Verge 12

Who Is My Shepherd?

“Every Sunday until I was well into adolescence was spent at church. Wake up at 8:00, get dressed in the same blue dress, pink tights, too-big hand-me-down heels, toes stuffed with tissues to stop my feet from slipping around, no breakfast, just a mug of warm water and vitamins. Help strap my brother into his car seat, drive to church, park two blocks away because we’re late and there are no parking spots left, rush in and forget the holy water at the door, rush back to the door to stand on my tip-toes and dip my fingers into the bowl of fragrant, chilly water, do the sign of the cross, ignore the cold water dripping down my temple, rush back to my family’s pew, kneel and sign of the cross again (I didn’t forget this time), rise and sit next to my mother, pick up my hymn book, ignore my growling stomach and try not to make eye contact with the plaster Jesus full of bloody holes that stands in an alcove right next to our pew.”

“We set down our camping chairs, unfold them noisily and sit, bathing in the silence. I don’t know what I am waiting for. After a few minutes, it begins. Singing, deep and confident and clear, from a vague form in front of me that I can barely make out in the darkness. The verses are slow and lonely, but when the chorus comes around, unsure voices join from quiet corners, and that first voice raises louder than all the others, guiding them in melody and words.”

“I can feel It in the wind, chilling my cheeks and tips of my fingers, see It in the reflections in the eyes of the young stags grazing on the Goucher lawns, hear It in the thumping bass that threatens to blow out the speakers in Ella’s car. I can feel the millions of people who are worshiping with me, speaking in earnest to some abstract celestial being who I call God for the sake of ease.”