It's picturesque, really. Well-groomed, obedient children walking into the doors in a small church.

Walking with them, slightly behind, is a woman in a long dress, and possibly on her hip as the youngest of the group, head-nuzzled to her bosom.

Next to her is a man wearing long slacks, a dress shirt button to the top, and a tie that's slightly too long or just

a hair too short.

And everything fits him a little bit big.

They all share one thing though, a smile.

Everyone else looks like them, walks like them, dresses like them, and talks like them.

It's almost robotic, mechanical, too symmetrical.

But if you look a tad closer, those smiles aren't natural. They look forced. The husband's

smile is instructive, almost like, wear a smile or else. The wife has that smile of hesitation, wondering if

anyone's buying it, if anyone can see behind it, hoping her husband doesn't look too closely

and see how fake it really is, how forced it really is. The kids could be smiling out of pure

ignorance. They don't know that everything's falling apart.

Maybe one of the daughters is smiling because she gets to see her best friend. But the son is

smiling because if he doesn't, he's got a date with his father in the room during service.

They've all been trained. Going to church is an act in four parts. Arrival,

worship, after service fellowship, and departure. Everyone else looks this way because it's an

advertisement. Come here and you too can enjoy an obedient family. Any slip-up and all eyes are on you. Any questions?

And you might not fit the mold. Any deviation? And everything unravels. In a high-control

patriarchal environment, life is a performance. And church is but a casting call. Heaven is for those who fit in, those who obey,

those who follow the rules. Church gives you the instructions. Be this, don't be this. Wear this,

definitely don't wear that. Hang out with these people, don't hang out with those people. Husbands rule.

...