The author as a girl growing up in the church.

The cool breeze blowing from the air-conditioning vent above me made my skin prickle as goosebumps spread across my sweaty neck. I sat impatiently in the pew at the very back of the church and shifted uncomfortably in my skirt and blouse. I hated wearing those clothes, but church etiquette dictated that I dress nicely and modestly to attend. I would’ve much preferred shorts and a T-shirt.

I glanced at my watch. They should have started already, I thought to myself impatiently. Then I noticed the pastor get up and make his way to the pulpit. Excitement spread a smile across my face as the buzzing congregation went silent.

After a quiet prayer that I barely listened to, the first of the evening’s speakers was introduced, and I sat up taller in my seat, shifting to see around the woman in a grey dress seated in front of me. Her blown-out hair sat high on her head, covered obediently with a doily to reflect her commitment to her faith.

At the pulpit, a handsome man with a friendly smile began to introduce his blonde wife, who was also in a fine dress and head covering. Beside them stood four children, lined up in steps, all with white-blonde hair, ranging in age from 16 to 2. The youngest, a boy, twirled around in front of the others, unable to keep still.

These are the missionaries I have heard so much about in the weeks prior. Their story is the one I am so eager to hear.

I grew up in a remote community of only 300 people on the tiny island of Man-O-War Cay, at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. It was the kind of place where kids rarely wore shoes all summer, riding bikes to the next makeshift fort or game. The kind of place where neighbours kept a watchful eye for skinned knees or cries for help. A community where people never locked their doors and you greeted every person you passed by name.

With three churches and zero bars, it was also a very Christian community ― Brethren and Pentecostal ― where almost everyone attended church services. There were the two Sunday morning services, and then Sunday evening service where sacraments were taken, plus the Wednesday evening service, as well as the youth group and the occasional church bake sale.

Ours was also the type of community where the lady in the grocery store on Monday morning would ask if you had been ill on Sunday, because surely that was the only possible reason why you had missed church.

As a teenager, my life wasn’t predestined, but it was mapped........

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