afterwards we all go to the Hanalei Gourmet, in the old Hanalei school building, where Auntie gets a scooped-out papaya mounded with pineapple, mango, melon, and guava and I get the smoked local fish thinly sliced on a toasted bagel with cream cheese, tomato, and capers. Sunday brunch alone is reason enough to sit inside a church for an hour.