My family wasn't church-going people. But I knew God existed. Every Sunday morning my grandmother listened to old gospel hymns on a cassette player while she cooked breakfast and cleaned.
The spoon scrapped the bottom of a hot pot of grits as she stirred. Grease spluttered and sizzled as she flipped the frying fish in the skillet. Her slippers swept across the linoleum floor on her way to our bedroom to get us out of bed.
"Get clean linen and make the bed."
At the breakfast table she tapped her feet to the music while she ate and read the newspaper.
We simply didn’t go to church; not even on Easter Sunday or Christmas. On Easter my sisters, cousins, and I would get dressed up with puffy dresses, hats, white gloves, and white patent leather shoes with a matching purse. And we walked around the housing projects. Our neighbors leaned out of their windows, watching while we played in our new outfits.
These were our Sunday services.