The Outsider

"Seems to me that her mother could have found a tad of a fancier dress for her to

wear to church," the short, plump woman sneered.

The taller, thin woman, whose sandy hair reminded me of straw, clicked her

tongue, and said, "Well now, I suppose the child can't help it if she's Catholic. They just wear any

old thing they can find to church, you know."

Then they both chuckled and exchanged knowing glances. They hurried away

towards a group of finely-dressed ladies outside of the church, leaving me standing there alone,

embarrassed and ashamed for wearing a simple blue dress with a ruffle at the bottom.

I remember that day like no other. And no wonder why. I mean after all, how

many people can say the worst day of their entire lives happened in church? Personally, I've always

loved going to church. Still do. Every Sunday as a matter of fact. Even though I've always been a

Catholic, I've enjoyed going to other churches as well, especially my grandmother's Presbyterian

church, where every newcomer is made to feel right at home. So it's easy to see why I was so

excited about going to father's new church.

I was five years old at the time, a scrawny little kid, whose especially short hair

made her look like a boy. I was spending the weekend with my father and his new wife and they

decided that I should go with them to "this wonderful new church" they'd discovered through

friends. So naturally, I was giddy with excitement because I loved going to new churches and

meeting new people. Unfortunately, I never considered these people wouldn't want to meet me...

My cheeks were burning and my ears were hot as I stood there alone, slowly

making circles in the gravel with the toe of my shoe. Suddenly I heard the sound of children

laughing and I turned to see where they were. They stood in a tight little cluster by the bushes,

making a big show of pointing at me and giggling. The little girls were all dolled up, they looked

like they were ready to enter a beauty contest instead of go to church. I smiled and waved, but I

was only met with more giggling and more pointing. A horrible feeling began brewing in the pit of

my stomach. I wanted to go home.

After what seemed to be an eternity, my father and stepmother finally pulled

themselves away from the groups they were in and led me up the steps and into the church.

After everyone had finished with the usual greetings and had seated themselves, I

got my first view of the preacher. He stood behind the wooden podium like a king sits at his

throne, with his back erect and his dark eyes staring straight ahead. He was of medium build

with brown hair that had been slicked back. The features of his face were very sharp, giving him

an almost menacing appearance. He had a habit of clenching his jaw in a manner that suggested he

was angry about something. He began to speak, taking a dramatic pause every now and then, just

for the effect, in my opinion. The entire congregation listened intently without making a single sound.

The silence of the church was deafening.

The preacher began talking about what real Christians did and did not do. Then he

said, "The Catholics believe this, but they are wrong," emphasizing the words "Catholics" and

"wrong".

My mouth dropped open. Was he serious? Was everyone else as shocked as I

was? I looked around and to my absolute horror, everyone was nodding, agreeing with what he

had said, even my own father and stepmother.

The muscles in my stomach knotted even more tightly together, causing me to

cross my arms over my stomach. I looked around again and noticed that this time, the people

were looking at me as well.

Much to my dismay, the good preacher was just getting warmed up. He stripped

off his jacket and began pacing hurriedly back and forth. He began naming all the countless ways

that one could condemn his or her soul to the fiery flames of hell.

"If you watch television, you will go to hell," he said loudly. "If you listen to rock

and roll music, you will go to hell," even louder this time. "And brothers and sisters, if you are not

saved, you burn in hell!" he roared, causing me to jump ten feet high.

His face was crimson and his dark, beady eyes were ominously glowing. Sweat

poured down his face as if he were doing some sort of laborious activity. Wisps of hair fell down in

his eyes, like spiky, little thorns. Every time he roared out another sin, he threw his hands up in the

air to emphasize the statement.

My heart, which had been pounding a thousand beats per minute in my chest,

reached its crescendo, and stopped dead when he screamed that last sentence. "If you aren't

saved you're going to hell?" I thought. I was baptized, but I wasn't saved. Beads of sweat started

to Form on my brow and I began to bite my lip to keep from crying. I watched television and I

listened to rock and roll. "Was I going to go to hell?" I wondered. My hands began wringing the

ruffle of my dress, which I clutched in my hands.

After what seemed to be an eternity, the sermon was over and it was time to leave.

My knees were shaking so bad, I almost lost my balance as I stood up to go. My eyes were

brimmed with tears and my lip was bleeding from where I had bitten it. I was sticky with sweat

and my dress was torn form wringing it.

I don't exactly remember exiting the church or the somber drive home, but I do

remember the way I felt when we returned to the house and my own father told me that the

Catholic religion was inferior to the Baptist religion. He told me everything that the preacher had

said was true and that if I ever want to go to Heaven, I'd better become a Baptist. My mind, my

body, and even my soul felt completely numb.

In the following days, when I went back home to my mother, I wouldn't watch

television, wouldn't listen to the radio, wouldn't talk, and wouldn't smile. The numbness had seeped

in every muscle, bone, and cell of my body. My mother eventually prodded the whole event out of

me and words cannot describe the horror and disgust she felt when she learned the truth. She sat

me down and calmly explained that the preacher did not understand the Catholic religion and that

he had no right to criticize it whatsoever.

She came up with an idea for the next time I had to go back to that church: I'd take

crayons and coloring books, and color during the sermon. I would be good and polite, since it was

a house of God, but I would not listen to one word the preacher had to say. My father

begrudgingly agreed to this little arrangement, although I think he had little choice after the "little

talk" he and Mother had.

Since that day, I've never had any sort of desire to go to any church other than my

own. I hold no grudges against that Baptist church or the people that attended it. I just feel

uncomfortable in churches in which I'm a stranger. Although, surprisingly I'm thankful for that

experience, too. I've always been sure to be especially friendly to any visitors we've ever had

to church since then. They can never say they were made to feel unwelcome by anyone at the

church I attend, especially me.