The Simplest, Sweetest Pleasure

Reading Time: 4 minutes

As a young girl, growing up attending a Missionary Baptist church in a little working class neighborhood in Arkansas, I was familiar with the hell, fire and brimstone preaching that accompanied every Sunday morning service.

Truth to be told, I never got used to those fiery sermons.

At the age of accountability and beyond I sat in the pew, palms sweating, dread and worry churning in the pit of my stomach as I anticipated the last part of every sermon where the theory of damnation would be explained and my conviction of how it particularly pertained to me would begin. The proper response was to get convicted, walk down the aisle and profess your sins and the desire to have Jesus save you. Once I had walked down the aisle of that little church more times than I knew should be necessary, I accepted I was scared to death and had no idea how I could know for