Let’s take a break from the election for a bit, shall we?

First story: Long, long ago, in the neck of space-time known as the Oklahoma Oil Bust, my family became charismatic Christians. We started going to “Monday night bible study,” basically a small house church about a mile from where we lived. It started with around a dozen or less but within a few months had grown to close to a hundred.

Each meeting would start with several renditions of praise choruses intended to sound like authentic Jewish music, if by “authentic Jewish music” you mean a half-remembered rendition of Fiddler on the Roof. After blowing the trumpet in Zion, the Bible study would begin, followed by the laying on of hands and the talking of tongues. (Try it yourself! Just yell quickly: “Who stole-uh my Honda? Come and tie my bow tie!”)

We kids would stick around for the singing but then move out to the den to watch “Gospel Bill” videos. Gospel Bill—with the help of his dog Barkimeus—would run El Diablo out of town by shouting scriptures and rebuking him in the name of Baby Jeebus. Minimum time required for Monday night bible study: three hours.

But, looking back, the most interesting part of it all was the family who ran the thing. The father was a Flanders-esque physician who, we later found out, slept regularly with the father of two who lived across the street from us. (That family’s children were taken away because the father was abusive and because they had gone without running water for months and had started using the bathroom in a spare bedroom.) The son seemed to have a variant of autism (perhaps Asberger’s, I wonder now). And the daughter still used a bottle at three and didn’t like to be touched.

Then there was the mother. I’ll refrain from mentioning her name and instead call her Purple Cowboy Hat Lady. The reason for that being not only that she wore a purple cowboy hat but also that she wore purple clothing from head to foot. Always. The reason for that being that she was a King’s Kid. And the color of royalty, as anyone knows, is purple. (I haven’t checked into the royal lineage of cowboy hats yet.) She claimed it was a witnessing tool, because people would come up to her at the grocery store (or the neighborhood pool, or a funeral service) and ask why she dressed that way. I’m sure it was very effective.

Even after we left Monday night bible study, Purple Cowboy Hat Lady would stop by the house unannounced, daughter in tow, to pray in tongues with my mother for marathon prayer warrior sessions. In time this became irritating. In time, my brother and I would start to hide in our rooms and do a little praying of our own. (“Please Baby Jeebus, make her go away.”)

I tell you that story to tell you this story: This weekend I told my mother that I was now ordained in order to do my sister-in-law’s wedding. She asked who ordained me, and I told her.

Then she said this: “Oh, that’s the same people who ordained [Purple Cowboy Hat Lady].” Silence at both ends of the phone.

And then my mother laughed at me. (At least she volunteered she’d been planning this one out.)