On Being the Last to Leave

One routine I really don't miss from my days as a PK has to do with hours we spent at Church each week. During the average week, our family was the first to arrive at Church and the last ones to leave it every time there was a service or special event that required our attendance. Given that my parents* were in positions of leadership, this generally meant that we attended just about everything. ;)

A deep disquiet permeates the walls of a church in the hours before and after a meeting. I didn't and don't believe in ghosts in the traditional, "souls of the dead" sort of way, but I do remember walking laps down deserted hallways with goosebumps prickling up my arms long after the foyer had hemorrhaged the majority of our people. Sometimes I would get an eerie impression that there was someone or something silently afoot behind me, only to whip around and see...nothing at all.

It was probably just my imagination running away from me. (I would have said that it was running away with me, but  I've always been one live out the "what-ifs" in my head, to spin a story out of belly button lint and a prayer. )

And, of course, there was also the sheer boredom that comes with spending hours in a building devoid of books that aren't the Bible. Or commentaries on the Bible.  ;)

But, still. I do not miss those days.

*Technically only my Dad was on the payroll at most of our churches, but by virtue of being the Preacher's wife Mom did end up doing quite a bit of volunteer work behind the scenes.