Preacher Teacher

Sunday morning. I’m up, dressed, and out the door — off for the walk to church and Sunday mass. Mum, her Jewish boyfriend, and his two brothers, are in the kitchen cooking up their big Sunday breakfast. I’ve learnt to reject the offer of a fried egg and bacon (pretty sure they had bacon) because it means getting dumped with all their washing up. It’s not worth it.

None of them are religious. I’m the anomaly. But I live in fear. My God is a wrathful god. Every Monday I get the fire and brimstone lecture. Mrs Porteous, once a nun, has retained her fervour.
Thick foundation over deep wrinkles and angry eyes when she advocates for God. Tomorrow the question will come.
“Hands up who didn’t go to church this weekend”
Two boys put up their hands.
“Why didn’t you go to church?”
“Because I went fishing with my dad”.
“You can’t find ONE HOUR in your week for God?!” she yells, blood boiling.
It’s easier to just go.

I listen to the sermon in case I’m asked. I need to know what it’s about.
At night I climb into bed, say my rosary, and pray for my mum who never worries about God. She’s light-hearted while I’m serious. I match her joy with my despair, trying to make sense of the world.