It is Sunday morning, and we are going
to worship. All faces turn in unison when we come in out of the
mid-morning glare. The narrow wooden benches hold a whole row of us,
and we sit close to a line of colorful backs in front of us. Thin
fabrics of blue and red and yellow drape over sleeping babies on
backs. Songs with clapping, songs with swaying, and songs that
repeat swell one after another in praise. My baby sleeps—my big,
heavy, not-so-much-a-baby-anymore baby. He sucks his thumb and beads
of sweat collect on his upper lip. Thin, curious faces turn to
wonder at this sight of a pale, freckled mama holding a kid as big as
the ones carrying around infant brothers and sisters.
We don't know the words, but we
worship.
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