A Short Story On… Church

Growing up, our Southern Baptist Church in Frederick, Oklahoma, was the center of our entire world. On Sunday mornings, you would find my family stretching across the uncomfortable wooden pews of the second and third rows. During especially long sermons, the thin red cushions failed. The little comfort they provided gave way to the reality of the situation; our preacher would never stop talking.

Our church was not a large building. 7 or 8 classrooms, a couple of restrooms, nursery, office, kitchen, fellowship hall, and a sanctuary comprised the entire building. As a kid, wandering those halls, I found my church to be one of the most intimidating places on the planet. With lights out, shadows played tricks on my mind and left me searching for escape. In those empty spaces, I could feel forces of evil calling from beyond.

Of course, I have always had an overactive imagination. Sundays usually meant stories filled with warnings about hell, fire, and brimstone. With this tape on repeat in your mind, finding the devil lurking around the corner on supposed hallowed ground isn’t so farfetched.

As a kid, I remember having vivid and terrifying dreams about dying and burning eternally in the pits of hell. I remember screaming for my mom to come and save me. On multiple occasions, she did exactly that.