My Childhood Church

My church is gothic, ancient, and smells like wax. Many business dealings here, all kinds of pacts. The daddies are sleeping, or pretending, at least. The mommies are fawning at the cute youngish priest. We children dare not squirm on these hard little pews. Our bodies all squashed up, our freedoms are few. The beautiful stained glass shows us a giant Biblical scene. I never tire of looking at Jesus in the pasture of green. Sunlight streams through, it is like God is anointing this place. The priest sneezes, and he gets really red in the face. We kids stifle our laughter, and shuffle our feet on the floor. Mom gives us a look that says “not one time more.” My church has dark paneling that is ten miles thick. It is pretty to look at, and the candles lit by alter boy’s wick. This place is where people have prayed for a hundred years. There is a sanctity about it, which eliminates my weekly fears.