I attended St Matthews Church of England Primary School. My father was an atheist, my mother was undecided.

The pupils attended church twice weekly, on Wednesday mornings during class and on Sundays. Sunday mornings, I wore my uniform, shoes all brightly polished.

My form teacher that year was Betty Keenor. Miss Keenor—A profoundly religious lady who probably should have been a nun. She had never married or had children but loved the children she taught. Friday afternoons were Religious Education. We would read passages from the Bible, particularly the apostles. I learned about Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John until they became familiar friends.

I particularly enjoyed the parables of Jesus. Miss Keenor had a way of reading the passages as if for the first time. We children would intone passages from the Bible back to her, droning on in the way of children. But it was an ingrained habit.

One day, I asked my father why he and Mum didn’t attend church. He replied, “God should always be in your heart, not once a week in church on Sundays.” I thought that was an odd thing for a non-believer to say, but couldn’t disagree with him.

My grandad bought me a Bible for my birthday. The Good News version. I loved it, especially the illustrations. I devoured the parables over and over. It was akin to reading fairy stories, ancient myths and legends.

Every night, my agnostic mother would make me say my prayers. Hedging her bets, perhaps—just in case. I would clasp my hands, close my eyes, and intone the familiar prayers by rote. Again, it was a habit, a nightly ritual, comforting but meaningless platitudes to a faceless deity.

I was about nine years old when it happened. Kneeling on the cold, slate church floor on a Wednesday morning, the hem of my skirt brushing the floor as per regulation uniform, I got bored and began fidgeting.

Looking up, I gazed at the crucifix hanging from the church ceiling. It was a beautiful carving done in full colour, larger than human size. Jesus hung upon it, flanked by Mother Mary and the disciple John. I had seen it a thousand times, looked at it in passing twice a week, but on this particular morning, as I regarded my Saviour, I could have sworn His eyes were partially open. And they were looking directly down at me.

I looked at God, and He at me. Sights faded, and sounds became muted. Everything ceased to exist. I felt like I was in the middle of a hurricane, in the eye of the storm. My heart blossomed like a flower. In my mind, I spoke to Him.

“I love you, Lord.”

The reply came back as clear as a bell. It resonated in my ear, brain, and heart.

“And I love you.”

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To say my faith has remained rock solid and firm would be a lie. But in my darkest, most desperate moments He has always been there, solid and firm. My belief in Him may have wavered from time to time, but His belief in me never has. He is my rock, my anchor, my sanctuary.

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E Atkinson lives on a rural property with her husband, two alpacas, five chickens and a cat (not necessarily in that order). She is the published author of The Grace Beale Series. Her fourth book is currently with a literary agent awaiting publication.

Website: www.eatkinson1.com
Instagram: @crabbeshome
Facebook: E Atkinson

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