By Ruth Koehler

Special to the Dispatch

During my high school years, our family were members of the Apostolic Lutheran Church in Sebeka, Minnesota.  Although we didn’t attend every Sunday, it was our church for weddings, funerals, anniversary celebrations and other gatherings.  Sebeka is part of the Finnish Triangle, of Menahga, New York Mills, and Sebeka.

During my freshman year in high school, my sister Martha, a senior, and I knew confirmation school was coming up in Sebeka.  The plan was to attend confirmation classes each day for two weeks whereby our dad needed to drive us to Sebeka each of those mornings and get us at the end of each day’s classes, the distance being nine miles.  We knew this was a huge task for Dad having farm chores and other duties at home.  However, we knew us being confirmed was important to him.

The other big deal for us was missing school for this large amount of time.  We knew we would be making up major parts of missed classes.  We felt this burden plus the memorizing we needed to be confirmed.  Our high school was in New York Mills, 12 miles in the opposite direction from our farm.

Reverend Alajoki was a super strict pastor in our eyes.  He rarely smiled or laughed and didn’t expect this from us either.  Since Finnish was his first language, his English was highly broken, although we could understand his words coming through his thick mustache.   All lessons were spoken with the best seriousness he could muster with nary a trace of humor.  He would gaze at us through his thick glasses while checking our attentiveness.

With several lively boys and girls in the class, it’s no wonder noise and laughter prevailed whenever the chance arose during breaks.  Pastor was not happy when he heard such a racket, and he gave the impression he was dealing with a very sinful bunch for which much prayer was needed.

Finally break time came, so we moved into the basement while Pastor Alajoki lay down on a pew to rest.  It wasn’t until a year or so later we found out he had been suffering from cancer, which is why he was so tired.  He passed away soon after retiring from his work.  Martha and I then understood why he seemed so weak; it hadn’t been all because of us.

At lunch time we usually walked a block to the local restaurant and ordered a hamburger, enjoying this favorite part of our day.  Going to a  restaurant was always a treat from our usual farm life routine.  We valued the time with class members, laughing in the booths together, and commenting on how strict our pastor was.

The days went by quickly and confirmation was upon us.  My sister and I each got pretty dresses through the Aldens catalog, ordered well ahead by our mom who felt we needed to look sharp for this celebration.

When Sunday came, we all sat dutifully up front, making sure to not whisper or act silly.  Upon hearing the questions, we recited from memory the passages we had diligently practiced.  Our parents and family members proudly listened to how well we had learned our lessons to guide us through life.  

Confirmation classes today are usually after church services or on a separate night.  It seems ours was unique even for the late 1950s, however, it worked for us.  We got through it just fine, and the school lessons we had missed were made up.  I don’t think our grades were affected negatively, although maybe our social lives suffered a bit.  

Many memories remain clear of the Apostolic Church in Sebeka, especially since we were married in that church years later by Reverend Niskanen, another Finnish pastor, one who smiled a lot.