Sunday school was not as bad as MYF, because of the teacher's presence and the short length of class. I felt sorry for the teachers, poor volunteers who offered their services each Sunday morning, only to receive inattentive abuse. I often wished that the minister would have cancelled church school for junior and senior high, and instead allowed them to talk the hour away, since that is what happened anyway. When an attempt at discipline was made to silence the noise, the discussion planned by the teacher would all but collapse and students, or at least, many of them, would sit despondently in their seats, with plaster-cast pouts on their faces, and refuse to answer questions unless directly asked. Then the answer was generally a curt, "I don't know" followed by steamy silence. I wished that I had the clout and the following to right these proceedings, yet a plea on my behalf would have been unheard or ignored; unless my barrier would permit me to enter into the instructor's discussion and help in that meager way, I could do nothing to reinforce the teacher's strength except, through silence, keep the bedlam at its current level. Our church, I found, shared its problem with other denominations. March 24, 1976... wrote another poem about spring... really nice out today! I remember the day and was inspired to write about that which I saw around me. I carried a note pad and pen to the wood pile behind my house, and taking a seat, allowed my pen to drift along with my mood. As the sun pelted its warm rays on my back, the world seemed so beautiful and my heart so full of the world, that I had to capture the feeling forever. I possessed no poet's eloquence at age 14, though I did seek to express honesty and beauty in the written word; I wished that everyone could see and feel the life which permeated every puff of breeze through the tight-budded trees. I felt rather guilty that I fostered such ill fervor toward going to church and, as a gesture of good will, sent a copy of my poem to the minister. Perhaps I wished to ease my own mind against the suspicion that I was on a collision course with atheism; for although I did not feel like a heathen, I was terribly aware of a rift between my ideas and those preached in church; some of the statements actually filled me with wrath; I searched my mind for the cause of my annoying fury and, years later, I was finally able to define my religious belief and be at peace with myself. To return to my story, I mailed my poem and settled back to pursue the daily routine. One and a half weeks passed, finding me at church and longing for an alternative. It seemed miraculous, for my wish came true.