I remember the crying. Girls with mascara smeared across their faces, racing down the aisles of the tabernacle toward the preacher. Some went in pairs, clutching each other and whispering. The boys typically walked alone, proud and sure of themselves as they went down to inform a Falls Creek counselor of their decisions, whether it be to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and savior, or to answer a call to missions. Or perhaps they felt like they had fallen off the bandwagon and taken up smoking or drinking, and they wanted to publicly declare that they were going to live their lives for Jesus once again. Campers and youth ministers applauded their decisions. There I stood, 14 years old, watching hundreds of my peers have life-changing religious experiences, but all I could do was wonder why my eyes were completely dry and why God wasn’t speaking to me. If God was going to talk to anyone, it should have been me. I was the Baptist golden child: My grandfather on my father’s side i...