CHASING LOVE AND FINDING GRACE

CHAPTER 1: FIRST GLIMPSE OF FAITH

Life has a knack for catching you completely off guard, doesn’t it? One moment you’re gliding through your day feeling as fabulous as Adele at the Brits, and the next, you’re sprawled out like someone who’s just attempted a cartwheel after two glasses of wine. It’s those curveballs—life’s equivalent of stepping barefoot onto an upturned plug—that really keep things spicy. My life? Oh, it began with its fair share of such jolts, especially given that I was born into a Christian household. And not just any Christian household, mind you. Ours wasn’t the laid-back, “God loves you, let’s pop the kettle on” type. No, it was the full-on, “Sunday belongs to the Lord, and thou shalt not have fun unless it’s hymn-related” sort of home.

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Sundays at our house were nothing short of a military operation. It didn’t matter if you’d come down with bubonic plague or if aliens were landing in the garden—Sunday morning was church morning, no exceptions. My mum was the commanding officer, barking orders with the precision of a drill sergeant:

“If you’re not downstairs in five minutes, you’re going as you are!”

And when Mum said “as you are,” she wasn’t kidding. It wasn’t a cheeky suggestion that you could roll up in your comfiest tracksuit. No, it meant “exactly as you rolled out of bed”—complete with bedhead, mismatched socks, and whatever questionable sleepwear you’d chosen the night before. Once, I dared to test her resolve. Let’s just say the church congregation got a rare glimpse of me in my Harry Potter pyjamas. Not my finest hour.

The house would descend into chaos. My dad, who was the self-appointed “key finder,” would wander aimlessly, muttering, “Where’ve those blasted car keys gone?” (Spoiler: they were always in the fruit bowl). Meanwhile, my little brother was usually toddling about with his shirt tucked into his pants backwards. And then there was me, on my hands and knees, frantically trying to locate that one elusive shoe that always seemed to vanish like it was in some sort of witness protection programme.

Downstairs, Mum would be locked in battle with my hair—a duel that was nothing short of legendary. If you’ve ever seen someone attempt to wrestle a fully-grown sheep into a suitcase, you’ll have a vague idea of what she was up against. Armed with a comb and a firm grip, she’d wrestle my curls into submission, muttering all the while, “If you’d just sit still, this would be easier!” By the time she was done, I was convinced I’d lost half my scalp, but at least we all made it out the door. Barely.

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Walking into church felt less like arriving at a place of worship and more like stepping onto a red carpet at the BAFTAs. The aunties—those unofficial church VIPs—were always poised and ready to pounce the moment we entered. These weren’t actual aunties, mind you, but “church aunties,” a special breed of women who seemed to thrive on hugs, floral perfume, and unsolicited advice.

“Oh, look at you!” one would exclaim, pinching my cheeks as though she was testing the ripeness of a peach.

“You’re growing so fast, darling! Are you eating properly?”

Then came the dreaded question:

“So, how’s school? Any boys catching your eye yet?”

The mere mention of boys sent me scrambling for the nearest pew. I mean, how do you even respond to that without combusting on the spot?

And then, of course, there was Pastor Mike. Every church seems to have a Pastor Mike. Ours was a towering, larger-than-life figure with a booming voice and the kind of energy that made you suspect he mainlined espressos before every sermon. Kids in our church were convinced his shiny bald head possessed mystical powers, and honestly, I wasn’t entirely unconvinced myself.

“Ah, there she is!” he’d bellow, his handshake swallowing my entire hand. “So, what did you learn in Sunday school today?”

Now, this was a trap. You had two options. Option one: tell the truth, which usually involved confessing that you’d spent most of the time eating biscuits and colouring in. Option two: feign holiness. Naturally, I went with option two.

“Oh, we learned about … God’s eternal grace and … um … the importance of salvation,” I’d stammer, throwing in a random biblical buzzword for good measure. Pastor Mike would nod sagely, clearly impressed, while I’d heave a silent sigh of relief for dodging another interrogation.

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Once the pleasantries were over, it was time for the main event: the sermon. And let me tell you, Pastor Mike’s sermons were epic. Not in the “short and sweet” sense, but in the “settle in, this is going to be a long haul” kind of way. He had this way of starting every sermon with a joke—usually a groaner about Moses and the Red Sea—but by the time he got into the meat of the message, it felt like you’d aged five years.

Occasionally, I’d glance at the old man in the third pew, who invariably dozed off midway through the sermon. Honestly, I envied his ability to nap through Pastor Mike’s booming voice.

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Church wasn’t just a weekly sermon marathon; it came with extracurricular responsibilities. Mum, in her infinite wisdom, decided I should “serve” and thought the crèche would be a good fit. At nine years old, I became an unpaid toddler-wrangler—a “crèche assistant” if we’re being fancy. My job was to prevent tiny humans from turning the place into a zoo. Spoiler alert: I was terrible at it.

My strategy was bribery, plain and simple. Animal crackers and Ribena were my tools of diplomacy, and they worked—temporarily. Five minutes of peace was all I could hope for before chaos returned. Bible story time was the highlight, but trying to explain Noah’s Ark to toddlers was like debating theology with philosophers.

