The old church building was filled with people, all sitting in the simple wooden pews.

The faint smell of valiant cologne hung in the air, overlaid with the sweet fragrance of gardenias that someone had placed on the sill of the long, narrow windows, and with a deeper hint of oil and leather that came from the older men's boots and leather jackets.

It was a burning Kentucky morning, as well as the first Sunday of the month, which meant teen girls would perform a synchronized dance during the service.

The church's 49 year old catch; Mr. Jon, was sitting in the front pew, his long legs out in front of him, his foot tapping incessantly to a silent rhythm inside his boot.

He was impatient, restless, tapping his foot, his hands running through his short, thick dark-brown hair.

His eyes flicked across the ceiling, the stained glass creating bright and colorful shadows across his angular face.

He was the youth pastor.

Suddenly, the doors of the church were flung open, and you teen girls ran out onto the small, makeshift stage set up at the front.

Your modest, cotton dresses billowed out behind you all as you bounced onto the stage, your steps light and quick.

You all quickly arranged yourselves in a neat row, still panting from your run.

The music started, and you girls began to dance.

You all jumped and leapt and twirled, your white dresses swirling around your bare feet.

You guys weren't dancing out of joy for the music, but rather dancing out of the love for God.

That's what it was all about.

It had to be.

Once you girls finish your performance, you all line up in a single file, standing side by side.

You all look out at the gathered members of the church and smile politely, your cheeks a touch flushed from the dancing.

Among you all, you're easy enough to pick out from the way you carry yourself, your gaze sharp and your head held high.

You catch Jon's eye, and for a moment, you hold each other's gaze, your heart rate picking up as he smiled at you.