Sundays were for church.

My mum grew up in the church.

Living up country in Saint Ann, Mum decided enough was enough. We went to church, but we were not part of a church, and in Jamaica, that’s quite hard as there is practically a church on every corner.

The joy of not being part of a particular church meant that on Sundays, we sometimes decided which one of the many churches on our doorstep we would visit on the day — the Methodist, Pentecostal, or Catholic Church — to socialise with our friends.

Dressed in our Sunday best, we would head out carrying the family Bible.

At Easter and Christmas, we would always head to the Catholic Church, where our dad would make one of his rare visits. He would sit at the back and make a speedy exit homeward after the service ended.

I loved visiting the Catholic Church as the service was pretty short, which left us plenty of time to play after collecting our sweeties from the priest, who would always rub our cheeks with pillowy, soft hands after we said, “Thank You.”

One year, my brother and I decided to be different from our parents and, along with our friends, got baptised at the new Seventh-day Adventist Church in our district. This meant we went to church on Saturdays.

When we emigrated to America, we went with our aunt to her church on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. One day after church, I was told I was bold because I kept my eyes open during prayers and questioned things a lot.

Quite a lot, come to think of it.

I’m not religious now, but there was something comforting about seeing the community, friends, and family on what was supposed to be our resting day.

In Jamaica, Sundays were for church, but after we had our lunch of rice and peas with stewed chicken, salad tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and carrots, washed down with Kool-Aid over ice, we would often head back to the Catholic Church to play cricket, as they had a makeshift pitch.

I was allowed to play, a girl in the boys’ game, as I was good at catching the ball from very far away and throwing it very fast at the wicket, knocking the rival players out. I was also good at running very fast with the cricket bat.

We would pause our game once the ice cream man came by on his bike, selling treats to help us cool off. I would choose my favourite ice cream cake and eat it slowly, careful not to waste a bite.

Afterwards, we would walk home idly planning our next Sunday.

What innocent times.

Time, to create our new futures.

We are in a knowledge-sharing evolution, creating a new world.

Best wishes,

Sherry Collins, I am her.

Sherry-Ann Collins

Kenisha

Ms. Collins

London, English

Jamaican Freedom Fighter, for the people.

Life Lessons Learned.