Every day there’s either some new article, 13 things nostalgic listicle, or the same circulated article your parents and their friends and their friend’s friends keep sharing in solidarity of those ancient 1980s—that cries for a better time when we weren’t immersed in technology. When the internet was still a special box in the back room of the school library. When, in order to make a phone call away from home, you actually had to search and find one and pay for it. When the only way we connected was to connect.
It’s 10:58 AM Sunday morning and you can almost choke on the dust in the air being shaken off of the bones of the townsfolk. Not some toothless yokels in a barn spitting up each others’ already half chewed tobacco, not quite suburban wistful classism, but that happy medium where the railroad tracks split the folks that have too much pride in their wallets and those that have too much worry about having a wallet at all. Here we are smack dab in the middle of small town America where you step foot on sacred carpet; where everybody knows your name and the donations determine whether or not that name holds merit — the Southern Baptist church. A name as relatively spoken is that which spurns contempt amid an ever changing society, progressively wavering away from the construct of organized religion. Rightfully so. This rural existence centers mostly on God’s law and not much else. Funny enough, the ideals of such have reached far beyond small town America where the beer is good, and the guns are loaded and is concrete across itself in whole. 11:00 o’clock. Will the congregation please stand?