Where I've Been, Part I: God's House?

It seems strange to start a blog about my life and my journey with current events.  So I've decided to post a few things from the past.  This post is a story a wrote about in college, and recounts my earliest memories of church.  Well here we go....

God's House:
I don’t remember going to church as a child on any sort of regular basis.  In all honesty I can only remember going on Easter, and only if we were at MeMaw Parker’s house.  My mother had grown up going to Piedmont First Methodist Church every time the doors opened, but had fallen out of the habit by the time I was born.  Apparently my brother had problems sleeping through the night when he was little and my parents discovered that if they took him camping he would wear himself out playing all day and pass out till they woke him up the next day.  When they woke up for the first time since his birth on their own and not to his crying they thought he was dead, but when they discovered that he was, in fact, actually sleeping they knew they had found the solution to their sleep deprivation. They vowed to go camping every weekend.  Needless to say, the appeal of sleeping the night outweighed the appeal of sleeping in church, and they soon found themselves going to church less and less.  Still, as true southerners buckled in the top notch of the Bible belt, we managed to get to church on Easter.
Generally I loved going to MeMaw’s house.  It was in rural Alabama in a town called Piedmont, but I always just referred to it as the real life Mayberry.  Her house, which she and my grandfather built themselves from the foundation up (no doubt with some forced labor provided by mother and my uncle), was surrounded by massive oak trees, climbing one of which became a major rite of passage among my siblings and cousins.  The lowest branch was well above my head when I was a child and I still remember the first time I was able to jump up and hold on then claw my way up, jamming my bare feet into every slight dip or crevasse in the thick trunk to gain traction till my whole body was on the lowest branch. Beyond the trees there were corn fields where we would play our elaborate games of cops and robbers, each row of gold stalks transformed into an alleyway where we took on the likes of Al Capone. We would spend all day driving from oak tree to corn field and around the neighboring farms on my uncle’s four wheeler, which of course in our minds was a police cruiser that could off-road and drive over the “double-dip” ditches, stopping only for the occasional homemade cookie and glass of milk.
 As a rough and dirty young tomboy, the days at grandma’s house seemed like heaven to me.  But that morning was Easter and it was explained to me that I had to get cleaned up and put on my best dress to go to church because, “we are going to God’s House, and you always look and bring your best when you go to God’s House.”  So, reluctantly, I dragged myself to the bath and scrubbed the four wheeler grease from my finger nails, and my mother attacked my head with the hair dryer and curlers and bandaged it with a big pink bow.  “You always have to look you best?” I thought as I stared at what once was me in the mirror, disturbed by the poodle styled hair that had replaced my cap and the giant pink monstrosity engulfing me that posed as a dress.  “This ain’t my best; I look like a deranged cupcake.”
I know that I had been to church prior to that Easter, but for some reason this is the first time that I remember.  I arrived in a state of frustration my pasty white tights were sagging and I wanted nothing more than to get out of my pink fluffy marshmallow dress and return to my tree climbing.  The service seemed to be last forever and I began to question if I really wanted to spend eternity in heaven with God if this was the preview.  There was an old guy standing in a booth atop a platform, which was atop some stairs that led down to the congregation.  His voice droned on and often I felt he was stating the same things again just to fill up the hour.
“Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord…Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty…Forgive us oh Holy one…Holy is the Lord God Almighty, the earth is filled with his glory…Father, you are holy, holy, holy.”
I stared up at the ceiling, white antique tiles with intricate wreath designs and the occasional dot of mildew, then the windows. The front circular one above the altar showing a white young blond headed Jesus looking quite depressed as he knelt by a boulder, eyes turned upward, pleading for something.  Wasn’t too sure what that was all about.
“God certainly has a fancy house,” I thought, as i stared blankly listening to the handbells.  “I guess he is God and he can have whatever he wants…he must be pretty lame, this place is boring,” I said to myself, although not really surprised since in my mind God was some old guy up in the sky who received prayers and would get back to you eventually. “If I were God I would have the coolest house ever!”
I began to envision a grand house suspended 40 feet in the air by a giant oak.  There would be a rope ladder that could be raised to prevent intruders, or boys with cooties. My brother could come in but most of the time it would be for me and my friends.  Fire poles would be in place to allow for quick exits to lower floors of the house or to descend from the tree all together.  Out behind the tree house would be a land full of dips and ditches for all of the four wheelers that would be parked by the fire poles, waiting to be driven. There would be no dresses allowed.  Shoes would only be used if necessary to protect the feet.  Indeed it would be the land flowing with milk and cookies.

About this Blog

So I'm joining the world of bloggers.   I can't say that I consider myself to be a brilliant writer or more insightful than anyone else.  I simply seek to share my story, my thoughts, and to add my voice to chorus. I'll post reflections from my own experience, and I hope to hear from yours.