Upon one of the Sunday School walls,
there hung a painting of John
baptizing Jesus, but the River Jordan
looked more like our neighborhood creek—
“crick” was what Ms. Joyce called it,
her accent as thick as muddy water.
She taught us Bible stories, and I
remember how she always ended by
singing, “Jesus loves the little children.”
I believed the heavens opened
at the sound of Ms. Joyce’s voice,
and that humble classroom transformed
into the holiest temple there ever was.
The Spirit still descends like a dove.
