To the Sister I’ve Never Met
Week 32 of 52 Churches in 52 Weeks:
A Letter Inspired from Precious Moments Chapel in Carthage, Missouri
Dear Laura,
You don’t know who I am. We’ve never met and never will. But you? I’ve heard about you before I was born. After all… we came from the same womb.
Mom told me the story. During her younger years, she was infatuated with her high school sweetheart. I envision he had upward swept hair like Elvis by the way he topped the charts with a #1 hit to her heart. One night after a little less conversation, they got all shook up and found a place for some hunka hunka burnin’ love. Her skirt breezed up like Marilyn Monroe standing over a New York City subway grate, resulting in some shake, rattle ‘n rollin’ between the bed sheets. That’s when the jukebox stopped. Mom had got stung with a baby on the way. That baby was you.
She turned to her parents for help, who ranked as high-profile members of their church. They were generous. Well respected. Overall good people who exemplified Christian values. When mom pleaded for help for your unplanned arrival, the pressures of judgmental church doctrine were too much for even them in those days. Premarital sex was the death nail for mom’s hand in marriage. Your biological father was blue suede shooed away for being nothing but a hound dog. When your Elvis-father had left the building, mom was checked into the Heartbreak Hotel in a state of Disgraceland.
Your impending existence became a cover-up. Like Watergate, if news broke of mom bearing you out of wedlock, it was feared the family would go the way of Nixon and be impeached from the church. An executive decision was made to keep the baby bump confidential, given dirty little secret service to protect the family reputation from scandal. Mom was condemned to stay home, never to risk the sight of you having infiltrated her belly.
In the black of night, mom’s parents drove to Milwaukee to meet with their Deep Throat. Instead of crossing hearts and dotting foreheads in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, you were signed away with crossed t’s and dotted i’s. The deal was done. But mom? She didn’t meet your adoptive parents. She protested to keep you. Picketed to cherish you. She wanted to love you.
You were brought into this world kicking and screaming. You were named Laura after she baptized your forehead with her bawling tears. She only had a few precious moments to hold you after her womb was empty. When it was time to give you up, her arms were empty. When she left the hospital kicking and screaming at herself, a piece of her heart has been empty ever since.
She never saw you again.
Several years later, mom eventually married my dad and I was born into the world as a “firstborn”. Dad was on the road a lot, so I became a miniature therapist who earned a Ph. D in mom’s feelings. She would talk about the few moments she had with you as I scribbled away with an Etch A Sketch. She would reminiscence how beautiful you were. Healthy. Perfect in every way. Some days she’d be happy. Most days depressed. She said the only thing she knew about the adoptive parents was they were Christian. Nevertheless, her soul was tortured with guilt for not being the mother you deserved. I remember her saying how much she missed you. All she could do was pray to God, hoping that guardian angels were watching over you.
Knowing what happened to you, it took a long time for me to see what church doctrine gets wrong in it’s message to preach what’s right. I embarked on finding myself by visiting 52 Churches in 52 Weeks. I’ve always believed in God, but felt my faith deteriorating due to religious persecution from churches. For you:
People choose to look at the sin. Not your life.
How could churches promote that? Rather than discard church entirely, I went all-in to explore other faiths, sermons, and churches. There had to be someting missing.
On Memorial Day, I was passing through Carthage, Missouri when I saw a billboard. It featured a familiar teardrop-eyed doll with an invitation to visit the Precious Moments Chapel. I had vaguely heard of it, only remembered by mom owning a similar figurine that she placed next to my baby pictures. I never put any stock into it.
Being the “church guy”, I paid an unplanned visit.
At first, I kept asking myself why I was at a “doll church”. After all, I had a made-up rule that an actual service would need to transpire for my visits to count. But the more time I spent, the more I paid attention. By the time I left, two hours had ticked away. I felt inspired — not by words — but instead, the chapel was proclaiming Christ’s love for His children through art. I left thinking about you.
At noon, a tour guide came into the chapel to narrate the story of the Precious Moments Chapel along with artist, Samuel Butcher. He married his high school sweetheart, had six children and adopted a seventh. He was a struggling artist until he created a line of greeting cards using the teardrop-eyed artwork. In 1978, he launched a Precious Moments collectible figurine line with the same design. Butcher was worried how the Christian message would be retained in his figurines. Instead, they became an overnight success. Maybe your adoptive parents even bought you some for Christmas. You would have been seven years old.
After accumulating instant wealth, Butcher derived inspiration from the Sistine Chapel to build his own Precious Moments Chapel. He wanted to praise God with his own unique talents, and one of those ways was to paint angels for the delight of his children. He located a piece of land with gentle rolling hills, trees, and a tranquil stream. Several buildings were built and he worked tirelessly to paint the chapel’s interior with murals.
Walking in, the left side of the chapel was painted with murals of Old Testament stories — Baby Moses being rescued by Pharaoh's daughter, an infertile Hannah bringing Samuel before the temple, and Queen Esther celebrating after saving her people. On the right side were parables derived from New Testament stories, including Baby Jesus with Mary and his stepfather Joseph.
And you know what? It hit me. For a long time, I tried to rationalize why my grandparents did what they did. I never got to know them — grandpa died before I was born, and grandma passed away when I was 10 years old. While family and friends still beam at the thought of them, I’ve struggled with resentment for growing up with the emotional damage of mom’s secret. How could they have lived with soothe souls after exporting you to maintain their “perfect” religious reputation?
If there’s one thing mom could take solace in, she knew you were placed in a Christian family that could love and support you. I hope that’s true. Despite mom’s desire, she couldn’t support you in her teenage years. With Butcher being an adoptive parent himself, I think he understood the blessing of adoption as evident with his depictions. In the stories he painted, those who were adopted served a greater divine purpose. He could have picked any story for Moses; Ten Commandments, Red Sea Crossing — but instead, he picked the one that centered on his adoption.
Straight in the center of the sanctuary was Hallelujah Square. Although cute, it was intimidating how gargantuan the portrait was. The tour guide said it took Butcher 20 years to paint, but he knew that he wanted to paint a heavenly scene with people who had gone to heaven. In the center of the portrait is Jesus. Butcher didn’t intentionally do that in front of such a gigantic blank canvas, he only realized it after taking several steps back. Christ is painted differently than all the other child-like characters, extending His arms to allow His children to come home.
Laura, I hope you know your biological mom loves you. Technically we’re half-siblings, but I heard about you so much that you became a sister-in-heart. You will never read this, and I doubt we’ll ever meet. But someday in the far-off future, I hope to meet you in Hallelujah Square. After all…
Through love, Jesus adopted us both.
