I grew up a Sunday-morning Presbyterian, and later, a youth group Methodist. Church was an obligatory respite, if in practice, a little boring. Only deep into my teens did my faith become one where sin and salvation were fixed, battling entities in my life.
When I was a high school senior, I found myself at a church hall dance in a neighboring town. I'd met the Christian electronica-pumping DJ a few times. He was straight edge and single. His pants were baggy, and he wore his hair long on top with frosted tips.
I climbed onto the stage where he was hunched over CDs to say hello. I thought I was flirting. He asked me something, grabbed my hand, and prayed. The thumping drive of the music was so loud I couldn't hear what he said, but when done, he pulled me into a hug. His salty teen-boy cologne clung to his T-shirt, which had little rips at the neckline. I thought he might like me. He turned off the music and asked me to testify at the mic. Evidently, I'd just been saved. |
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