by Gale Acuff
God lives in Heaven but visits our church
every Sunday. I’ve never seen Him there
but He must arrive pretty early and
then hide somewhere, maybe inside a wall
or on the backside of a pew, I mean
wooden folding chair, we’re not rich enough
yet for pews, or underneath the altar.
Or in the Jesus behind the altar
and on the all. That would be a good spot
to hang. That’s the last place I’d look for Him.
Anyway, in Sunday School what happens
is we feel Him, God and / or Jesus, or
at least I do, and likely Miss Hooker,
our teacher. I don’t like the other kids
much or maybe they just bore me since I
see them in regular school five days straight
but I guess they’re got the right to come here
same as I do but sometimes I’m not sure
why I show. If we could talk about that
in class some Sunday morning that would be
good but Miss Hooker wouldn’t go for it,
not that she’s not fair-minded but that she
might think we’re plotting a revolution.
A revolution? Really? We’re only
ten years old to her 25 so she’s
been around some and to give her credit
she’s good at sticking to the subject of
saving our necks–or souls–from Hell. I got
saved a few weeks ago but it didn’t
last, I backslid, but I didn’t tell her,
Miss Hooker I mean, because I don’t want
to break her heart and then she might lose her
faith and wind up in Hell when she’s dead same
as I will. At least we’ll have something in
common. After Sunday School this morning
I asked Miss Hooker how come I can feel
God all around me but I can’t get Him
to show Himself to me. What’s the big deal?
I don’t know, she offered, but if you do
lay eyes on Him, tell me all about it.
I said, Yes ma’am, but I was lying. I
wonder why. Lying’s a sin. Sin means Hell.
If the truth sets me free God might kill me.