The following piece is creative non-fiction where a church bulletin’s call to worship is intertwined with a precious memory.
First Familial Church of the Everlasting Arms
Sunday Morning Order of Worship
April 21, 1974
Call to Worship
“The Warblers are in full chorus this morning. Can you hear them singing in the trees?” she asks as the teeth of her comb furrow rows in my brown, thick hair in a slow, calming rhythm.
Contemplation and Confession
“Yes, ma’am. So pretty,” I reply.
“Just like you. There. No more rat’s nests,” she sighs as she lays the comb on the arm of the couch.
My Granny calls tangles “rat’s nests.” I love her granny speak.
The aroma of Irish Spring and Aqua Net engulfs me as I curl in next to her on the coarse, woolen couch, always damp from the Texas farmhouse humidity caused by fans and window breezes. But there is nothing rough about my granny. Her skin is soft as a baby's downy and paper-thin, yet unscathed by the years of hard farm labor.
Affirmation of Faith
She clasps my hands in her warm ones and says, “Thirty more minutes until we leave for church.”
Invocation
She turns up the television preacher as we settle in for a long, warm snuggle. The sweet smell of her talcum powder nuzzles me deeper into her side.
Liturgy of the Word
Ignoring the preacher droning on and on, I bask in the rich mustard-colored polyester of her Sunday Go To Meetin’ dress. The jewels of her family ring catch the light pouring over us from the window and I watch their prisms skip along the paneled wall.
Eucharist
The clunking, rusty fan oscillates to the rhythm of a ticking clock, lulling me to a blissful drowsiness, and her Sunday morning ritual begins.
Her knotted hands faff at imaginary dust on her dress, then pull at non-existent wrinkles.
“Hm-Hm-Uhhum” (Her habitual throat-clearing melody rings throughout the room.) I hug her side, whiffing sunshine and grass that wafts from laundry that dries on lines in the country air. I shut my eyes tight, pouring out thank you's to Jesus for letting this woman be my granny.
Seal of Communion
Purse in lap, popping the clutch open, she reaches in and pulls out her roll of orange-spotted Certs– never mint: always orange. She carefully peels a layer of the wrapping, revealing the next sweet tablet, and pops it into her mouth.
Pure delight paints a sweet smile on her lips as she hands me the roll. I mimic her movements, tearing, revealing, and popping a pellet into my mouth, hating the acerbic taste but loving this simple bond with this woman I adore.
The lilt and warble of the sucking noises her mouth makes while enjoying a Cert sends pleasant chills washing over me in a baptism of comfort and warmth.
“Snap,” the clutch closes, then “Hm-Hm-Uhhum,” as she places her purse beside her.
Song of Response
End of the ritual, she sets her worn bible in her lap, strokes her hands across the leather cover, and sits in silence, making a meal out of her cert. I have already bitten and crunched mine into oblivion.
Granny hums a soft hymn (always a hymn), unconsciously moving to pat my knee with her warm, velvety hand. She rests one hand on my leg and the other on her bible as the moments slowly sail by in the cool breeze of the fan. Today, she hums…
What a fellowship, what a joy divine,
Leaning on the everlasting arms;
What a blessedness, what a peace is mine,
Leaning on the everlasting arms.
Benediction
Cicadas reign in the Mimosa trees outside the window behind us, and I sit as a small child in the stillness, content, making a meal of this moment.
4/8/2026
The Words That Got to Me
“the teeth of her comb furrow rows in my brown, thick hair in a slow, calming rhythm.” What an excellent descriptive passage. Its very rhythm mirrors the action you are describing. “The aroma of Irish Spring and Aqua Net engulfs me…” The sense of smell is one of the biggest triggering factors in memory, and you consistently use it so effectively. “hating the acerbic taste but loving this simple bond.” I love this sharp, honest contrast.
Suggestions / Possible Tweaks
The biggest problem with this piece is that it doesn't trust itself. You are often overwriting or explaining things that are already working. “She is a living dictionary of phrases from the past.” Here you are telling us something you already showed beautifully with the “My Granny calls tangles ‘rat’s nests.’” “These moments of stillness with my granny are gifts.” “These moments of celebration of faith forever bring seasons of strength and blessing…” “My heart opens to the delicate blessing of my Granny…” Every time you explain rather than show, you are weakening a powerful piece of writing. Trust yourself and the power you demonstrate to show us the emotion and events involved. Sometimes you drift a bit into more of a church language. Understandable given the context, but I feel it distracts. “forever bring seasons of strength and blessing for Granny and for all against the trials that may come” “devoting to and loving Him anew each and every Sunday” seem to take us out of the voice and memories of a child and move us up into the pulpit of a sermon. The personal becomes impersonal.
This is a good piece of writing that, in places, moves beyond that into the excellent. When it is at its best, we are in the memories of the child. It feels intimate and authentic. We live those memories, we hear and see and smell those moments. When it slips into more generic over-explanation and sentiment, it loses that impact. You have such a great core. It is strong and deserves to be read. But it needs some tightening and, above all, courage. Trust in yourself and trust the voice of that child's memories.