Dad was dressed for a meeting with God, waiting patiently in the old Buick. Mother shouted out from the passenger side window, “Hurry up, it’s time to go.”
The morning air stung my cheeks red ,as I rushed out of the house to meet them in the car. I was wrapped in warmth, with my heavy tweed shrift shop jacket, but underneath my winter barrier, was my Sunday best.
Sitting in the back seat, I pressed my face against the window, and wrote my name backwards in frosty letters.
I stared out at the frozen world, bundled-up faces, and dead scenes of winter, that seemed to plague the city streets of my small-town USA.
Sunday mornings I dreaded the most, waiting for the presence of some Holy Ghost.
Mother and Father remained silent, as the radio played staticky chatter of some polka king, and a song I cared nothing about.
I dreaded this day, a day to pray, but for me , it was just another wasted hour, listening to a man speak about sins that I knew nothing about.
I longed for my bed, quilted cover over my head, but Sundays were always this way. No snow, nor rain, could keep us away, from sitting in that church every Sunday.