I miss the Amen Corner

I.

I miss church. I miss walking up to the sanctuary doors, patiently waiting for an usher to admit us into its warm embrace. We were usually late, arriving after processionals and early scripture readings, but we were there before announcements, offering, and of course, the sermon. Church— the act of going, communing, fellowshipping— put me in a trance every week. There was, during my childhood, moments when God seemed to be the only one listening to my heart cry. Church, not the building or the people, really, but the altar— the perfect placement of decoration, as if the almighty was to make a flesh-bound appearance, filled a deep void in my child-heart. Remembering everything, and just the glimpses, I hope to articulate how the fire shot up in my bones.

Memories of Sunday mornings of childhood, cling to the deepest parts of myself. They were ordinary and usual; Black folks around the country— world, even— have a similar ritual, adhering to their own tradition. Sitting here, after nearly two years inside a pandemic, witnessing this empire, in which I was born, endure its crumble, the churches teachings hold me close. These mornings are filled with memories I long to relive. These days, my favorite of ordinary ones, began around 9am, with smells of medium roast coffee filling the house, bird chirps heralding a new day, Niagara Falls air cooled and caressed, riding the breeze into whichever room I arose in. The kitchen radio provided our home with early morning worship; at this moment I hear: Tamela Mann’s “Best Days” album, which played non-stop in my nanas house. Read More.