Going to Church

As it happened, the first Sunday that we were able to be properly dressed for church was Easter Sunday. Easter meant nothing to me except that Grandmother had to have a corsage to be properly dressed, and we had to leave early to find an open flower shop. Pop drove us to the front of the Church; Grandmother looked it over and told Pop that it would do. We all got out except Pop, who went to park the car and then joined us on the lawn. Grandmother spent the time primping us—a straightened collar, a re-tied shoe, my white gloves pulled on (“Don’t touch anything.”)—while admonishing us about perfect behavior and silence. She put a penny into my little purse in case they took up a collection.

The church was grand and filled with flowers; I could see that from the foyer before a woman claimed me for Sunday School and took me away. I saw my brother being taken in a different direction. I ended up in a pleasant room with eight other well-dressed three-year-olds. We sat on chairs and a woman read a story to us. In the story was a person who was the Son of God, and he loved children. She said it twice: Jesus really loved little children. Then we sang a song:

1. 1. 1. 1. 1. 1. 1. 1. 1. 1. 1. 1. Jesus loves me! This I know,
                                    For the Bible tells me so;
                                    Little ones to Him belong;
                                    We are weak, but He is strong.
                                 2. Refrain:
                                    Yes, Jesus loves me!
                                    Yes, Jesus loves me!
                                    Yes, Jesus loves me!
                                    The Bible tells me so.

Transfixed and transformed, I sat taking deep breaths and not crying. Jesus loved me, ME! The Son of God loved me. I could feel him loving me. It was a different kind of love than I’d known. He loved me just for me, not because I was pretty and could show off the clothing made for me, not because I spoke better and had better manners than others my age. He loved me just as I really was, and he told me that he would keep on loving me—even if I cried, or misspoke, or got dirty, or forgot to say thank you—he would still love me. 

During the song, someone had brought in a perfect model of the church and put it on the carpet behind us. It was to-scale and beautifully constructed. There was a coin slot in the steeple, and we were invited to put our donations into the coin slot. I hung back with Jesus and watched. The first child dropped in a penny, and beautiful bells rang out from the church. As each child dropped in a coin, the bells rang. Some children had two pennies; one even had three! I dropped in my single penny last, and Sunday School was over.

“I want to go to church again.”

“Really? But we went. It’s a lot of work. Do you really have to go back?”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

A compromise was reached. Grandmother dressed me for church, and Pop drove me to and from. “Don’t tell anyone that we’re not with you,” Grandmother said. And for two Sundays I quietly snuck into church.

“Grandmother—you should see the little church they have in Sunday School. When you drop a penny in, bells ring. One of the children brings three pennies. Could I please have three pennies too, so I could make the bells ring three times?”

Grandmother blew up. She hadn’t realized, she said, that she had sent me to a church that practiced “child exploitation.” Imagine them “extorting money from little children!” She was never going to send me back to that place.

But it was all right.

Jesus had come home with me.

Church Bank – Credit: Church Supplies