Susan Wolbarst

The Mary Janes I wore
were hard shiny plastic
not designed for hiking.
But I was determined to get
to church some way or other.
My parents refused to drive me.
A couple of times I convinced
my little brother to walk with me.
He complained to our parents. They
ordered me to stop badgering him.
So I walked alone, feeling a
compulsion I couldn’t explain, wanting
to pray and believe and belong.
Also wishing I had band aids
for my blistered heels. At church,
I sat with my best friend’s family.
They were active in the church
and their four kids were there,
dressed up and looking bored.
Something about the place,
the stained glass, the familiar
songs, the pastor’s voice,
pacified me. When it came time for
the offering, I dropped my
little envelope in the passing basket —
one quarter and one dime –
my allowance for the week.
One day the pastor took me aside
and said he’d like to see me after service.
I had no idea why, but secretly hoped
he would tell me how proud he was
of my sacrifice walking so far
to church week after week —
I had perfect attendance.
Instead, he said I couldn’t keep coming
without my family. Something about
crowding in the congregation
and the need to welcome new people
who would offer support for the church.
I had no idea what he was talking about.
I walked home barefoot.
I never went back.

Susan Wolbarst lives in rural Gualala, CA, where she writes, kayaks, cooks recipes from around the world and sometimes drinks too much red wine.