“Dad, when do you think the rapture will happen?” “Oh, probably in the next five or ten years.” I was eleven. Eleven. And I trusted my dad. I respected him, a lot. He was the smartest person I knew – well read, intelligent, a thinking person. You know how doctors sometimes tell cancer patients how many years they have left to live? That’s what this felt like. I had ten years. Ten. No wonder I hoped to marry and have children early. I didn’t want to miss my chance.