It was the summer of my 12th year of life. I remember that clearly because I was in that awkward stage of too many freckles, too many pounds and long, wavy hair. All my life, I had heard talk of the first mountain church that had called Daddy as their Pastor. Mill Creek Baptist. It was a small, white boarded church that was the center of family legend. Deep in the mountains, it was about 40 miles from home. Forty miles of wildly winding roads.