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| Hedalen Stave Church |
Two
months ago, I was sitting in the pews of the 12th century stave
church where my great-grandfather Helge had been baptized and
confirmed. His mother Barbro had been baptized, confirmed and married
there. Her parents—baptized, confirmed, married and buried.
I had been looking
forward to this event since the time I started planning my Norwegian
ancestor- hunting expedition. The group of people I was traveling
with all had ancestors from the region called Valdres, and we had
spent the week visiting each Valdres town—six in all—and its
corresponding church: Vang, Oystre Slidre,Vestre Slidre, Etnedal,
Nord Aurdal, and now the Hedalen church in Sor Aurdal. In each town
the group members with ancestors there would say, “This is my home
church.” I had been patient and polite through five visits to
other people's churches. Now finally, in Hedalen, it was my turn to
say, non-churchgoer that I am, “This is my home church.”
I felt particular
pride in having the only stave church in Valdres to call my home
church. Built in 1160, it is still standing. It had been altered,
added on to to allow for the growing congregation, but there it still
stood on its original site. It was the last church we went to and, as
the visit fell on Sunday, we were invited to attend the service. And,
as if that weren't exciting enough, there were to be two baptisms
that day. This old agnostic was all agog anticipating the experience.
Two baby girls were
brought to the center of the church where the baptismal font was
located. They were accompanied by their entire families: parents,
grandparents, god parents, siblings—all in their traditional
regional costumes or “bunads”. The minister started in on the
first infant, addressing her tenderly as the little girl was held in
the familiar arms of a family member. Then came the moment when she
was transferred to the minister's arms to be cradled for the next
stage of the ritual. I braced myself for the inevitable outcry, but
the baby simply looked interestedly into the face of this new person.
There was commentary throughout, of which I understood not one word
(well maybe “gud”), but I caught the gist.
Sometimes the
minister addressed the whole family, sometimes the parents, sometimes
the congregation at large. And then the time came when she looked
directly at the baby and spoke lovingly to her. The baby studied her
face, totally open to this novel experience. The minister removed the
little white cap to reveal a shock of dark hair (yes, there are
non-blondes who are sometimes referred to as Black Norwegians) and
the dousing began. Still no objection from the baptizee—she and the
minister held each others' gaze throughout. Then the minister
triumphantly held the infant aloft, facing her outward toward the
assembled witnesses. I'm sure her words told them, “Here! This baby
is now in your keeping—you are her community, her protection, her
family.” While everyone beamed, the baby girl was handed over to
her godmother who looked to be about twelve years old.
And
then the whole process began with baby #2 and I got to experience the
wonderful ritual all over again—this time knowing what to expect,
anticipating my favorite parts, memorizing the looks that passed
between minister and babe. The second subject was as cooperative as
the first and all ended happily, with the exception of a meltdown on
the part of a two-year-old sibling who had had enough of standing
around in uncomfortable clothing. An exuberant procession of both
families down the center aisle, accompanied by the jubilant ringing
of church bells, had me thinking wistfully that there definitely were
perks to being a Lutheran.
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