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Sunday Morning

Light was pouring through the chapel windows as we all took our seats in the pews. My hair was tied back in a simple braid and my mother had placed a bow in it. In 1933, my father came home without a job, however, instead of despairing over the loss, he rejoiced in the Great Depression and claimed it was a sign from God. Now, I look up at him behind the podium every sunday morning and listen to his sermons.
    "Welcome, church. What a beautiful morning it is to be standing here with you all; celebrating the many blessings the Lord has given us." My father had always had a way about him. When he talked, people listened. When he laughed, people filled with joy. He was the kind of person people admired and loved.
    As he continued speaking, the church filled with cheers of "amen" and "hallelujah". Whenever I turned to my mother, she was sat upright and was wearing an adoring smile on her face. My brother, however, was leaned back and fiddling with a loose piece of thread from his sweater. While the room nodded and clapped, my brother scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes at the floor. He was turning 18 in a few months but his behavior mirrored that of a child. My mother spotted him pulling on the loose piece of thread and nudged his hand.
    "William, if you keep that up, you won't have a single nice shirt left in your whole wardrobe." She whispered sharply.
    "Oh no," his whisper was drenched in sarcasm, "what a tragedy that would be."   
My mother stared at him with fierce eyes— I imagine he's grown very familiar with that look— and he grumbled his apology. As I turned my attention back to my father, I realized we were in the middle of a prayer and quickly closed my eyes and bowed my head.