Reading Time: 2 minutes

Mama says if I want to see God, I have to go to church every Sunday morning.

But I think she’s mistaken.

Because all I ever see is a fat preacher yelling about the devil and us sinners.

You shall burn in the fires of HELL!

Your lying tongues will drop from your mouths!

Thorns will grow upon the skin of cheaters!

I don’t see the point.

God never seems to be around. And the preacher scares me to death.

Who wouldn’t be scared of an old man shouting like a lunatic?

But mama never sees my point of view.

So every Sunday, we walk to the white building and sit down in the third row across from an open window.

The soft breeze comforts me.

The preacher stands in a corner eyeing us sinners, his veiny hands resting on his belly.

Something tells me he’s coming for me.

He welcomes us, as usual.

But before his words settle, his shouts take over.

The devil is here!

Oh devil! Show me your unrighteous face!

There are gasps. I hear my mama too.

The preacher smacks the heads of the people in the front row. Two little girls start crying.

After the second row, it’s our turn, and the man looks much angrier. He’s dead serious about finding the devil.

His hand knocks against my head, pressing down hard, making me scream.

Folks! Behold the dark devil!

I’m about to pass out when I hear another shout. Is that my mama?

‘Let go of my boy!’

Mama swings her purse hitting the old man in the face.

Down goes the preacher, ending all his crazy nonsense.

We walk home and never talk about it again.

Now I know.

Mama is my savior. I see God in her every single day.  Amen!

Her kisses decide whether a person lives or dies. Forced to live in misery, one kiss sets The Kissing Maiden free .

Go on! Check out my Short Stories Books – Free on Kindle Unlimited

Woman's cracked abstract face with fire streaks
Two smiling potato faces on a couch on a
Shadow of vines on a brick wall

3 Comments on “Mama Is My Savior

  1. Pingback: I'm Vodka, He's Beer-Short Story | It Ain't Right Till I Write

It Ain't Right Till You Comment. Go Ahead!

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: