Church

Church is a big part of our lives. We go to the Sunday morning service, where we see our friends. Rather, the girls go to something called "the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd" and I go to Sunday School for the Big People. Then I go to church and they come in right before we have communion. In the Episcopal church, we have communion every Sunday. I bring snacks for Clara and Margaret to devour when they arrive in the pew. Because they get no snacks in their Sunday school classroom for fear of ants (while the adults eat doughnuts and have coffee). The snacks work out well; the girls don't talk while they are eating. Clara will open the hymnal when we are singing and sing, often in tune with her own random collection of words. We sit so close to the front of the church, the rector can hear her singing, and it often cracks him up.
On Wednesday evenings, we, including Gene, go to supper at the church. It's a great deal--for ten bucks, we can all eat. Mostly because they girls don't eat much. They get to run around and see their pals, as Clara calls older girls. I feel very comfortable letting them visit different tables of people. Everyone adores them.
So, can you imagine the pain of betrayal people must have continue to feel who were abused by priests? I'm sure they, too, were involved in their parish life. Maybe, like us, they also went to the school connected to the church. I can't imagine something so horrifying. Our priest is such a stand-up person. He left the Catholic church when tales of abuse starting coming out, and later married. His wife is great, too.
Between church and school, Clara and Margaret are learning various prayers, because they pray at school before they eat their snack. Of course, Clara wants to pray at home by saying, "Thank you for our snack," when we are eating supper. Today Margaret told me that God was her friend, but she wasn't sure Jesus was her friend. I told her Jesus loved her and was in her heart, and she touched her heart and said, "Hello, Jesus." And I think Clara's enthusiastic singing may help spur the formation of a children's choir at church.
When I was in fifth grade, I had to audition for the school choir. And only one other girl and I were rejected. I mean, in the whole school. How cruel is that? But no one rejected me from the church choir, because my low voice meant I could sing alto with no problem. We had a choir director who could read music, so it was okay. I just loved being in choir. I still love to sing. Anyway, we'll see if the choir comes to fuition and if Clara and Margaret want to be in it.
Today, I must have told Clara and Margaret about twenty ghost stories. About the ghost that ate the cottage cheese; the ghost in the attic who eat squirrels and girls, largely because they rhyme; the milk ghost; and the failed ghost who could scare only himself, no one else. Why do they get on these kicks? And then Gene matter-of-factly tells them, "Everything Mama told you isn't true. There are no ghosts." I told them, ghosts live only in stories. Which is true. I hope.