Passing by again, trying not to be obvious with my peering, I still lacked the strength to enter. It had been six months, it should be time enough, but it isn’t. It may never be. I may never be able to enter this building again.
In my lifetime of forty years I have attended this church every Sunday. Early on with my parents of course and then as an adult, doing what I thought was required of me, for my well being, for my soul.
Six months ago that all changed. I no longer think my soul or anyone else’s for that matter, will be saved here, inside these brick walls. Truthfully, I think it’s the opposite, and that is why I can’t bring myself to enter.
Attending church on that fateful Sunday, I arrived late. The weather was rainy with thunder and lightning about the area. Slipping on the wet grass, I fell and soaked my dress. Tidying myself in the foyer, I arrived to sit in the very last seat in the last pew. I peeked over the person in front to see my parents, as always, in the first row.
Suddenly a huge clap of thunder reverberated through the pews. It was so loud my seat seemed to vibrate with the continuing rumble. I heard a scream and as parishioners turned and sat up to see what happened, I recognized it as my mother’s voice.
My father had a heart attack just before the thunder clap and as my mother saw that he was dead, the thunder sounded. I don’t know if it was the shock of seeing my father collapsed in death or the sudden thunder that followed. It was then she screamed her final breath and joined my father. Two always faithful seekers of the truth died that day and so did my love of the church.