The hardwood floor was pitted with heel marks from countless gingham-skirted Dolly Parton-like women who scuffled across the floor to the drone of a pre-recorded caller with truck-driving men sporting handlebar mustaches. At least that’s how I imagined them as I sat there staring in a daze, listening to the sermon. I never actually saw anyone dance on the floor. For me, this mundane edifice with lime green walls is where God spoke to his elect, a few hundred people who gathered for two hours (or more) every Saturday in perfectly arranged brown folding chairs with “Worldwide Church of God” rubber-stamped on the chair back and the underside of an incredibly hard steel seat. I was in a dance hall daze.