I’m a church girl. The hours I spent at church growing up were hugely formative for me.
My childhood is laced with memories of church.
There’s the vacation Bible school one summer, when we started each morning in big church singing “Onward Christian Soldier” out of heavy blue hymnals.
And the Wednesday nights when I pulled my calico maxi-skirt over my ballet leotard and tights so we could go straight to Wednesday night supper in the Annex.
Memories of slipping off after the Sunday morning sermon to play in the crawl space under the sanctuary while our moms lingered over long conversations.
And – only some of you will remember this – Sunday nights when Truth came to sing. The matching outfits. The hair. And the night off preaching. I would fan-girl the entire concert, deliberating over which two girls in the group might get assigned to stay in our guest room.