On Sunday mornings, I sat and followed along with my pointer finger as our teacher, Miss Charity, read Bible stories of David whipping the butt of Goliath and Noah and his big ole floating zoo with every creature times two. There my seven-year-old self sat in a smocked, lace dress, matching fancy socks, and patent leather shoes that squeezed my toes. I smiled and acted reverent. It was a charade. I was miserable. It was only during the prayer that I could sneak stares out the window and dream of being home where I would kick off church clothes and transform into the real me, the barefooted pony rider with one speed … full throttle.

It was easy to peek during the prayer; I always had a warning whistle of the closing, “In Jesus’ name,” as my clue to slam my eyes shut before the grand finale of “Amen.”

Imagine my surprise when after prayer one Sunday, rat fink Keith Barber (names of the guilty need not be changed,) raised his hand and tattled on me for having my eyes open. Had I known very many bad words, I would have thought them then, but I just winced at the dread of my Mama being called into the class to haul my heathen self home or worse down to the altar where I would be exorcised Baptist style.

Miss Charity silently considered me and then said to Keith, “Well, how do you know Emily had her eyes open? Were your eyes open too?” Keith stammered. She then winked at me and plunged back into her oratory about some Bible dude who used a rock for a pillow.

This memory came roaring back a couple of weeks ago on a Sunday night over dinner when my nine-year-old asked why we bow our heads to pray, “Shouldn’t we look up to heaven and shouldn’t we open our eyes and smile up to God?” “Amen to that,” I agreed.

I confessed to Ryann that I keep my eyes open during church prayers. I like to watch the expression of the person praying, see how the light falls into the sanctuary, and study the people around me. I don’t believe that conversations with God are formal. My history with God involves: yelling, crying, rejoicing, whispering, begging for grace, demanding understanding, relentless pursuit, sorrow, transgression, forgiveness, obedience … conversation without end, eyes wide open.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found.
Was blind, but now I see.  

Since my eyes are always being opened, I am okay with them being open. It is light and sunshine that I seek, hoping to attract towards me all things bright and true. I am past the years of being afraid of the dark, yet I am cautious of darkness as in its isolation do we begin to defeat ourselves, denying some of our greatest gifts … those of free will and hope.