I grew up in church since I was five years old.
My family attended five out of the seven days of the week.
We were there more than being at our own home.
Church was all I and my family knew.
I knew the church lingo.
I knew to dance when the break in music came.
I knew to shout when everyone else was shouting.
I knew to put on my choir robe and out sing the tenors and altos.
I knew to stare at the woman with the pants suit on.
Or the man with the blue jeans.
I unknowingly was being conditioned.
To put on a performance or show, if you will.
I knew of Jesus, that died, and rose on the third day.
But I was in no way, shape, form or fashion connected to Him.
I did not know He had plans to give me a future and hope.
Because of all the silent chaos going on back at home.
When the door was shut and the lights went out.
The noise from things falling off the walls and police knocking.
Soon faded back into my treasure chest of suppressed memories.
When I got out of the car in the church parking lot.
I knew to put on my face, the religious face.
A face that said, I and my family were alright.
All the while broken and bruised under my Sunday’s Best.