I ease out of my chair and take my turn at the head of the room. My nervous, marshmallow white fingers grip a wobbly portable podium, faded by time and tears. My eyes study my hands, then the slanted wooden top, then the stubby yellow No. 2 pencil resting on the rail. A sticky note says, “Don’t forget to tell us your name.”
I lift my head and pick a single spot on the wall at the back of the long, shoebox-shaped meeting room. It is the moment of truth, and there’s no denying what everyone in the crowd already knows. I breathe deep and lean into the microphone.
“Hi, my name is Jason, and I’m a family home evening survivor.”