Sunday Morning

Those who have known me for a short time would be surprised that my Sunday morning ritual used to involve teaching Sunday school and playing in the church handbell choir. 

I loved teaching Sunday school. I taught the three year olds. We sang songs, spun in circles, drew pictures, and ran around on the playground. I was never into the 'message of Jesus' as the other teachers called it, but I did want to teach the children important things. I wanted them to know that they were loved, that someone cared for them, and that the world was a friendly and wonderful place.

I was in the handbell choir simply because nobody else wanted to be. In my small Lutheran school, you HAD to either play a sport, be a cheerleader, or volunteer at the church. I tried basketball and hated it, and despite my mothers dreams, I loathed the thought of being a cheerleader. That left only one option: volunteering. 

I spent a few weeks organizing the church library, but the secretary got mad at me because I asked why all of the books for women involved obeying men to make them happy. The next time I went to volunteer, the secretary said she didn't need help. 

I had a few weeks of mailing out offering packets, but it was a short lived gig. 

I asked if I could volunteer to mow the church lawn but that was met with a resounding NO. Apparently only boys could volunteer to mow. 

Given the option of visiting the elderly or playing handbells, I chose the handbells. Every Sunday I would dutifully pick up my bell and chime it in unison along with an assorted group of older women who had joined the handbell choir out of sheer boredom. 

After I got done with my Sunday school kids and chimed my bell intermittently throughout the church service, my dad would take off his church usher's jacket and drive me home, stopping to get a forbidden doughnut from the local bakery. My mom would get mad if she knew he was letting me have a doughnut, so we would eat them in the bakery, sitting on tiny chairs while he chatted with the old men who came there to drink coffee after church. 

At fifteen, I abruptly stopped going to church. I told my parents I had never really believed in Jesus and my mom got hysterical, telling me," It doesn't matter if you believe, Kerrie. You go to church because you don't want people to talk bad about you." Every Sunday she would scream and yell and try to cajole me into going long enough for people to see me there, and every Sunday I refused.

My peaceful Sunday mornings had turned into a living hell. 

These days my Sundays are different. I roll out of bed late, throw on some comfortable clothes, and head to the coffee shop where my partner works. 

She brings me a steaming Americano and a raspberry white chocolate muffin, and I settle into the big leather chair by the front window with the newspaper. 

The Sunday morning regulars come by. 

 Ms. Ella, who is 75 and has her daughter drop her off, sits and talks to me. We swap recipes and she makes her shopping list. She LOVES my partner and doesn't care that we are atheist lesbians. She and my partner talk on the phone weekly and my partner takes her grocery shopping twice a month, patiently helping her carry everything in and put it away. 

The Asian family that comes by every week drops by to pick up some coffee, their kids giggling as we make silly faces at each other. 

There are a lot of kids that come by the shop. I smile and wave at them and occasionally we giggle together. I want them to know that the world is a friendly and welcoming place, and that they are loved. 

Stevie Wonder plays on the CD player and I sing along. 

Ray-Ray comes by and sits at the table right outside the window, chain smoking and gulping coffee. Before he leaves, he points at my partner and jokingly tells me,"Watch out for that one. You gotta keep her in line."

On the way home, I stop at Aldis and get our groceries for the week. I buy what I want and what we can afford, and if I want doughnuts I get doughnuts.