The pastor was anointing people one Sunday when I was eight years old. Amongst the other worship practices; public prayer, communion and baptism, the pastor only anointed parishioners occasionally and when he pulled out the small gold vial and asked people to come forward, I rushed to the front.
But somehow, he missed my little head. So I followed him halfway up the pulpit and tugged on his robe a bit. “You forgot me.” I said. He smiled generously and promptly dipped his thumb in the warm olive oil, and did the blessing, right there on the pulpit steps.
That moment of intimate comfort solidified my second home. Church.