I never really enjoyed church when I was growing up. The church experience comprised:
hard wooden pews, shiny and still smelling of polish.
itchy wool tights, and patent leather shoes.
few or no other children to play with afterwards.
hours out of my Sunday, which could have been better spent reading.
It was a boring, lonely, and uncomfortable experience, during which the priest would issue that invitation – ‘Let us pray’ – and everyone would bow heads and close eyes. I tried to pray, but it never seemed very real. Even then, I didn’t really feel like anyone was listening to me. Perhaps I was in the wrong church? Perhaps I was saying the wrong prayers? Or perhaps there really wasn’t anyone listening?
For whatever reason, I never found the relevance in church, so once I was able to, I stopped going. I don’t miss it, and I haven’t stepped…
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