The Church is my mother.

The church is my mother.

In an actual, literal way.

She did not ask to be so.

She could never live up to my hopes for her.

She taught me how to color outside the lines.

She gave me the courage to love others.

She nurtured my soul and showed me I was valued.

She came to my banquets and watched me rock the Psalty chorus.

She gave me clothes when I was naked.

She fed me when I was hungry.

When I felt ashamed, she wiped my tears and told me I was loved.

She has gotten ill and is unable to care for herself.

She tries, like hell, to keep her independence.

The small things get ignored.

The small things become big things and her health decreases.

My siblings stop calling, outside of the mandated occasions.

I call her every week.

I endure the conversations about getting married…