The Night I Learned Not to Run in Church

My dad told me not to run in church. I lasted five seconds. Sunday nights after service felt wide open, the grown‑ups were talking, and the sanctuary seemed built for speed.

I turned a corner and suddenly the staircase was looming right in front of me, the one that dropped down to the front doors and then even farther to the basement. I swerved at the last second, missed the stairs entirely, and hit the corner of a table face first. The shock came first, then the pain, then the tears.

I’d split my lip open, and there was more blood than my brain knew what to do with. It was a mess, but I put my hand over my mouth as fast as I could. In my six‑year‑old mind, if I covered it, maybe no one would notice that I was crying or that my face was leaking. A parishioner, my friend’s father, finally knelt in front of me and tried to coax my hand away. I shook my head and kept it there, still convinced I was hiding everything. When he eased my hand down, his eyes grew large at the jagged gash. He carried me down the alleyway to the house, with my parents and sisters walking beside us.

My mom called the hospital, but they said they didn’t stitch lips. So the cut healed on its own, and now I have a small bump and a tiny scar on my lower lip. It’s a quiet reminder of the night I learned that sometimes parents aren’t trying to spoil your fun. They’re trying to keep you from flying headfirst into a table.

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