By Noreen Todd

Sunday. Wake early. Shower. Primp hair. Scrutinize every inch for wrinkles. Tie an apron over the dress before frying the bacon. Rouse the kids and ignore their complaints about itchy clothes and missed games. Pile them into the car and say prayer it makes it to church without sputtering to a stop. Regret stuffing your toes into those shiny new heels. Grin through the bunion pain. Find a shady spot and praise yourself for getting here early enough to succeed. Herd the kids into the church and resist the urge to curse the committee that turned down the air conditioning project again this year. Smile sweetly at the little old widows giving you the once over. Try to maintain Christian thoughts when acknowledging your husband has volunteered for the Sunday shift at work again. The organ pumps and wheezes and the loud chatter fades as the choir lines up in back. Church begins.

But that was last week. I lay in bed eyeing the alarm on my phone preset to 7 a.m. every Sunday. I hit the stop, not snooze, and roll over. My husband mutters and resumes his snores. I scootch out from under the covers and slip my feet into my favorite mules. My big toe finds comfort in the familiar worn spot. I tiptoe down the hall. Let the kids sleep. I cringe as the front door creaks and softly close it as I feel the sun warming my face. I lean against the railing and breathe the warm moist air. Another hot one was brewing. My face reddens but not from the heat. I can’t push away the memory of last Sunday.

The minister strutted back and forth like a tom turkey. His saggy throat waggling like one too. Praise Jesus and Amens echoed in the pews. He was fired up about the local election. Pleading with us to go to the polls and vote out the hellions who were approving of the smut in our schools. He rattled off a list of books. These had been my best friends and mentors of my youth.  My daughter’s eyes flashed anger as she shot me a look accusing me of complicity. My son kicked the pew. He pinched my leg, but I didn’t flinch. My jaw clenched. I felt a fire in my gullet. I looked around. Didn’t anyone else hear him? Feel the hate? 

I stood. Heads swerved. The minister smiled but his eyes darkened when I spoke. “Come on kids. We’re out of here. Let’s go to the store and buy some of those books he mentioned while we still can.”  

Horror, shock and then joy swept over my children’s faces. They scuttled out of the pew. Grins wide.

“And then maybe we can go get some ice cream. It’s too hot in here.” I leaned down and whispered. “Don’t look at anyone. Hold your heads high.”

*   *   *

Noreen is an emerging writer of poetry and prose. Retired from a career in healthcare, she now spends her days writing and playing the guitar, ukulele and violin. Published in Guidepost magazine at an early age, she never lost the dream to write her first novel. She is working on the final draft. She lives in Connecticut.