I didn’t always go to Big Church. I would plead with my mom to stay and not be sent off to Children's Church alone. It rarely worked, but when it did everything was great. I would walk in wearing my nice church clothes and holding my Bible like my dad did. Mine was a blue Bible with ‘Adventure’ on the cover. Except for that and his belt, I looked pretty similar to my dad. (I didn’t have to wear one unless I was at grandma's church.) When I sat between my dad and brother, we looked like out-of-order nesting dolls—no, storm troopers, though I was a little short for that. 

It was so cool. We would sit in the balcony and I would count the tiles on the roof or the stained glass panels on the windows. They were always the same, but I did it anyway. 

I would stand up with my family while we sang and I read along with the words on the screen. I thought the words of the old songs were cool, like hath, doth, and sayeth. They were powerful words to me that held more within them, after all they were only sung in church for a reason. I usually used them when I talked like Darth Vader. That seemed like the right time. I think God would agree. 

Sometimes in Big Church me and my brother Luke would draw on the offering envelopes that hung in little baskets on the back of seats. They also held pens and a Bible so that we had something to draw with and a hard surface to write on every time. I think a few Bibles bore stick figure impressions from our drawings—little pieces of me and my brother like breadcrumbs on the holy book. My mom always told us at home to eat properly, but the lesson hadn’t made it to church yet. We left our impressions on the Bible instead of the other way around. 

One day when the pastor told us to turn to Psalms my brother set aside the pen and offering envelope and opened his Bible. I rushed to do the same and my dad helped me find the book by giving me a little trick. He knew I liked tricks. Open the Bible in half, he said. Then half it on the left again. He did it as he spoke...and boom, he said, pointing at the word Psalms at the top of the page. I did the trick a few times to make sure I wouldn’t miss and that he was right. Each time I saw Psalms at the top, and I said in my mind, Boom. 

I listened to the Pastor and thought he sounded cool and I understood that the guy he was talking about was running from a bad guy but the first guy was the good guy because he was on God's side. What I didn’t understand was why the guy had written a poem that didn’t rhyme. It sounded and looked pretty cool in my head. Especially when the pastor said that he wrote it in a cave. Everything the poet said was big like spaceships. He said things out of order but It felt important that way. But still, it didn’t rhyme. He wasn’t a very good poet. 

I had heard poems like this before in Sunday School, on Wednesday nights, when my parents read at home for Christmas, and of course, in Big Church. Unfortunately, they would have been better if they rhymed. That was what made a poem a poem. My teacher had taught me that. Though I didn’t really like the poems we read at school, I still knew what a poem was. I read the poem a few more times, but I couldn’t figure out why it didn't rhyme. 

I ended up drawing while the pastor talked, periodically tuning in and out. It depended on how my drawing was going. For a while, it was going well, and my attention was on covering every possible white space. 

Then, while I was coloring in the cave with swirling lines because it needed to be dark in the cave, an idea struck me. Boom! I had it! I was excited and tapped my dad on the shoulder. He leaned his ear down to me and I whispered that I figured something out. I wanted to tell him, but I wanted to lead him to the realization so he could have as much fun as me when I found out. He told me to wait and tell him after because we were about to pray. 

Then the pastor said, let’s pray. So we all bowed our heads. And I thanked God for finding out why the poem didn’t rhyme and for my family. 

After a final worship song, my dad started chatting with someone he knew, so I stayed with mom while she chatted with other moms whose kids were at their side like starfish. I tugged at her but she just put her hand on my head, telling me to wait. Then, when she was done, I tugged at her sleeve and said, momma momma, and she asked what. Beaming at her, I told her I had figured it out. She asked what ‘it’ was, and I said the poems in the Bible don't rhyme because they are translated from a different language. I was ready to be proud, prouder than I already was.  

“Almost. But no, poems don’t have to rhyme,” she said, and patted my head. “They just have to be poems.” 

“oh” 

I felt like air in space, just sucked right out. I hadn’t thought I could be wrong. I had sat on the realization for so long it was already comfortable. I was going to have to tell my teacher she was wrong. I bet she would like to know. Yeah, she should know, being the teacher and all. But I preferred her being wrong. It was cooler if poems didn’t have to rhyme. I couldn’t wait to tell her what I learned.