a remembered safety

I loved church when I was little. I loved the music. I loved my friends. I loved coloring on my FunPads during the sermon. I loved sitting on the front row with my Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma would trace my ears with her finger as she listened to the pastor. At times, I would sit on Grandpa’s lap. He had big hands. They were covered with age spots and his veins where huge and would stand up from his hands (a trait I would learn later that is passed on throughout our generations). I would trace his veins with my finger and push them down and watch in delight as they would pop back up again. Often, when people were sick or we were in need of a spiritual revival, we would, as a church family, gather around the alter on our knees. People would take turns praying loudly. Some would be weeping. Others singing. Others shouting. All the voices would mingle and grow in volume. It was all-encompassing. I would curl up in between the platform where the pulpit was and the alter. I would snuggle up next to the heater and close my eyes. A blanket of heat, voices, and the presence of God would enfold me. I would feel so safe and peaceful.
I have revisited the church multiple times since I have entered the world of adults. I have seen other such times gathered around the pulpit. I feel different now. The voices seem chaotic and unnerving. I can not close my eyes or feel the lease bit peaceful. I don’t hear or see God there any longer. I simply see people in desperation, feeding off of worry and emotion working into frenzy. I do not feel safe there any longer. Even so, I look at the place where that fat little redhead would snuggle up to the heater. I can almost see the shadow of him, resting in the moments of peace he could find, sighing as the loud voices block out his own raging thoughts, fears, and secrets.