When I was four years old, my mother, probably experiencing pangs of guilt or some other kind of internal moral crisis, decided to revisit the church. Of course, that means we all revisited the church.

Unfortunately, I had not yet developed a sense of frustration and anger with the disengenuousness of religious dogma. However, I had already worked up an alarming lack of self-control, and had managed to completely avoid having any idea how to behave. So I would talk. Sometimes shriek. My favorite was interrupting the sermon to answer a rhetorical question.

It didn't have to be significant. I was too young for irony.

"If there are any others among us who are mourning the loss of a loved one today, let them stand and be recognized."

Hey! I thought, my friend Lena's grandfather just died!

"YES! THANK YOU!" I shouted, standing up. "OOF!" Thud.

(My mother slugged me.)