Before moving out, I used to occasionally work as a volunteer in a historical church, and I’ve seen my share of visitors, usually foreigners, trying to come in with shorts, bare shoulders, or even swimsuits, and the need to direct them either to the “disposable veil” bin or the outside of the church, something the signs outside explicitly tell you. However, there are also other unspoken rules when it comes to churches…

I was sitting down at the pamphlet table, when I saw an older man enter with his dog, which looked like some sort of bulldog. I immediately got up.

Me: “Excuse me, sir, pets aren’t allowed in the church, there’s a dog parking outside where you can leave them.”

He looks at me as if I had told him his dog had to be butchered and served to the poor.

Man: “What? Why I can’t take my dog in the church? He’s a good boy, he won’t bark or make a mess inside.”

Me: “Sir, unless your dog is a service animal, he really cannot enter the church.”

Man: “Well, he isn’t a service animal, but I want to take him inside the church! It’s too hot out there; he’d get a heatstroke!”

Me: “Don’t worry, the dog parking is in the shade and has a bowl of water if he needs it.”

Man: “But what if somebody steals him? Besides, why do you care so much? Can’t you just let me take him in?”

Me: “Sir, I can’t make any exceptions.”

Man: “You’re a d*** and not Christian at all, you know that? For people claiming to be so tolerant, you sure like to boss people around.”

He then left in a huff. I know that “no pets allowed” isn’t commonly found on church doors, but shouldn’t the saying “being treated like a dog in a church” be a hint on how acceptable they are in a church?

When I was still a teen, I helped at the nursery of our church and then “graduated” to an assistant for the new daycare program they started for kids three to six years old.

One little girl that I remember fondly was an extrovert who truly loved being in our class and getting to spend time with the other little kids. Unfortunately, she also suffered from a severe case of separation anxiety. Back when I had her in the nursery, she could cry through the entire sermon until her mother came back to get her. This led to an odd dichotomy: a child that loved to be in our classroom and yet cried as if she was being tortured whenever she was first dropped off.

I had one game I liked playing with a few of the kids during snack time where I would go up to the child and dare them not to smile, then just stay in their face reminding them not to smile and commenting if they were starting to smile, etc. The absurdity of trying not to smile always makes one smile, and most kids would end up smiling within a few minutes. Since the aforementioned girl happened to have the most beautiful smile, capable of lighting up a room, she was almost always one of the kids I’d do this game with just to see that smile.

Eventually, like some sort of Pavlovian response, she got to the point that just telling her not to smile would lead to a giant smile. Not wanting to lose, she would cover her face with her hands, so now the game was to see if I could “find” the smile she was hiding.

This was so reliable that I started to use the trick on her whenever she was dropped off. She would always be handed to me bawling her eyes out. I’d find some way to distract her for a split second so she would listen to me — I’d even pretend to bump her or trip just to get her attention if I had to — then, once she was listening, I would tell her not to smile. Her hands would immediately go to cover up a big smile, and after a brief game of “hunting” for the smile, she would give up, beam at me with her smile for a second, and then get put down to happily run off to find some kids to play with, having forgotten all about her crying and separation anxiety.

Then, one day, my family was out for a vacation and I wasn’t there to help with the class on Sunday. The girl’s mother came down to drop her off as usual, but when she learned I wasn’t there to take the girl from her mother, she asked if she should just keep her daughter with her in church so her daughter wouldn’t distract the rest of the class. Apparently, she had decided I was a miracle worker and the only one capable of stopping her daughter from crying and was worried the girl would cry through the entire class, like she used to do in the nursery without me.

Of course, as much as I’d like to claim I was a miracle worker, mostly the girl had simply been growing up over the year between when I first saw her in the nursery and then, and she had better control of her separation anxiety. So, while I’m told she did have a harder time adjusting to the classroom without me to comfort her, she managed to calm herself on her own enough to enjoy the class within ten minutes or so. Still, I did feel touched that her mother had such faith in me.

