Where are the Cookies?

I was raised in a church.

Christmas carols.

Easter egg hunts.

Church every Sunday—then dinner with the grandparents.

Ringing the church bells, if I was lucky.

These are the images that surface when I think about church.

I love them.

I stopped attending for many years, but about two years ago, I felt a pull—a desire to belong.

So I started going to the church closest to my house.

It felt like coming home.

The Lord’s Prayer is a little different, but everything else felt familiar. 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 regularly for over a year and a half.

Three weeks ago, a woman from my church invited me to visit another one. She made it clear she wasn’t trying to replace my church—just add to it. She mentioned a live band and volunteer opportunities.

It sounded lovely--so I went last night.

The differences were immediate.

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

But one difference stood out right away:

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. This is more than just a time to fill your belly, it’s incredible for community building. We sit, eat, chat, and compliment the chocolate bow ties on the cookies.

Everyone is fed.

People are smiling.

That’s what church looks like to me.

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

After the service ended last night, 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. When I get uncomfortable, I get blunt.

So I blurted, “Where are the cookies?”

She gave me the strangest look and pointed toward a tent outside. Snacks and coffee, she said.

On my way out, another woman stopped me—same spot, same situation.

Still uncomfortable.

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

Same quizzical look.

Same pointing.

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

No one did.

Inside were maybe six kids eating cheese puff balls.

No cookies.

No crowd.

No gathering.

Just… that.

No wonder they looked at me funny.