So... the last chapter left me grieving and feeling infinitely sorry for myself. Enough of that. I'll come back to the rest of my childhood at some point, but for now the chronology seems to be moving forward.
We (my husband, baby and I) settled in Jacksonville, Florida, and started feeling the parental guilt of raising a child with no church. My husband was what they call "unchurched" and I was pretty much dechurched. I had been christened as a Congregationalist, but my mother wasn't much of a churchgoer. Nana was a Unitarian and my dad's mother was a Southern Baptist. We tried all the usual protestant suspects but nothing clicked. It was from dozens of Christmases spent with my aunt and uncle that I remembered the Episcopal church. For them Christmas wasn't Christmas without midnight mass. My mother had hated it. She called it "more hossing up and down than a three ring circus!" But I remembered with great fondness the liturgy, music, smells. We tried one in our neighborhood and were warmly welcomed. My husband and son were baptized on the same day and after adult confirmation classes, he and I were confirmed together. We were now active members of the Episcopal church.
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