Free The Devil in Pew Number Seven by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo Page A

as prepared as was possible to lead others to the Cross.
    As busy as he was—given his responsibilities on the Lord’s Day—Daddy still made time for a good-night hug and a kiss. I’d climb into the safety of his lap, content to linger in his sturdy arms until his large yet tender hands lowered me to the floor. With the inevitable bidding to brush my teeth and head to bed, I’d reluctantly leave his company.
    Upon reaching my bedroom, I’d slip into my pajamas while Momma picked out my clothes for Sunday morning’s church service. Even with her best efforts, Momma typically ran late on Sunday mornings. It seemed as if there were always a thousand and one things to do, between her need to fix her hair, get dressed, get me dressed, make breakfast, then make me eat my breakfast.
    Driving her race against the clock was the need to get to the organ in time to play the music before Daddy gave her “the Look.” You know, that unhappy glance with an eyebrow raised skyward, wondering why there wasn’t music playing as the members filled the sanctuary. Sitting in one of the two high-back, oak chairs behind the pulpit, Daddy would turn his head to the left and give her the Look if Momma wasn’t ready and in position as worshipers filed in.
    I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.
    Especially at breakfast.
    Momma served scrambled eggs and toast. I was fine with the toast. The eggs—forget it. Scrambled, hard-boiled, poached—any way they were served, I hated eggs, and Momma knew it. Still, she’d sit there with me like a sentry to make sure I ate every last bite. I was a growing girl and needed my protein; at least that was her position.
    I don’t know whether I got my stubborn streak from Momma or from Daddy. Either way, the standoff was nothing less than a battle of our wills. Some days she won. Other days, with time at a premium, she abandoned her post, leaving me and my headstrong protest in order to get dressed. I confess, the moment she left the kitchen, I raked my eggs into my napkin and then threw them away.
    In spite of our breakfast skirmishes, I’d have to say that the first four years of my life had been charmed. I enjoyed the unconditional love of two parents; I was doted on by Aunt Pat and half of the church; and my best friend, Missy Sellers, lived conveniently up the street.
    What’s more, I had my own bedroom; a collection of dolls, some mass produced, some handmade; an assortment of stuffed animals and toys; and a real live puppy named Tina. No bigger than a loaf of bread, Tina was a white poodle-and-Pekingese mix.
    Adding to my princesslike childhood, Momma arranged my bedroom with an elegant touch. I had a full-size, snow white poster bed with matching nightstand, accompanied by an upright, five-drawer chest, a long dresser with a picture-window-size mirror, and a desk. Each piece was trimmed with gold accents. A chorus of kindly stuffed animals took their assigned places on my array of furniture. And the drapes, to my way of thinking as a child, were made of pure gold threads, probably woven out of strands of perfectly milled fibers by fairies in the Enchanted Forest.
    Knowing how precious little time there was on Sunday morning to get everything done, Momma arranged my Sunday outfit, ironed, of course, on my dresser the night before. She knew her angel needed a head start when she awoke. And, going way beyond the call of duty, placing her as close to sainthood as was humanly possible, Momma would surprise me by placing a little dress or a candy treat on my pillow at bedtime. Not every night, mind you. She didn’t want me to be spoiled rotten. Just often enough for me to feel as if I had checked into a fine hotel.
    Speaking of bedtime, as was their habit, Daddy or Momma would get down on their knees with me, bedside, to pray together before tucking me under the covers. Lingering over prayers was an especially comforting touch during a thunderstorm. Thankful that the thunder boomers had passed, having