Sunday mornings and I have never been the best of friends.  For one thing, at least for a fair part of my twenties, I tended to show up to church very, very tired or faintly hungover from the previous night’s festivities.  I  settle into my pew and assume a properly meditative stance only to discover that the music sighing out of the organ drives me ever nearer sleep.  It’s a problem.

One would hope that this first post and none that follow would prove similarly soporific.  One would hope.

I’m twenty-seven and, as best as I can tell, fully conscious right now.  I’m a self-described “church girl from way back,” an alumna of an evangelical Christian college that, one year after my graduation, had an incredibly kickass basketball team, and a church secretary.

And this is my blog.

Alright.  You can wake up now.  Wipe that little drooly off your chin.

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