Sunday Morning

The family car might take us all to a movie or to a restaurant or, in such occasions, take us all to church. But mostly, it was the family car.

The church my family attends is a twenty or twenty-five minute drive from our house. In a car heading to church on a Sunday morning, twenty minutes has never felt longer. Rolling hills tumble by as trees become blurs of leaves and twigs. Slowly the time passes as I watch the landscape streak by. Finally we pull into the nearly empty church parking lot; our car is one of three. One of the cars, a yellow, boxy-backed thing with two seats, had parked in the farthest space from the church. The other, a small, white truck with spots of rust where the paint had peeled, parked nearly on the front patio. Both cars belong to church custodians, one of whom still occupies his car. Slowly, we crawl up a row of spaces before pulling into the topmost space, then out, then in again to straighten out. My dad never got used to driving the family car but always insisted on driving it to church.

As our car comes to a stop, the man in the white truck gets out and heads toward the church with a ring of keys in his hand. I hadn’t known before who in the congregation was responsible for the church’s upkeep, and failed to recognize this man in the dark blue dress shirt and brown slacks. Coming to a stop seemed to be a cue for everyone to jump from their seat and pour out of the car. My parents head for the church’s kitchen while the rest of us, my three siblings and I, goof around in the parking lot for a while before making our way into the church to wait for service to start.

Slowly people trickle into church until ten-after for the nine o’clock morning service. The floor of the church’s main room is a cream colored tile with tan and white flecks. The tiles make steps loud enough to be heard on the other side of the room, so long as very little or no other noise is made. Fluorescent tubes light the church and electric fans stand in the corners in an attempt to keep the large room cool. The morning sermon nears its end but the buzz of light overhead stole my attention long ago. Movement in the corner of my eye pulls my gaze back to earth. My parents have stood and now make their way towards the kitchen, thinking quickly, I decide to go with them. Few steps from my chair I feel the stares of curiosity burn the back of my neck. I turn to confront the gawking worshippers to find them pretending not to have noticed.

In the kitchen, my parents load the large cylinders of coffee onto a many shelved, black-finished, metal cart. Looking up briefly, my parents spot me and seem appreciative for any help. We make our way around the back of the church to the front patio with the coffee cart, two folding tables, and two metal-framed chairs, careful not to alert anyone to our movement. The tables and coffee cart are setup as a small barricade around the chairs. Low on time, we quickly sort out the items from the cart to the designated places. My mom handles the creamers, the sugar, and coffee stirrers. My dad manages the Styrofoam cups and the coffee, both regular and decaf. My parents man their stations just in time for the patio to erupt in commotion as the church empties its occupants.