“Why I Don’t go to Sunday School”
I can’t hear the teacher over the noisy trees and all those blasted yelling leaves.
They are a brazen foliage, their voices strong and loud, covering even the most exciting of readings. The morning follows me every Sunday to church, shouting from outside the window, Hey. What are you doing inside?! Get out here. The sky is great! And the lesson buzzes into a faint, far away hum like thousands of bees in the tops of blossoming Persimmons: their white lacy flowers distracting them to madness. Madness. The pew is, for some strange reason, too straight like work and nothing makes sense except the breeze I’m missing,
and sunlight on water and skin
and don’t get me started on the laughing grass
and how smart the butterfly can be if it is given the chance .
I know you are going to ask me to go to church
with you in the morning and I don’t know what to tell you.
What that thought does to me is makes me feel like I am 9 years old again, in the house on a Sunday morning with Mother making me put on my patent leather shoes
and fluffy yellow dress for worship service.
I am being forced to brush my hair out of my eyes,
and to wear a barrette with a gaudy bow.
The whole house is in a flurry to not be late.
We are rushing to the car in a slapping, yelling, grabbing of last minute Bibles
and offering envelopes frenzy, when out of the corner of my eye, I see Jesus.
Jesus is 9 years old too, wearing his everyday sneakers, the blue ones with the holes in the toes.
He is motioning for me to get my bike and ride over to the dirt field with him.
Someday there will be a little strip mall there with an ice-cream shop and a laundry matt,
but right now it is an orange muddy paradise
for thick mud tires and carefree children’s hearts.
Jesus is mouthing to me to ask my mom if I can go.
And all I can think
is how do I tell her that Jesus wants to know if I can come out and play.
He wants to know if I can go bike riding instead of going to church.
I’m in the same place I’ve been my whole life.
I don’t know what to tell you.
How do I tell anybody, EVER that Jesus told me it is a sin to be inside on pretty Sunday mornings?