In the late 1970s, my family moved from central North Carolina to the coast, hundreds of miles away from everything and everyone I had ever known—including our church. Although I wasn’t baptized at St. Andrew’s, it was, and still is, what we in the South refer to as “my home church.” Every Sunday, my mother, father, younger brother, and I would sit in the middle row of dark wooden pews, lined with green velvet tufted cushions. Inevitably, one of us kids would begin to squirm under the pressure of keeping quiet until we were dismissed for Sunday School and my mom would try to distract us by playing tic-tac-toe with tiny pencils and first-time visitor forms. My first memories of community are filled with images of the potlucks, seasonal pageants, and various other social activities held in the Fellowship Hall. Christmas was always my favorite. Marching down the center aisle toward the beautiful array of stained glass windows to the rhythm of the carols sung by the choir with my angel wings—white tights stretched over coat hangers sparkling with glitter. The majority of my neighborhood, according to my first grade calculations, attended St. Andrew. So much so, that discussing God and the Bible with all of my friends in Sunday school class seemed just like another group huddle that took place in our backyards and carports.