He hid in the back of the church, looking up at the cross. The mass of people around him and the noise of hymns being sung faded. It was all too overwhelming--too much for his young mind to take in {at once}. So he focused on the cross.
This giant, wooden cross had always been there. It was there during the Easter pageant when the men put on makeup, the ladies waved palm branches and a plastic baby Jesus occupied center stage. It had been there when he was caught racing down the center aisle and took the beating of his life for it.
The boy had been there many times before--or at least he felt like he had.
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