I still have fond memories of that sweet little girl, her beautiful smiles, and her convincing her mother I was a miracle worker.

My parents are in their eighties and both are very active in their church, so much so that Dad often laments that he feels they are taken advantage of. Mum doesn’t see it that way, constantly telling us how much support she gets from the church. She always does more than her fair share; Dad is always there to support her.

It’s just before Christmas and they are running a fundraising stall at a local craft market. The weather is horrible; it’s very hot and humid, and the wind is threatening to blow their shade cover away. Dad is holding down one of the edges while Mum is making sure the stock isn’t flying away.

I notice one of the church ladies sitting in a chair in the middle of the stall as I approach. I choose to buy a couple of things. Mum serves me, and as she is counting out change, another customer approaches.

[Church Lady] doesn’t move from her chair.

Church Lady: “[Mum], there’s a customer.”

Mum is concentrating on getting my change, so the lady raises her voice more.

Church Lady: “[MUM]! There’s a customer!”

Mum quickly hands me my change and turns to serve the customer. I notice that this happens a few more times; she pretty much orders Mum to serve customers while never leaving her seat. I was going to head home but I decide to stay for a little while helping to tie the shade cover down and collect items that have blown off the table.

Dad: “Maybe we should pack up early. The wind is really picking up, and there’s a storm coming.”

Church Lady: “Yes, I think that’s a good idea. I think it’s definitely time to leave. This is so tiring.”

She stands up and grabs her bag.

Church Lady: “Okay, see you on Sunday.”

And then she left my parents to pack up the stall. Dad just shook his head as he started packing. Mum, as usual, couldn’t see a problem; she raved about how much help it was having the woman there. But for the hour and a half that I was there, the woman didn’t leave her seat.

This occurred when in the 1990s when I was a teen. We were at a church picnic, and a lady was making friendly conversation with me. She asked about my dad and when he would be back to the church. The truth was that my dad had left after endless fighting with my mom and had filed for divorce. To avoid divulging too much information, I said:

Me: “My dad is no longer around. Whether or not he comes back to the church, I’m not sure. Maybe you can ask him if you see him around town?”

Lady: “Hmmm… Okay.”

I didn’t think anything else about it. After the picnic, my mom and I rode with a good friend of our family to their house to hang out for a while. About fifteen minutes into our visit, her phone rang. Our friend casually picked it up, and as she listened to the person on the other end, her eyes began to slowly grow wider and wider to the size of freaking saucers.

Friend: “Um… excuse me? She’s actually sitting right here. Maybe you want to ask her yourself?” *Hands over the phone*

My mom took the phone, spoke briefly, and then immediately excused herself outside to continue the conversation. When she came back in, she looked seriously pissed and asked me to go into another room and amuse myself with some video games there.

As it turned out, the person on the phone was the lady at the church picnic, calling over to the friend’s house to start a rumor chain that my mom had kicked my dad out and speculating that it was because of a possible extramarital affair with the church choir leader because she’d seen them eating lunch together at a restaurant. They’d simply run into each other by coincidence, and my dad even told us about it.

Unsurprisingly, I didn’t see that lady at church services for almost the entire summer, and when she did return, she would sit in the back.

This happened twenty-five years ago and I’m still mortified. My child attended a school in a swanky neighborhood because he was in special education. The neighborhood had a street with the same name as my street, except my street was NE and the other was SE.

One day before Christmas, I received a telephone call on my UNLISTED phone.

Caller: “I’m from [Church]. We were out delivering Christmas gifts yesterday and we could not find your house.”

Me: *Eloquently* “What?”

Caller: “[School] gave us your child’s name as someone who needs Christmas presents.”

Me: “I don’t need any Christmas presents. Give them to someone who needs them!”

Caller: “Are you sure you’re not just being proud?”

Me: “HE’S GETTING [POPULAR GAMING SYSTEM]!”

Honestly, I’d have reported this violation of federal law, but I liked the teacher. You can’t give out student information like that!