Read Oral History #118. Available in English.
Church was always interesting to me. I never remember a time I didn’t like going—well maybe as an adult with babies, but growing up in a small town with a cast of characters, church was entertaining. I didn’t get out of the house much otherwise. I would notice the off the wall testimonies and my mother would wisely remind me that church was for the sinners and the afflicted as much as it was for those toeing the line. I remember stories of faith, stories my grandmother would recount that involved seeing good spirits and bad ones too. There was always the element of the mystique, of the unknown spirit world—I would get a little weirded out some nights listening to the adults discuss the powers of Satan and then I couldn’t go to sleep.
I would tear up at church when someone who didn’t normally show emotion did. I bore my testimony rarely, but I felt it was the right thing to do when I did. I was very concerned about always pleasing my mother. My siblings were oen naughty, but what mother didn’t know, was kept that way. We were quite an alliance. I had a strong conscience. I had a deep sense of shame—if mom looked at me with a quiet “I am so disappointed…” I was done for. We had home teachers and other male figures come to our home, representing the church, but I stayed quiet and never connected with anyone besides the female primary teachers.