I could definitely tell you how many ceiling tiles were in the ceiling of Lakeview Baptist Church, my childhood church home, along with how many window panes caught the sun streaming in through the windows every Sunday morning. As a child, I diligently filled in every “O” on the bulletin and drew masterpieces on the offering envelopes stuffed in the pew rack alongside the miniature pencils. The choir sang beautifully of old rugged crosses, but I could not recount one word the pastor spoke. It floated over my head and my understanding Sunday after Sunday. Even though I was present, I was sitting (and sometimes laying) on the periphery of a worship time meant for adults.