I was packed up and shoved out the door with my older brothers and sister when I was only five years old.
I followed them down the driveway and along the road to the Baptist Church on the corner, because Mom made me do it.
We were all spiffed up in our Sunday best, hair slicked and faces scrubbed and a bow or two in our hair. No, not the boys. They had hair goo that smelled good and made them look like little rockers before their time.
It was Sunday morning and Sunday School started promptly at 10 a.m., in the basement of the Church where it was cool in the summertime and cold in the winter.
In the center of the basement, we sat on chairs and listened to the slightly out-of-tune, tinny sound of the piano that suffered from basement woes, and we sang kids songs about Jesus and Sunshine Mountain and If You're Happy And You Know It songs, and we clapped our hands and grinned our way through fifteen minutes of fun before going behind curtains to our separate classes and our wonderful teachers.
I remember the first Sunday, after I completed Grade One in school, when Mom called up the stairs, telling us to get up for Sunday School. I was downright appalled. It was school vacation, for crying out loud, and that meant Sunday School vacation too, and I told her so, but did she listen?
Nooo.
"You go to Sunday school all year round," she said, with a gleam of something in her eyes.
"That's not fair!" I said in disgust.
Of course, looking back, year-round Sunday School didn't do me any harm, but I'd rather have been playing at home or outside.
When we got to be teenagers and all the privileges that were bestowed upon us at that age, we also had to go to Church at 11 a.m., as well as do our time in Sunday School.
Two whole hours of our weekends were stolen from us, just like that.
I actually loved Sunday School and all the girls looking dolled up, even some wearing ridiculous red lipstick when they shouldn't have been, and the boys in their white shirts and one tie and dress pants and shoes polished by their very own hands. You could tell, because they were still wearing some polish stains around their fingernails.
The boys acted up during the singing part because they liked to sissy-mimic the cute girls' singing, and the girls were all cute, of course, and could sing like little angels too.
Boys were so immature, but lovable when you think of it, looking back.
Not at the time, though. Nope.
They were a Royal Pain.
And they sucked the dignity right out of Sunday School morning in the Baptist Church in the village every chance they got.
I followed them down the driveway and along the road to the Baptist Church on the corner, because Mom made me do it.
We were all spiffed up in our Sunday best, hair slicked and faces scrubbed and a bow or two in our hair. No, not the boys. They had hair goo that smelled good and made them look like little rockers before their time.
It was Sunday morning and Sunday School started promptly at 10 a.m., in the basement of the Church where it was cool in the summertime and cold in the winter.
In the center of the basement, we sat on chairs and listened to the slightly out-of-tune, tinny sound of the piano that suffered from basement woes, and we sang kids songs about Jesus and Sunshine Mountain and If You're Happy And You Know It songs, and we clapped our hands and grinned our way through fifteen minutes of fun before going behind curtains to our separate classes and our wonderful teachers.
I remember the first Sunday, after I completed Grade One in school, when Mom called up the stairs, telling us to get up for Sunday School. I was downright appalled. It was school vacation, for crying out loud, and that meant Sunday School vacation too, and I told her so, but did she listen?
Nooo.
"You go to Sunday school all year round," she said, with a gleam of something in her eyes.
"That's not fair!" I said in disgust.
Of course, looking back, year-round Sunday School didn't do me any harm, but I'd rather have been playing at home or outside.
When we got to be teenagers and all the privileges that were bestowed upon us at that age, we also had to go to Church at 11 a.m., as well as do our time in Sunday School.
Two whole hours of our weekends were stolen from us, just like that.
I actually loved Sunday School and all the girls looking dolled up, even some wearing ridiculous red lipstick when they shouldn't have been, and the boys in their white shirts and one tie and dress pants and shoes polished by their very own hands. You could tell, because they were still wearing some polish stains around their fingernails.
The boys acted up during the singing part because they liked to sissy-mimic the cute girls' singing, and the girls were all cute, of course, and could sing like little angels too.
Boys were so immature, but lovable when you think of it, looking back.
Not at the time, though. Nope.
They were a Royal Pain.
And they sucked the dignity right out of Sunday School morning in the Baptist Church in the village every chance they got.
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