Stained glass is beautiful, I think, and it’s one of the reasons I feel nostalgic about the church. Dimmed artificial lights warmed the sanctuary. It used to be candles, which I preferred, but somewhere along the way someone decided they were too dangerous. The sour touch of citrus would be in the air—from orange rolls, of course. We’d go to church because my mother needed us to. I remember nothing about what the pastors would say as it was exceptionally boring. But I remember I was full. Full like the moment after you pray and a sense of okayness spills in and and you’re full. That was when I still believed in God.