Dorky writing thingy

It was late winter the first time I felt true love. I remember getting in the car with all the other girls and boys, I remember singing carols and laughing, and I remember the big cathedral with its stained glass windows and tall pointed towers that reached the heavens. I wondered when I would reach the heavens too. The next thing I remember after staring in awe at the gargantuan  building is the clammy hands of the man clasping my wrists and guiding me into the church. He was gripping a bit too tight but I didn't want to be rude and ask him to be gentler. He had told me twice before to call him dad, some of the other kids at the home called him papa. But I called him February father since I knew there would be a new home in March, and then a new home in April, and so on. The church folk were kind to me, they let me feast on sweet biscuits that crumbled in your mouth and vanilla scented slices. And after the flood of nice old ladies who pinched my cheeks and small children running around the empty space, we all sat down and listened to the speaker of God. Everyone was silent except for him, they listened to his every word, clung onto each pausing breath, curled their toes in their shoes and leaned in close. “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God” he sounded so calm, so nonchalant as he said these wonderful eye opening things, like he didn't even understand how much they meant to me. In that moment I finally understood; this was love. I was being saved, saved by God and by the kind hearted people of the church. I wished then that the evening never came, that time would stop and I would be able to stay in the early afternoon of that day in February forever. And when the time came to pray, I prayed that I would never meet March or the father that came with it.