A coworker mentioned in passing the other day that her kids were in vacation Bible school this month. At first, I cringed. Then I remembered the fond memories I have of vacation Bible school, or VBS as we called it.

Going to VBS for a couple of weeks during the summer is one of my very first memories. I must’ve been 4 or 5. Still very quiet and not yet so appraising of people and experiences that came and went.

VBS was held in the basement of the church my grandparents belonged to. They were active members, my grandpa in charge of the sound system for each Sunday sermon, my grandma in charge of the baking for each post-sermon social assembly (usually a thinly veiled gossip session).

The basement was nothing special. Beige-brown berber carpet. Walls in a poorly chosen paint color (dark tan). Some folding chairs set up for the VBS kids.

It was the teachers who I remember. There were three, two women and a man. I wonder how old they were at the time. They were likely close to my age now, 33. It’s weird to think they’re out there somewhere, maybe, well into their 60s.

They were kind, they were warm, they did puppet shows. They told us tales from the Bible with a storyteller’s voice, not a judging condemnation. They made the stories easy to understand and maybe even funny, when they deemed it appropriate. We’d have graham crackers and apple juice while coloring pictures of Jesus and the disciples to take home to show our parents.

It was one of the few positive experiences with religion that I had as a child. And experiences, I had many.