We were raised Mormon until mom had a dream that “Beelzebub” (her word) came to her and told her she was on the right path. Since the path she was on was the Mormon path, she decided to find another path. I was seven when we left the church. My only memories of being a Mormon are things like Postum, which the old man drank each morning instead of coffee, the undergarments our folks wore, the bins of flour and oatmeal in the store room that we kept in case of an apocalypse and that one day I would have to ride a bike around as a missionary. I remember being excited about getting baptized. They said the Holy Spirit would come to me with a gift. I always wondered what I’d get, secretly hoping for a remote control airplane. I was pretty disappointed to find out later that the gift was a metaphor. Too young to appreciate symbolism, it seemed like I was getting ripped off.
— from A Masque of Infamy