We moved to Atascadero in 1987. After a few months of church hopping, my family found one to attend called Atascadero Bible Church. ABC is nondenominational. I didn't care what denomination it was, or what denomination meant for that matter: I didn't want to go. Every week I had to be forcibly coerced into going to Sunday School.
First of all, who has school on weekends, and second, why did they force intellectual wonders like myself to congregate with the scum of elementary school society? These kids were stinky, ugly, big fat babies. Some of them would even cry when their moms left the room. Pathetic.
We had to sit around tables in tiny rock hard desk chairs while some lady told us stories with flannel people. One question I asked myself every week: Who cares?
Sunday mornings were quite the battle at my house. I feigned sickness almost every Sunday. "I don't feel good" became the catch phrase after once being rewarded: I'd been allowed to stay home and watch cartoons with Dad, who courteously sacrificed his own church attendance for my sake.
If my mom was lucky, Sunday would roll around and I would actually admit I was healthy enough to attend the service (the fact that as a mom, she had known from the first attempt that I was faking it, but chose to indulge me once out of convenience, was lost on this kindergartener)... but the war was still raging.
I despised dresses. My mom loved her little girl to be all dressed up, many times in fashions she had handmade just for me, with my dirty blond hair arranged perfectly into two rope-like braids; I was more than content in my jeans, shorts, and t-shirts. My attempt to guilt my mother out was the phrase, "God doesn't care what I'm wearing," to which she always replied, "Well, I do." Needless to say, my attitude walking onto ABC's premises wasn't the most holy.
This all changed the Sunday that I joined Mrs. Bennett's Sunday School class. I loved both of my grandmothers, but if I had been allowed to have three, I would have adopted Mrs. Bennett as my third. Her smile caused a sigh of relief as I walked into the room, and she didn't have blue hair like most of the older ladies at church. Her voice was soothing and animated, and even though she told us the same stories with the flannel Jesus, they meant something coming from Mrs. Bennett. She encouraged everyone, and made me feel confident that my colored pictures were the best, even if I'd made Zacchaeus' skin orange and went outside the lines a little bit. Luckily, Mrs. Bennett was my Sunday School teacher for a few years. Just enough time for me to grow out of my "I don't feel good on Sunday morning" phase.
Throughout the years, I'd run into Mrs. B. in the bathroom after a service at ABC, and she'd always greet me with her contagious smile, using my name every time she greeted me. I even wrote a story about her in third grade as part of an assignment to describe one of our favorite people. Mrs. Bennett was one of the first people, outside my own family, to show me how to love like Jesus, and I will forever be grateful to her for that.
I originally wrote this story, like some of the others, in college. That year I'd become close friends with Mrs. Bennett's grandson, Jon, who I hadn't known growing up because he had lived in Washington until high school. To make a longer story (which will be told later) shorter, Jon and I went from best friends to dating to friends again to dating again to engaged to married over the course of about four years. Mrs. Bennett is now my third grandma. Whether you believe in God, like I do, a Higher Power, the Universe, Fate, coincidence, or whatever else is out there... you have to admit, someone has a sense of humor.
What a wonderful story, Heather! Not only is there the fun twist (that I'm sure we'll read about later) of Mrs. Bennett being Jon's grandmother, but it's a story of how much of an impact a good teacher and adult influence can be. Whether it is in the classroom, Sunday school or the soccer field. Someone like that will stay with you forever. <3
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