The many mirrors and white cinder block walls render the Presbyterian bathroom a purgatory of self-revelation. There I met a woman named Mrs. Butterfield who has a Ph.D. My eyebrows shot up, for in my red-doored church the phenomenon of a Ph.D., particularly a female one, might crack the stained glass.

At home I attend a tiny Reformed Baptist Church with creaking pews and a red door. We bought it from the Methodists for a dollar. Our unwritten cultural bylaws require the following:

No man shall collect the offering unless he sports Wrangler jeans and a plaid shirt.

None shall expect punctuality from anyone with milking cows.

All sisters-in-law shall share dress patterns.

No speaker shall be so abstemious as to organize the announcements before giving them.

Above all, anyone may cry or laugh or ask a question at any time, for we are a big fun family.

I knew of no churches like mine in the greater D.C. metro area, so in moving here I consigned myself to a brand new adventure. Last Sunday I went to a Presbyterian church in the strength of thrice-caffeinated dining hall coffee.

The first minor-keyed hymn had tiptoed past like a spider when the caffeine started taking effect. I began to feel like Coleridge on opium. I saw everything, and wrote it all down. I filled 25 pages, and even leaked to the back cover of my notebook.

First, I observed some common church ingredients. The preacher’s eyebrows crawled across his face like caterpillars. I smiled at several babies, a boy in an odious stage of adolescence, and the harmless deacon who brought the wine.

Having wine in church came as a surprise. I wanted to resist the literary temptation to wax wild about the sacraments, but I scribbled about the prospect of my clumsy arms overturning the tray into a bloody flood.

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Chelsea Kolz is a student at Patrick Henry College in Purcellville, Va.