I went to church again today.  If you know me, the most shocking thing in that opening salvo was that I said “again” – which would imply that I had been to church previously.

Yep – it’s true.  Yours truly may have maybe, sorta, kinda, possibly, on-the-off-chance found alleged spiritual enlightenment.

When it comes to religion and church going, I’m jaded.  I grew up attending a radical fire-and-brimstone Baptist grade school.  Everything had consequences … and those consequences always involved hell.  Listen to rock-n-roll … you’re going to hell.  Watch TV = hell.  Swear = hell.  Movies = eternal damnation.  Apparently, burgeoning eight-year olds were only allowed to sit around in reverent silence and read the bible.

Needless to say, I was having no part of that by the time I got old enough to make decisions for myself.  And so I made a conscious decision to avoid church like the plague.

Years later when I realized not all churches featured deranged participants speaking in tongues and hurling themselves at the church altar, did I decide to give it another chance.

I got invited to visit Grace Church by a student in my fitness class.  Turns out she was wife of the pastor of said church.  And because I was so caught off guard when she asked me, I couldn’t come up with an excuse fast enough.  (I can only alphabetize my CDs so many times, you know.)

The pastor and his wife not only met me when I walked in, but sat by me during the service to make sure I felt welcome.  Chances of being smited by lightening are infinitely less if you’re sitting by the pastor of the church, I’ve decided.  The sermon was on “self-absorbed people.”  After the senior preacher had yammered on for ten minutes, I decided to stop blogging about myself, put down my iPad and listen to what he had to say.

And while it wasn’t anything particularly awe inspiring – it did pique my interest enough to go back today.  The thing about this particular church is that there’s a good vibe – good juju – in the building.  That’s important to me – especially when I’m trying to gauge the true essence of the people there.

Highlights of going to church: 1) I didn’t turn in to a pillar of salt this week.  2) I have become increasing aware of how much I take God’s name in vain and 3) I saw quite a few people I knew.  They said, “What are you doing here?” to which I loudly responded in complete disbelief, “What am I doing here?!  What are YOU doing here?!?”  (He who is loudest WINS!)

I’m not saying that I’m turning over a new leaf of anything, but it has been a nice little addition to my routine.  For now.  It may eventually revolutionize my world … or not.  In the meantime, though … it’s good material for my blog.  And Lord knows I need it.

Even though Missouri is well above the Mason-Dixon line, it still has a strange Southern accent all its own.  I learned that this weekend when I was in Humansville, Missouri – sorry, Missour-ah.  The closer you inch your way to Arkansas or the Ozarks, the more twang you hear in people’s speech.

I’d like to say it’s a very subtle accent, but after this weekend I’m not so sure.

Case in point — when I was asked before a steak dinner, “What would you laaahk on them there baked ‘taters?”  I actually had to stop and check to make sure I wasn’t in West Virginia for a moment.  I responded, “Did you just say ‘taters’?”  The chef-in-question said … “Well, I could have said ‘Pooooe-taaaaay-tooooes’, but then you might have thought I was a Yankee.”

Good point.

In the rural south everything is methodically drawn out … for instance, the word “south” has sixteen syllables and is pronounced “Suhhhhh-yowwwww-owwwww-tttthhhhh.”  But in the Ozarks, everything is shortened for the sake of brevity and/or laziness.  The aforementioned potatoes are ‘taters.  Tomatoes are ‘maters.  And my personal favorite, “Howenyermommaenthem?”  (Read it slowly.)  It’s hillbilly for “So, I was wondering … how your family is … including your mother and everyone else?”

The phrase that is universally used in Ozark country is “purt-near”.  You can use it in place of “almost”, “nearly,” “close to” or “about”.  Here’s an example, “I purt-near done killed that rabid badger with my own bare hands.”  Or “That was purt-near the best darn huckleberry pie I ever did eat.”

I’m not sure exactly where the switch flips in Missouri.  By and large, people in Kansas City and St. Louis don’t have an accent.  Typically, it’s that bland Midwest diction … with a hint of nasal overtones.  But go one hour directly south and it’s like stepping in to the backwaters of Mississippi.  Done becomes “durn”.  Get becomes “git”.  Casserole becomes “vittles”.  And any sort of four-legged nuisance becomes a “varmint”.

After a couple hits of moonshine (which the locals call “hooch”), I was unusually thick-tongued.  Maybe this whole speech pattern thing is alcohol-induced?  That would make a lot of sense.