Sunday School

“If you slept in this house last night, you’re getting up for church this morning.” I had heard this phrase many Sundays throughout my adolescence but today was the very first time I heard it. Now I am not a night owl and can’t recall a time I ever was, but having to get up early to go and congregate wasn’t something I was keen on.

“It’s summertime, why do I have to get up so early?” I ask my grandmother.

“I don’t have to go to school today.”

She gives me the most stern and piercing look that I won’t ever forget.

“You do have school this morning,” she retorts,

“Sunday school first, then morning devotion and your grandfather’s sermon this afternoon.”

Did I fail to mention my grandparents are revered pillars of their community, and devoted to their faith, church, and their love of serving others? Reverend Raymond and Mother Anita Samuels leave an impact on everyone who meets them, and I respect that, but right now, they’re just the annoying grandparents who are ruining my plans to sleep-in on a summer day.

According to what I heard my grandfather saying earlier, school starts at 9 am. So why was I being called to wake up at 7 am?

“You take the longest to get ready, we still need to eat breakfast, and don’t have a lot of time,” my grandmother tells me.

“Touché.” I think aloud.

I could not even dispute that. I have always been meticulous when it comes to grooming myself. I thought it was a healthy habit but apparently, it’s an inconvenience to everyone else.

As I slowly make my way out of bed, I can’t help but wonder if any kids my age will be there. From what I know, most of the congregation is elderly or younger adults. I’m only 6, so someone else close to my own age would make me feel like less of an outsider or a spectacle.

Usually when I’m the only child in a place full of adults, it means I will be the adorable little kid. People will want to squeeze and pinch my cheeks. I’m not a fan of this behavior. Keep your hands to yourself, is what I was taught in preschool. Adults should have to follow the same rules. Practice what you preach.

I was still trying to get settled in here. My last day of school was just two days ago, and I left town as soon as the bell rang for the last time. I didn’t get to say goodbye to my best friend, and we won’t be attending the same school anymore. I am excited about the rest of my family moving closer to me, at the end of the summer. It should make seeing my parents and siblings easier.

“Breakfast is ready, Adonis!” I hear my grandmother call from the dining room.

“I’m almost finished, Granny!” I respond.

“I don’t want my food to get cold,” my grandfather chimes in, “hurry on out of the washroom!”

Where did he come from? We still have plenty of time left until we have to leave. I haven’t been in here long, I don’t think. I know we aren’t having Breakfast Bears Cereal, so I’m not in a rush to eat.

As I finally make it to the table, my grandfather seems a bit irritated. The family tradition is that everyone is at the table when he blesses the food.

“What takes you so long in there?” He asks immediately after we all say “Amen.”

“Who are you trying to impress?”

“No one, grandad,” I respond.

I am not overly self-conscious about my appearance, I just enjoy my bubble baths, and being clean.

“Well, we need to get a move on, once we finish breakfast. So, eat up,” he tells me.

“Make sure your plate is clean.”

Wasting food in this house is a no-no. I remember the liver and peas I refused to eat when I was visiting last summer, but that’s a different story. I can deal with grits, eggs, and sausage.

While we eat, my grandparents let me know how the day is going to go. And what to expect at Sunday School.

“Use your manners.”

“Respect your elders.”

“You’re there to learn and worship.”

I vaguely catch these things, but all I am thinking about is service doesn’t end until after 1pm. Sitting in a hot and crowded building on a summer day is not my idea of fun. “What do we do after church?” I ask.

“We’re having a cookout with some friends after.” My grandma says to me.

“There’ll be some kids for you to play with there, baby” she adds.

Maybe it won’t be as difficult to befriend these kids. I don’t expect any kids to attend church today, but I’ve been wrong before. I just don’t recall meeting any kids there during my previous visits. I’d be happy if I were wrong.

As we finish our breakfast, we finally make our way out of the door. We climb into my grandfather’s car, a black 1988 Chevrolet Caprice, which still looks brand new today at almost 5 years old. We get to the church, and I look at name on the sign at the top of the building: First Baptist Church of Woodland Heights. I try to settle my nerves as we go in, “there will be kids to play with, after this,” I keep repeating to myself.

I walk in behind my grandparents and was surprised to walk in and see most of the congregation not here at all. There were a couple of younger adults who were the youth leaders, but it was mostly teenagers, and kids a tad older than I was. “I thought Sunday School was for the people in your church,” I say to my grandpa.

“These kids are members of this church,” he responds.

“The older members attend church service, but school is for you children,” he says with a laugh.

Thank goodness. I feel a sense of ease, as there will be people I can at least feel a bit of relativity to. The chances of me getting my cheeks pinched are still high, but at least I won’t be the only kid. What a relief.

I didn’t usually like surprises and my grandparents know that, but they took a chance here anyway. Knowing I wasn’t overly enthusiastic about leaving my school behind, and how difficult it was for me to make the few friends I had made. They wanted to do something to make me smile, even if it was something simple, and I appreciate the gesture.

Class goes just fine, and I meet most of the kids, who seem to accept me, and treat me kindness. I might like getting up to come here early after all. Morning and afternoon service go well, and I hardly notice that it all ended before 1pm.

After service I meet more kids at the gathering my grandparents wanted to attend. I instantly connect with a kid named Salim, and we liked most of the same things, it almost feels as if he is family, like we have known each other for a long time. Almost like another sibling. We make plans to go bike riding tomorrow, but my grandparents have other plans.

“We’re getting packed up to go to St. Louis this week.” My grandma says.

“St. Louis?!” I confusingly ask.

“Our family reunion is this weekend in St. Louis,” she confirms.

“What about my birthday?” I ask.

“That’s coming up.”

“You’ll be in St. Louis for it,” my grandfather chimes in.

“You boys can go bike riding, skating and whatever else, when you come back.”

“As long as his parents are okay with it.”

We say our goodbyes for the evening and go home to get rest. Packing shouldn’t be difficult for me, because I haven’t unpacked my stuff yet, but I wasn’t sure about potentially spending part of my birthday on the road, and away from my parents. I’ve spent every birthday with them so far, I didn’t grasp the concept of deviating from that suddenly. St. Louis should be fun, however. My grandmother was born there and most of her family still lives there. I always had fun there. Hopefully this trip is no different.

The Preacher's Child, Chapter 2