Sunday Mornin’Christians

I reflect upon those days of old, the Black church, a beacon of faith and morality. A black Baptist preacha’, in his snazzy black robe; sweat beading upon his brow. . . summer days drenched with blazing heat.
Under his turbulent voice everything, including church strollers and shiny-faced kids, feast upon the word. They were in his hipzone; under his spell. Black faces in the pews with specks of white in the midst.
A missionary kept a white shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she grind away at the organ.
8 am worship found some saints in the amen corner hiding puffy eyes behind colorful UV 400 shades. Still liquored up with foggy breaths, waving professed holy hands—despite having salaciously sewn wild oats the night before.
Passers-bys awkwardly brush aside there clappers as if to proclaim no hard evidence of saintliness exists.
In the back kitchen, the aroma of fried chicken, collard greens, and pot liquor; smothered pork chops, okra, and onions on the boil.
Day of ‘The Lords Supper,’ the sanctuary is lined with empty cups with wine remnants and communion plates.
Come funeral day, the site of open caskets, various draped with
flags; some dressed in leaves and vine. A broken man kneeling and pressing his forehead against the magnificent marble encasing his prized jewel.
At last, he walks the broad path up to the configurations of standing stones, leading to where bodies are laid under mournful turfs.
I remember the droves and the twelve small miles out of town, some in clicks, others walking home alone. The gossipmongering; the conveyance of little-known historical facts; prophesies of what is to come. As in every small town, the most colorful stories are told in the streets.