I was about twelve. My mother forced me out of bed.
In my semi-conscious state, I had just enough time to dress for church, but not enough time to eat. After Sunday School, my friend Susan and I headed for the church balcony, so we didn’t have to sit with our parents. The sermon was boring, as usual, and it seemed to drag on forever.
Then my stomach started to growl.
And it was loud.
Susan started to giggle. Then I did, too. Then it growled again, even louder. Pretty soon, we were holding our sides, trying not to laugh, but we just couldn’t stop. Every few minutes, we would calm down, and then my stomach would start up again. Tears rolled down our red cheeks as we tried to hold back our laughter.
My mother, who was on the main floor but within our sight, looked up to see what was going on. I got a good tongue-lashing afterward.
I have always thought church should be filled with more laughter and less solemnity. If it had been, I might still be dragging myself out of bed on Sunday mornings. Now, I prefer to attend the Sanctuary of Slumber.
