Where are the Cookies?

When I call myself the Booty Shaking Priestess, it isn’t random. Not even a little.

I am, in fact, a very religious person.

I was “raised in a church,” so to speak. Christmas carols. Easter egg hunts. Church every Sunday, followed by dinner with my grandparents. Playing hide-and-seek in all the rooms. Ringing the church bells—if I was lucky. These are the images that surface when I think about church. I love it.

Despite being fairly aware of things, I still live under a rock. I don’t research much. I don’t compare. So when I started attending the church closest to my house, it wasn’t because I’d searched for one that matched my upbringing—it just did. It felt like coming home.

The Lord’s Prayer is different, and I refuse to say it their way. But everything else fit. Apparently Presbyterian and Methodist churches share a similar structure. I had no idea. Call it good fortune or divine intervention. Either way, I’ve been going there regularly for over a year and a half.

Three weeks ago, a woman from my church invited me to attend a different one. She was clear she wasn’t trying to replace my Presbyterian church—just add another. She mentioned a live band and volunteer opportunities. It sounded lovely, so I went last night.

The differences were huge.

I’m not here to badmouth that church, and I’m certainly not about to stop attending my own. There were things I enjoyed. The pastor was funny—stand-up-comedian funny. There was live music and lots of positive energy.

But one difference stood out immediately: what happens after the service.

At my church, nearly everyone gathers in the fellowship hall for a potluck. Cookies. Sandwiches. Whatever people bring to share. It’s incredible for community building. We sit, eat, chat, compliment the chocolate bow ties on cookies. Everyone is fed. Everyone is smiling.

This is my upbringing.

I didn’t realize most churches aren’t like this.

After last night’s service ended, a woman approached me in the entryway and started talking. I’m autistic, and standing in a crowded exit—blocking traffic—is deeply uncomfortable for me. I’m also blunt when overwhelmed.

So I blurted, “Where are the cookies?”

She gave me the strangest look and pointed toward a tent outside, saying there were snacks and coffee there. On my way out, another woman stopped me—still in the entryway, still blocking people. Still uncomfortable.

So again, I blurted, “Where are the cookies?”

Same look. Same pointing.

I nearly ran to the tent, assuming everyone would follow.

No one did.

Inside were maybe half a dozen children eating cheese puff balls.

No wonder the ladies were staring at me funny.