Me descending the church steps on the right; my dad, shaking people’s hands on the left.

I can still picture the van we drove, rusted and worn at the edges kind of like our family, and sometimes we drove half the morning’s hours to church because my parents didn’t want us to have to switch schools when Dad switched jobs. They were good that way, and it took me years to realize this.

Dad’s was a pretty thankless position, with half-pay and full-time hours and him sleeping over many nights because it was such a long commute. And we weren’t allowed to miss church for anything and I hated wearing skirts.

And even though the words my dad spoke at the pulpit were good, they didn’t sink into my starved adolescent brain. Because we’d had too many fights, and he’d been absent too much of my childhood, and all I could think was, When is any of this going to get real?

… will you join me over HERE at A Deeper Church for the rest of this post? thank you lovely friends. and don’t forget about imperfect prose on thursdays, happening tomorrow! xo

*linking with heather, jen, jennifer and duane