The memory of Sunday mornings Sunday School followed by 1 1 o'clock service never left me. The thought of initial devotion still consoles me. My Lord...A Charge to Keep.
The melody of the youth choir singing of how Job was sick for so long overcomes any struggle I may see. The elevation of the pastor's voice stirs my soul like disturbing a nest of honey bees.
I can hear my Grandmother tell me to get out of her peppermints. The aura is filled with divine happiness. Can I have one more, Foots, please. Yes, and next Sunday you are ushering. Next Sunday is not promised, Foots. Mr. Man, all you need is the faith of a muster seed. These memories introduced me to belief.
Church is in my heart. Church is home. I am in church every time you see me.