From yards I away I scrutinized the pastor. A distinguished man that I found indistinguishable, except for what I had memorized about him. Consistently dewy, red-cheeked and black-eyed. Hair sculpted with a startling streak of scalp punctuating the left side. A thick mustache sitting groggily on his upper lip. We recognize what we know him to be more readily than what he actually is. How kind, I thought waywardly. He must maintain the mustache just to keep the congregation comfortable. That speaks to his character. The thought settled in pleasantly — then was promptly crushed when the pastor announced his resignation. Cut to the soundtrack of aghast gasps. My mind went to the mustache.
Back in the kitchen, I found my little sister and a friend doing shots out of the Communion decanters. Pop in an oyster cracker, chew twice, and throw back the half-glass of grape juice to rinse. Repeat with the dozens of unused glasses.
Rapidly downed 30+, subsequently felt my pain ebb.