“Did the lions eat the giraffes?”

“Were there sharks in the water?”

“Did Noah pack dinosaurs?”

I’d fumble for answers, leaning on my best "trust me, I’m an adult" voice. “No dinosaurs, no sharks, and the lions didn’t eat anyone. God made sure everyone got along.” The kids stared, unconvinced. Five minutes later, their version of Noah’s Ark included a shopping mall, unicorn stables, and a rollercoaster.

Art time was equally entertaining. “This is a cow!” a child would declare, presenting what looked more like a potato with legs. Another proudly showed off a rainbow so bright it could’ve doubled as emergency lighting. “Beautiful work!” I’d exclaim, trying to suppress laughter. It earned me grins that made the chaos almost worth it.

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If wrangling toddlers wasn’t enough, Mum decided choir practice would “broaden my horizons.” Translation? She wanted me out of the house for a few hours. Choir practice was a weekly disaster, featuring off-key harmonies and Sister Joyce’s relentless optimism.

“You kids are amazing!” she’d cheer, even as Tommy hit a note that sounded like a cat being stepped on.

One Sunday, our choir performed This Little Light of Mine. Sophie, the girl beside me, decided it was her moment to shine—literally. She belted the song like she was headlining Glastonbury, complete with dramatic hand movements that nearly knocked over a hymnbook stand. Meanwhile, the rest of us mumbled along, trying not to burst out laughing.

The applause afterward was thunderous—likely out of relief that we’d finished. Sophie basked in the limelight, while I wondered if there was a way to resign from the choir without upsetting Mum.

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The post-service snack table was the real Sunday highlight. It was a battlefield, and Sister Margaret was its commander. Her hawk-like eyes monitored every biscuit, ensuring no one took more than their allotted two.

Once, I dared to grab a third digestive.

“Excuse me, that’s two, isn’t it?” she said with a smile sharp enough to cut steel. I quickly retreated, clutching my contraband biscuit like I’d stolen state secrets.

Meanwhile, the adults gathered for their gossip huddle. “Did you hear about Sister Monica?” one aunty whispered, her tone so dramatic it belonged in a soap opera. I never caught the full story, but the snippets were better than any EastEnders episode.

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The drive home was Mum’s interrogation hour. “What did you learn today?” she’d ask, her tone suggesting she already knew we weren’t paying attention.

“Er... something about Jesus?” my little brother offered, grinning innocently.

I scrambled for an answer, cobbling together words like “faith” and “love” in a way that sounded vaguely convincing. Mum nodded, but her eyes in the rear-view mirror promised there’d be follow-up questions later.

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Sunday lunch was the reward for surviving church. Mum’s roast dinners were legendary, complete with crispy potatoes that we fought over like seagulls over chips. Dessert was her signature apple crumble, a dish so divine it deserved its own hymn.

By the time we were done, we’d be sprawled on the couch like overfed cats. It was glorious.

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As I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, the events of the day played in my mind like a chaotic movie montage. There was Sophie, throwing her whole soul into This Little Light of Mine as though Simon Cowell were lurking in the congregation, ready to hand her a recording contract. Then there was Sister Margaret, biscuit vigilante extraordinaire, ensuring no digestive escaped unaccounted for. And, of course, the toddlers, whose version of Noah’s Ark could rival any Hollywood blockbuster.

It was funny how Sundays always seemed to have the same rhythm: chaos, confusion, laughter, and a dash of drama. Yet, somewhere in all that mess, there was a kind of beauty.

The crèche, for example. Yes, the toddlers were a handful, and yes, I spent most of my time peeling stickers off my hair and rescuing crayons from mouths. But there was something pure about their giggles, their wild imaginations, and their unfiltered questions. They weren’t afraid to wonder or to see the world as magical, even if it meant believing that Noah’s Ark had a swimming pool.

And the choir? Sure, we were a walking, singing disaster most weeks. But there was something oddly uniting about our shared mediocrity. No one cared that Tommy couldn’t hold a note or that Sophie had delusions of stardom. We were a team—an off-key, sometimes tone-deaf team—but a team nonetheless.

Then there was the post-service madness. The biscuits, the gossip, the drive home—on the surface, it all seemed trivial, but there was a deeper thread running through it. Those moments, however small, stitched us together as a family, as a church, as a community.

And that’s what struck me most as I reflected: faith wasn’t just in the sermons or the Bible stories. It was in the laughter of the toddlers, the chaos of the choir, the stolen biscuits, and even in Mum’s relentless post-church interrogations. It was in the way we showed up for each other, in the unspoken bonds, and in the comfort of knowing we belonged somewhere, even if it was messy and imperfect.

Life isn’t about having it all figured out, I realised. It’s not about perfect performances or flawless obedience. It’s about showing up, trying your best, and finding joy in the little things—the things that often feel too small to matter but end up meaning the most.

So, as I pulled the duvet over myself, I smiled. Today was loud, unpredictable, and exhausting, but it was also filled with laughter, love, and lessons. And that’s what made it sacred.

If faith is a journey, then Sundays were the pit stops where I refuelled—not just with Mum’s apple crumble, but with the messy, beautiful, chaotic moments that reminded me what life was all about. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. And that was enough.