One Precocious Misfit

Spiritual Misfit


On the Road Again

I can still remember the name of my first Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Carston. I can still remember my first service in “big” church. It might have been Mother’s Day, and I was four or so. My mother held the hymnal down low and traced her index finger under each word as we sang Holy, Holy, Holy. To this day I’m undone when we sing that hymn.

All of which is meant to show you that I was brought up in church. I didn’t become a misfit until I was a teenager. . . .

I am humbled and honored to be sharing today at my sweet friend Michelle DeRusha’s place. Read the rest of the story there.

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