Today I wrote from the prompt Fadra provided on AllThingsFadra.com for Stream of Consciousness Sunday. The writing took five minutes and sort of swept me off my feet so I cheated and needed to illustrate a bit.
I remember going to church as a little girl, always loving it.
I remember how much I loved the brick and the strength it symbolized. We went to a beautiful church where nearly all the protestants in town attended, no matter what reformed faith you brought with you before, if you lived in Glen Ridge and were Presbyterian or Methodist or Lutheran you would wind up for this stage of your life at the Congregational Church.
I remember leaving our house with my Mother waving goodbye to Daddy who was usually lounging in a T-shirt, grateful for not having to negotiate the commute into New York City. Often times he listened to Hank Williams and others, a complete respite from the Northeast for him.
I remember I hated being late to church.
This, unfortunately, happened regularly.
I remember once I arrived so late I missed the time of going to chapel.
I remember arriving in my Sunday School classroom and it was empty. I did what I always did when I thought I was in trouble, I hid in the corner and cried. Mr. Keller, the Sunday School superintendent, must have heard me. How I remember it is he came in, found me cowering in my patent leather shoes and most likely ruffle covered dress. He took my hand and reassured me, taking me to my Sunday School teachers and classmates assembled in the small chapel.
I remember when my baby brother was baptized and Daddy actually came to church.
I remember at coffee hour, occasionally Mom would spring the 10 cents so I could have a Coke out of the machine. It came in 10 ounce bottles, with a bottle opener attached to the side of the machine. This was a huge treat. We didn’t have coke at home very often. We had water and milk and occasionally cool aid.
I remember my first spiritual crisis at age 8. I hesitated then, at going to church, afraid I was wrong to believe, afraid my teachers would see the questioning in my frightened eyes and not be able to tell me I was right to believe.
Or worse yet, my teachers might NOT see the questioning and would go on like they always did, just slightly unsatisfying.
I don’t remember what my siblings did on Sunday mornings.
I only remember God and me, with my mother a shadow chauffeur who got me to God’s house.
I miss it.
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This was my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…
- Set a timer and write for 5 minutes.
- Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
- Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.
- Add the Stream of Consciousness Sunday badge to your post.
- Link up your poston AllThingsFadra.com
- Visit your fellow bloggers and show some love.
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© 2012
Julie Jordan Scott
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