I am young again. This is how my dream always begins, with me standing at the church picnic so many years ago. Not my own pleasantly bland Presbyterian church in the suburbs of Charleston, but that austere Lutheran church out in the plains of West Texas where my father's family has lived for well over two centuries. The dusty church surrounded on all sides by the blue skies and faded grass already turning shades of ochre brown under the relentless assault of the summer sun. The large chapel filled with rough wooden pews that I peacefully slept in for most of the services before being awoken by my uncle to "hear the Word of God" from the preacher.