By Marc Colbourne
Briarpatch Magazine
I remember the exact moment my Sundays changed forever. I was 14.
Sunday mornings in our house had always been filled with a routine chaos. Mom and Dad woke up first, showered and dressed, then called my two younger sisters and me in sequence. After our allotment of bathroom time, carefully monitored and often punctuated by knocking on the door, we each got dressed in the clothes my mom had laid out on our beds: dress pants and an ironed shirt for me, dresses reserved for Sundays for my sisters. All of this happened amidst constant complaints and pleas to stay home that week. New and creative excuses were tried and ignored. Finally, neither a moment too soon nor too late, we crowded into the car and arrived at the church in time to claim our regular pew – not too close to the altar but not far enough away to suggest that we really didn’t want to be there. Read the rest of this entry »