In Southeast Missouri, the octagon-shaped house of my youth was filled with religious iconography and satellite dishes. When I dream, I visit the Magnolia tree, whose flowers sheltered us from rain, or I return to the red, shag-carpeted living room of my grandparents' where we sat cross-legged listening to Dolly's rendition of Forty Miles from Poplar Bluff.
In a town of 15,000, there were as many churches as people. My church stood proud on top of a hill, at night her large neon cross flickered. Her wooden pulpit, where I once concealed women's legs with blankets who had fallen slain in the spirit, now rests a front my brother-in-law as he preaches love and grace. It was in her sanctuary that I spoke in tongues to impress my mother, pledged my purity for my father's favor, and from where both my sisters were called to minister the Gospel. It's also a building that I haven't set foot in almost a decade, yet its an essential part of who I am.
Though I have moved away from the place my ancestors called home, I continue to search for the familiar beauty and enchanting mystery reflected in the landscapes and people of the Ozarks.
