Sunday School

I always hated going to church; it was boring, listening to the sermons and the pastor read the cryptic words of the bible to the congregation. But I loved the people I was surrounded by there. The pastor, John Paterson, was a good man, and at least he tried to make the sermons interesting. Halfway through church, he would call all the children of the congregation forward and talk to us, ask us questions, encourage us to answer them how we pleased; and our answers were never wrong. He encouraged us to think on our answers, to reflect on why we answered those questions the way we did.   He encouraged us to think freely.

After he called us forward, his wife Katherine would lead us back down the aisle and downstairs, where we would have Sunday school. We all sat around the table and did arts and crafts, cutting bits of construction paper as we saw fit and pasting them to white paper, drawing outside the lines, chewing on the erases of pencils. Sometimes she would have us do a project around a passage from the Bible, but sometimes she would let our minds roam and find their peace in those simple projects. 

Katherine Paterson, the famous author of children's and young adult's books. She led then and still leads a low-key life, and she was always a reminder of the kindness found in the dusty corners of old churches, a reminder of the kindness we may find in strangers. At the time, I didn't even realize that she was an author; I didn't realize how truly blessed I was to have her to guide me. By the time I realized this, I had stopped going to church; and I didn't appreciate her sedentary teachings until much later in life. 

I stopped going to church because she stopped teaching Sunday school and her husband John retired as the pastor of the church. I stopped going to church because the new Sunday school teacher once told me that my beliefs were wrong, when I asked if it were wrong that I believed in something other than a final death; if it were wrong that I believed in reincarnation. I felt betrayed, but it was not the church or even the people in the church that betrayed me; it was one person alone who betrayed my trust in the church.

My father always said that church didn't have to be only a place for religious people; it could be a place to reflect, or meditate, or simply listen to the stories of an ancient people. It could be a place to learn people, to know your community, to find solace in the kindness of that community. I stopped going to church because of one person, and it has been so long that I do not feel like I can go back. Not only that, but I feel I have found a church within myself, and that it is no longer truly necessary for me to go to a place of worship to reflect on myself, my life, the things I have done or haven't done. I can do that on my own time. I do, however, miss the guidance of my first Sunday school teacher, and the guidance of the other elders in the church. 

I find guidance in myself though, although much of the time I have to dig for it, and I have to dig deep to find it. I find guidance in myself when I begin to fall asleep at night; when I write; when I am with my peers; when I listen to music; when I spend time with my friends and family. Life is not always as simple as finding something where it should be. Sometimes finding those things takes a little work, a little creative thinking. Sometimes life requires a little thinking outside of the box.

The Comforts of Being A Child

I see my dad now with my youngest niece, Ella, who is six years old. He seems so happy and compassionate when he is around her. So often do people say, “your father acts with Ella just like he did with you.” It's not that he's unhappy with me now, or disinterested, but he treats me like an adult. He talks to me like an adult. It's funny to think about when I was a teenager and that was all I strove for. I don't remember exactly which time was the first time he talked to me like an adult, but I do remember feeling proud at some moment when I realized he was treating me like an adult. Now though, I sometimes find myself wishing that he treated me like he does Ella. 

I wouldn't ever say my dad is an uncaring person, but I do see how much different he is with children. I think the majority of true smiles I've seen from my dad are in photographs with me and my younger brother Luke when we were kids, and when he is around children now, especially Ella. He smiles a lot when we have family dinner with him and his wife, even when the jokes are at his expense.

Today at work, my coworker Jessica was talking about how her father will sometimes say to her, “Do you remember when you could still fit on my leg?” She said that she couldn't remember, because he was referring to her when she was an infant. Wouldn't the memories of being an infant, if they stayed with us, be such a reward in times of darkness, especially with loving parents? That was my first thought when she was talking about this. I thought about how much I've been told by others how my parents loved me and took care of me, and I would rather have those memories than the memories of the fights I had with my mother, or the arguments I had with my father; the guilt I felt when I didn't go to college right away or the disappointment I felt when I let my parents down. 

I find myself thinking of childhood as a reminder of what life is. Not the purpose of life; I feel that we all have our own purpose in life, so generalizing that would be to dispose of the genuine wonder that all life brings. I think of my childhood to remember happiness, wonder, awe, and love. I think of my childhood to bring relief and calm, patience and respite when I am immersed in a stressful situation, when I hurt, when I feel as if the world around me is crumbling. 

 

Ignorance is bliss, which is partially why childhood was so comfortable. Ignorance of the unnecessary necessities of adult life; fighting depression, paying the bills, finding and holding a job, being responsible. In some ways I find those who shuck their responsibility admirable; it's a retreat back to childhood. 

 

We all find a road to walk on, and while sometimes that road turns back on itself, and crosses back over itself, it does always move forward. Sometimes there's a wall built across, and we need to take some time to tear it down, but once that's out of the way we keep going. I have to, even though sometimes I'd like to just sit down and wait for something to come along to motivate me. One thing I've found in life is that waiting around for something brings nothing; the only way to make something happen is to trudge on and find it yourself, to initiate it yourself.

An Introduction

To those that read this, or have it read to them; I hope they all remember that in life, I have lived. And while most of my living has taken place in the imagination and wonderment of my childhood, those moments resonate with me in my adult life. I find myself daydreaming about my childhood where some would day dream about their future. I dwell in my past because many of my younger years were some of my happiest. I have my parents to thank for this, and my brothers and sister. All of the children who surround me now, my nieces and nephews, bring me happiness and joy that only children can bring.

I've come to another moment in my life, as all moments come and go. It seems some are bolded in heavy black letters; other moments only slightly italicized. Some moments are partially faded, others barely a whisper on the wind, not even held long enough to be put down in print. There are memories, strong and colorful; others in black and white; some only in pieces, like a film missing bits off its reel. Sometimes my memories come in pieces, or they seem like dreams, and maybe some of them are. 

My memories don't really flow in chronological order. My life is an ever-changing shadow because of this. My earliest memory is of my younger brother choking on a hard candy in the bank. I don't remember how old we were exactly, only that I was younger than five because we still lived in our old house, so he must have been four. I remember him coughing, and my mom hitting his back. In front of her in line was a woman who said “no, don't do that, it will only make it worse”.  There is a point in that memory where I remember her saying she was a doctor, but I don't know where it was placed in regards to the only words I actually remember seeing her speak.  I remember spitting my own candy out across the bank and I remember it distinctly sliding underneath the terminal where members of the bank would fill out their bank slips. I don't remember anything else from that day, but I do remember in the days following that I thought everything I ate I would choke on. I remember specifically thinking I was going to choke while eating cheerios at the dining room table in the old house, with those pink curtains covering the window behind me.