I grew up in a church that called Sunday “The Lord’s Day” and prophesied a world-ending Rapture called “the Great and Terrible Day of the Lord.”
I confused the two, and spent many a Sunday morning standing on the commode, gazing out the bathroom window at the graveyard on the hill, expecting to see Jesus descend and the corpses of The Saved come rocketing up out of the earth.
I’m faithless now. But in dreams I still hear the sky-splitting trumpet, the thunder, and the desperate screams.
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