When I was young, my mother deposited my sisters and me on the sidewalk in front of the Methodist Church every Sunday morning. It only made sense to go inside. Especially in winter, since Sunday was the one day a week we were forced to wear dresses. Vicious winter winds whipped the hems of our skirts, pushing us towards the double doors leading to the sanctuary.

Before long, it became achingly apparent that those double doors actually led to a sort of sanctified catwalk and, as soon as the Richway opened on the opposite corner, my entry into the sanctuary was little more than a detour.

As a teenager, summer Sundays found me in a tiny, white, clapboard church, chiefly populated by elderly Baptists. Attendance was requisite to spending the weekend at Mrs. Wise’s magical, heart-of-pine farmhouse. I liken the experience to being a visitor in a strange country. Few of their traditions were familiar to me. But, we were allowed to wear pants, and the friendly parishioners seemed uninterested in where you had bought them or how much they cost. Everyone appeared truly happy to be there, and even happier to see a new, young face.

I toyed with the idea of converting, until I learned that Southern Baptists disallow a plethora of enjoyable activities; among them, dancing. I am not a frequent dancer, and when I do dance, I don’t do it particularly well. But, I value the freedom to do so when the spirit moves me…

 As a mother, I returned to the Methodist church. And, not just to make a deposit. I actually attended along with my children. By this time, a few avant-garde women were wearing pants, but I stuck to my skirts. As a stay-at-home Mom, I embraced any opportunity to wear make-up and pantyhose.

We attended for several years. My children joined youth groups and were baptized on video. Several years ago, while cleaning the attic, I found the VHS tape in a box filled with books. I gave it to my daughter who watches it with her brothers, on occasion. It reminds them of a pleasant time.

While my children were being sprinkled, however, florid men in Sunday suits were arguing the benefit/cost ratio of a lottery in Georgia. The argument spilled over into the church. Political fire-storm soon superseded religious education, and it became apparent that, while this congregation didn’t stand in judgment of one’s fashion sense, it made no bones about dictating a political stance.

I didn’t attend church in search of a political science lesson. I attended church in search of religious education, for me and for my children. As the level of negativity within the congregation grew, I once again beat a retreat, with one yearly exception.

Every Christmas Eve, we happily interrupted the preparations and festivities for an opportunity to touch God. Inside the sanctuary, the lighting was ambient, the music inspired, and the presence of God more tangible than at any other time in my experience. I always left the church better than when I went in, grateful for the peace and hope He had placed within my heart.

Of course, I see God everyday. What more perfect evidence is there of God’s presence than a bird? These marvelous creatures, who carry everything necessary for life in a tiny feathered bundle that defies gravity, effortlessly. What better proof could there be of the Divine?

And I feel Him working in my life, especially when I have dropped the ball. He usually lets me have my head long enough to realize I’ve lost sight of the finish line, before pulling back on the reins hard enough to unseat me. And, often, it’s not until I’ve regained my composure enough to brush myself off that I realize I’ve just enjoyed a Holy Smack-Down. This realization usually prompts the first smile I’ve allowed myself for days.

You have to smile. It’s just like being a kid; a kid who does something she knows she shouldn’t. And Dad comes in with that look on his face that tells you he knows. He knows and he isn’t happy about it. The only relief for the anxiety inspired by that face is retribution. And, you secretly smile. After Dad leaves the room, you smile. And, for a while you behave, content in the knowledge that when you don’t, when humanity rears its ugly head again, He’ll be there to jerk the reins.