The vicar kept
forgetting what he had last said. Perhaps we should have left, because he kept
knocking things over. The vicar never got better. He was the same during each
visit. We all passed though, and I told Dad I was confirmed. But Dad said,
"That's what he
is, CONFIRMED! A confirmed drunkard!"
For some time
after that Dad stopped us going. But one summer's evening, I felt the urge to go
to church again, this time in the evening on my own, to learn about God, and to
be a better person. Besides, I thought, Sunday school stories didn't seem
enough, somehow.
There weren't as
many people at the evening service as I had expected, about twenty. I always
thought a lot went. The grown-ups kept looking down at me and smiling. I felt
very special, though it was a bit like being patted on the head. The vicar began
raising his voice, and some of them nodded their heads in agreement. I only
grasped some of the things he said, it was too hard for me to understand.
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