Completely in the Dark

First there was the sacred, then the profane.

Our family attended Oakdale Emory United Methodist Church, just up the road from where we lived in Olney, Md.

After we’d moved to Maryland, my Sunday morning activities included waking, eating breakfast, and the excruciating “getting ready for church.”

For some reason, raising children suddenly meant my parents were responsible for my (and my brother’s) eternal soul.

Church would fix that up right quick.

I vaguely recall the layout of Oakdale Emory, its pastor, the congregation, except for a few small things: Sunday school in the church basement and potlucks that, in late summer, were held at a congregant’s sprawling house surrounded by what seemed to be a deep pine forest.

Sunday school class was run by a dour old woman with hairs sprouting out of a mole on her chin. It was one of those things you just couldn’t ignore…