A little girl in a Baptist Church
might’ve fallen from Heaven.
Her fluffy eyelashes
and paired wings flutter,
as she beams under the glances
of the other church-goers.
In her white tights,
she giggles quietly.
Her golden curls
bounce and bounce
as her black Mary Janes
click and click
She says please and thank you;
she smiles bashfully behind
her mother. She’s like a lamb,
but instead of green meadows,
she lies still in the
orange velvet pew.
The ladies with pearls and powdered faces
leave red kisses on her cheeks.
The deacons invite her curiosity
at meetings, sneaking her candy
under the conference table.
Adored. Praised.
She is cast in every Christmas play.
She earns a 4.0 in Vacation Bible School.
She never misses a Sunday.
On Easter, wrapped in a
pink dress and topped
with an elegant hat,
her devil tail and
devil horns poke,
hidden from the preacher.
After service, her family
slides into the Cadillac.
Suddenly, her dress is too itchy.
Her baby sister is far too close
and there’s no place to put
her dolly.
She cries, “I’m so cold!”
but soon wails, “I’m too hot!”
She complains that she’s hungry
but not for that restaurant.
“I want what I want!” she thinks,
“Isn’t that what Jesus wants?”
Her mother glares into the
rear-view mirror.
The little girl frowns,
folding her arms across
her chest.
“What?” she asks in surprise
to her mother’s reflection.
“At least I’m not like the
loud kids from the bad neighborhood.
Mommy, they never bring their Bibles
and they don’t know John 3:16!
They wear dirty jeans
and tennis shoes to church, Mommy—
to church!”
She plops her head
in her hand with a pout.
“I’m a good girl,” she remembers.
“Jesus loves me,
this I know!”
Yes, she sings.
Jesus loves the good girl—
the Bible tells her so.
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