When I was a little girl, my mother used to take me to Sunday School at the Methodist church in the rural Michigan town where my grandpa lived every other weekend.
One weekend we had an assignment to make little models of the twelve disciples any way our little child brains saw fit. I crafted them out of wooden clothespins, drawing smiley faces on the rounded end and pants on the two pegs for legs. I proudly brought them in and showed them to my teacher who praised me.
During that class while we were learning about Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, James, Simon, Jude Thaddaeus, and Judas Iscariot, I raised my hand and asked the teacher why we never learned about girls.
“They weren’t important back then,” she said.
I went home and told my mom I never wanted to go back there. I never did.