Church.
The face with many masks, at least in my lifetime.
It
once represented a fun place to make arts and crafts, somehow creatively
connected to scripture. Certificate awards that could be be framed or put in a scrapbook showing the success of learning the books of the Bible. Little snacks and Dixie cups with red Kool-Aid. It
smelled like Play Doh, glue and paint and sounded like Jesus Loves Me This I
Know. I loved having angel wings strapped on my tiny back, lined in sparkly
tinsel, just like the wire halo on a stick hanging over my head. Older people
stood in front of the church wearing matching robe-like gowns, holding hardback
hymnal books and singing off key. My Nanny sang along loudly and I couldn’t
tell if it sounded good or bad. The best part was when the preacher said for
the kids to come forward. We sat criss-cross-applesauce on the carpet and listened
to a Bible story he had tried to recreate in our novice language. Sometimes we even
got a little prize, like a piece of candy.
