Growing up in Mississippi, the question was never if you went to church but where. We are, after all, the belt buckle of the Bible Belt. On Sundays and Wednesdays, there were only a handful of places you could possibly be- church, hospitalized, or so sick at home you were unable to stand on your own power. My family belonged to a blonde brick Baptist church at the end of a boulevard. It’s where I spent much of my young life. My Daddy was a deacon and both of my parents were Sunday school teachers. They also sang in the choir, which meant they had an elevated and unobstructed view of my friends and me during the service. My Mama, especially, seemed to have an eagle eye when it came to spotting any talking or note-writing activity. She would then send me nonverbal messages with her eyes from the choir loft. A furrowed brow meant- I see you laughing and you have until exactly right now to stop it or I’ll tell your Daddy when we get home. A slight shake of the head meant you better get that gum out of your mouth and put it in that offering envelope you’ve been using to doodle. If her eyes narrowed and started to take on a red glow, that meant- I see you whispering and I hope you don’t think you’re going anywhere but school this week. 

The blonde brick Baptist church on the boulevard is probably the first place my parents carried me when I was new to the world. I went to Sunday school and kindergarten and Bible school and GA’s and training union there. I sat in little wooden chairs and made crafts and learned songs. I colored on construction paper with coffee cans full of broken crayons and ate crackers and drank fruit punch. I skated, played foosball, pulled cold bottles from the coke machine, and slid down the banisters when no one was looking. I’d go home with friends for the afternoon on Sundays and they’d bring me back to the night service. The next week, they’d come home with me to run in the sprinkler, play a round of croquet, or something as riveting as that.

It’s where my friends’ mamas became like my mamas and mine became like theirs. I learned the words of hymns and they became ingrained so deeply that I’ll remember them until I die. We delivered gifts to nursing homes, glued popsicle sticks together, recited Bible verses, and rode many miles on the church bus and van. We’d sit in a semi-circle around the teacher who’d tell us about Joseph’s mean brothers while holding a large picture of the atrocity for us to see. There were lock-ins, revivals, bake sales, movie nights, and ice cream socials in the fellowship hall with fancy cookies from the bakery. I knew every nook and cranny of the blonde brick Baptist church on the boulevard. Every closet, piano, bathroom, hiding place, television, secret door. I felt as at home there as I did at my own house. And, on the most special days, I’d walk down the aisle of the church. To profess Jesus as my Savior, don my cap and gown on graduation Sunday, stand by my friends on their wedding day, and to marry Davis on the arm of my Daddy. 

I’m not sure if church is a major hub of social activity for as many kids as it was then. They have so many other outlets and organizations they’re involved in now. But, back in my day, church was where we spent so many of our hours that it was the pool from which we drew a large portion of our friends. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been sweetly reminded of just how many of those friends from the blonde brick church on the boulevard still remain in my closest circle. Maybe friendships that take root in our earliest years have longer to grow and they become strong enough to withstand the test of time. Maybe friendships that form with Jesus in common are able to endure the harsh elements of life and remain intact. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for the friends made in those little wooden chairs who’ve stayed with me through Mary Jane shoes, acne, ugly bridesmaid dresses, and still walk by my side today in the hot flashes. Their mamas are still like my mamas and mine remains like theirs. Of all the gifts that blonde brick church on the boulevard gave me, I’d place them only below the One who brought us together.