I hear the church bells ringing and jump out of bed; the morning mass is happening in 45 minutes and I had to help get the sanctuary ready for the worshipers who will make their way here.
The church has been my home for as long as I can remember. I cannot recall my life before going into the church, not that you would care to hear it.
But that’s not this story.
The church that had been my home was large, with many beautiful stained glass windows, an organ on one side of the sanctuary, and a pulpit where Father Wooten would preach from the Bible. It’s not just a huge building with a huge steeple on top.
It was more than that.
Home meant the hymns that the choir would sing, the colors of the stained glass windows, and the fellowship of the church members. Home meant the sermons that were preached. Home mean being closer to God and his creation.
That was what home is like.
The bells ring again and I go off to help prepare the place for worship. To many people, an orphan girl living in a church is just “sad”, but to me, the church is home.
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