When I was younger my grandma Bess
would take Nickie, Keisha and I to church at least once a month. My mom would yank and tug my thick hair into
two neatly braided ponytails. She would
make me wear foofoo dresses with ruffled socks and pinchy patent-leather
shoes. I loved Sunday school because the
teacher was soft spoken and gave us butterscotch candy if we sat quietly. But after bible study we’d all file into the grown up service. The adult church was a whole new world filled
with big colorful hats and paper fans.
Keisha and Nickie would disappear the minute grandma Bess turned her
back but I sat mesmerized by the service.
The preacher would shout and jump around while pounding on the pulpit
and sweating profusely. The music was
like thunder that I could feel in my chest.
The shouting, dancing and falling on the ground after being touched by
the pastor was like watching an African ritual.
I didn’t understand what was happening but
watching the people throw their hands in the air and shout praise gave me a
strange feeling. It made me think that
God must be so great if these people put on their nicest clothes every week
just to come to sing and dance for him. As
I got older I started going to church less and less. But I never forgot the sense of peace I got
every time I closed my eyes to pray. I
could use that peace today. I need
someone other than my husband and family to let me know things are going to be
okay.
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