My family moved to Anahuac, Texas, around Christmas of 1986. I had just turned 6, and was in the middle of first grade. Anahuac was (and, to a certain extent, still is) a sleepy small town down in the river bottoms and swamps, somewhere between Houston and Beaumont, well off the beaten path of I-10. You don’t get to Anahuac by accident.
Soon after we arrived, we began attending church with my mother at First Baptist Anahuac, and I grew up there, both physically and spiritually. Sitting in the wooden pews in the sanctuary, surrounded by the late-1970s split-pea-soup-green carpet, I heard Jesus call me to be His. My understanding of what it meant to be a Jesus-follower grew as I sat in the Sunday School classes, Royal Ambassadors sessions, and youth group meetings. But a building is not a church, any more than a house is a family.