I think this really happened, but one can never be sure.
We went to the church building on a Sunday evening, and the foyer was decorated vaguely like an airport terminal. The buffer zone was set up like an airplane, and we pretended to be going somewhere. Then the plane crashed, and we were taken from room to room, reenacting the post mortal world or the judgment — I don’t remember that part so well. The grand finale was going into the chapel to see all of our parents dressed in all white clothes, hugging us as we came in, congratulating us on our valiance.
I only remember two things about this evening vividly: first, they had little packets of peanuts for us on the airplane. At the time, I thought it was a bizarre effort for authenticity when sitting on folding metal chairs in a small room with construction paper ovals taped to the wall.
Second, I remember my emotions on seeing my father dressed in all white, waiting for me in the chapel: profound embarrassment. I knew the white clothes had something to do with the temple which was very important to him, and to me it looked like he was wearing it as a costume in a play. I was probably mirroring his discomfort: he hates this kind of thing, and I’m sure he did it out of a sense of duty. (I have no memory of mother being there: perhaps her sense of duty was not as strong.)
Does this sound familiar, or is this some kind acid flashback? Any other bizarre youth firesides?