We all come to God in different ways. For me, as an only child of parents who saw little value in religion, it was a mostly solitary road when I was a young adult. But the map for that journey was drawn in a magical place when I was little girl.
Until I was about five years old, I went to church with my great-grandparents. Granny and Granddaddy would wake me up early on Sunday, and we would make our way to Oak Grove United Methodist Church in Tampa, Florida. The external covered walkways. The steeple. The stained glass. Oh, how I loved the stained glass. And I can still remember the red carpet and the white pews in the chapel where the United Methodist Women met before church for what I now know was the women’s bible study. I had my little zip-closed Bible with the pictures of Adam and Eve and Noah’s zoo-boat on it. And the ladies would brag about and love on me.
I remember the responsibility that I felt when Granny would put a nickel or quarter in my little fist, telling me to hold onto it for the collection. I was responsible for all that money – my gift for the collection plate. I would grip that coin like my life depended on it. I loved that responsibility. To a little kid, it said that I had something to give to God.
And then, we you entered “Big” church, there was the magic board with the code. At least, that is how my little brain saw the posted board with removable letters that had the hymn numbers and Bible verses on it. To my little mind, those moveable plastic letters were a special code for the initiated, and Granny, in her great-grandmother magic, knew the code and marked her hymnal and Bible accordingly.
It was such a magical and mystical place. Candles at Christmas. Flowers at Easter. The weird little fence for communion. Hard pews for sliding and squirming. And the Lord’s Prayer… all those s’s in “trespasses.” Communal prayer is still one of my favorite sounds. It always fascinated me. Everyone dressed in their best. Little sun dresses for me and ties on the men. Such a wonderfully different place than the playground or school.
At that little Methodist church, the map for my journey as a Christian was drawn on my heart. It was a magical place to start my life’s journey with God, the great mapmaker.
