I grew up among the Plymouth Brethren a community of earnest but stern men and women in headscarves with large hearts beneath their long hair and dresses (no pants back then).

The hymns were without instruments and the eucharist, although it wasn’t the eucharist, was every Sunday. We read the Bible, a lot, and the men tried as best they could to preach but it was a labor of love both to do and to listen. Wednesday was prayer meeting, a near hour on our knees and a rap on the back of the head if we fell asleep.

Most certainly their heart was in the right place. They were people who had been saved and were trying their best to live as saints in a world they knew was soon to pass away. If the odd ideas of dispensationalism and a propensity to deal with the end times was their low point their high point was in a desire for everyday piety, a love of sacred texts, and a vision for heaven.

I remember their songs from time to time and still sing them occasionally when I’m by myself in the car. In some ways I am a million miles away from those days. I’m sure the thought of me, presuming that I am even remembered, being Orthodox may be proof to some of how far I’ve wandered away, of the dangers of leaving the fold, and the jeopardy of drifting from the assembly.

Yet here I am, after all these years, in a community of faith where the singing is without music, the Eucharist is every Sunday, the Scriptures are venerated, people kneel, and women sometimes still wear headscarves. In some ways I’m on the other side of the world, in some ways I’m not very far from where I started.