My momma, who woke up before the roosters crowed and before the early birds tickled worms from the earth, was always the last person ready. As I walked by her room before gracing my spot on the couch for the morning wait, she had on her robe and was just setting the temperature of her curling irons. The third time I checked, she was scrutinizing two almost identical necklaces. Holding one to her chest in front of the mirror, then shaking her beautiful black curls to and fro as she reached across the basin for the other. 

I remember bouncing on the edge of the couch, Bible gripped tightly, as Bobby Jones’ gospel played in the background. Pink peacoat layered on top of a pastel-colored dress, ruffled matching socks, gloves, and polished shoes. Momma assured us that rather than vain pageantry, our attire was symbolism of our adoration for the Lord. When she said this, I imagined angels seated like a panel holding large boxing-style score cards in their wings and watching each of us as we entered the sanctuary. Their task: to rank our attire in order of holiness. As I pondered their nodding in approval or blushing in disdain, I spun my head from the clock to the television so quickly it appeared the hands stood still. Nonetheless, we would be late to church once again.

Throughout the washing of dishes, and syruping all of our pancakes, and ensuring each hair on all four of our heads was in place, she licked her thumb. Swiping a lingering crumb from Leilon’s face, she was finally ready. En route, I begged to crack a window as our dusty van seemed oversaturated with my anxiety and momma’s bitter perfume. The ride usually took about eighteen minutes allowing either for a nap or several minutes of my wishing my mother were a more aggressive driver. She drove as if we were floating on clouds, cranking up The Clark Sisters’ Living in Vain as we coasted. My stomach could have easily competed with the world’s best on beam — tossing and turning in and out of knots. Fifteen minutes late and probably missing all of praise and worship, I struggled to place each foot in front of the other while entering the double doors to the church. Not a single thing would be different on the program; yet I scanned its contents, feeling as though I heard an ominous “tisk” and vowing to make up what we had missed later at home. Momma said God was our everything – a healer and a way maker. And we should be grateful for all He’d done for us — life, groceries, and clothes. But we were always late.

It never made sense to my tween brain. How could she love God so much, dedicate an entire day to honoring Him, but show up late every time? How could she be so rude?  How would God know we took him seriously as we slumped into the last pew of the sanctuary? During my Saturday night scarries — what I called my anxiety-filled dreams on Saturday nights –each church member would turn around in unison, heads shaking in disgust, as we dragged in like stale bread. How many points off would we receive on the scales of good and evil? How would God know I truly cared if we missed half the sermon or praise and worship? As I pondered God’s love evaluation system, questions bounced around in my dome like pickle balls at a senior center. I soon realized I’d left my eyes open, and my head was up instead of bowed during the benediction. How would I ever make it to heaven?