Sunday Morning Coming Down

A word to the wise: When two country boys who live in a log cabin offer you homemade brownies on a Friday night, ask more questions than "Are there nuts in them?" That was 36 hours ago. I'm not sure that whatever I failed to ask about is completely out of my system just yet.

The dog woke me up before 7 a.m. by licking my eyes. It would be nice if he were taller, could make breakfast, and I didn't have serious objections to sharing more than casual affection with animals. He seems to have settled into a routine after about 3 years. Correction: I seem to have settled into his routine. It's not so bad to have another creature's routine to consider as you start your day. Despite the eye-licking, even.

I stumbled out of bed, threw on the nearest collection of clothing that wouldn't get me arrested as we went outdoors - me to collect the paper, him to do his morning business. I realized after the fact that I was completely dressed for church, complete with matching socks. I live about 20 steps from the nearest church. I live 40 steps from the next nearest church. Another 2 blocks in either direction and I have more options still. If I started the car, the possibilities are unlimited. I haven't been to a church without the excuse of a wedding, baptism, funeral or child relative musical for almost 20 years.

I enjoy church as I remember it. I come from a group of people who raise their hands to the rafters in sweet surrender as they sing of the mercies of the Lord forever. My people close their eyes and sway as the pianist improvises "in the Spirit", as though God him/herself had taken over the keyboard. Dancing breaks out in the aisles when The Spirit Hits. Not lewd dancing. No bump-n-grind. More of a chicken hop with a hankie. No chickens or snakes or truly odd stuff involved here, it's a letting go of self-consciousness and an inhaling of something truly good. Some of them folks stop swaying after church and beat the holy tar out of each other and their children when they get home, so it don't always take, as we say in Mayberry. But in the moment, it's wonderful.

I miss church. I grew up hearing my grandma's basso voice humming or singing in the bathroom on Sunday mornings as we got ready. I'd do my best to learn quickly the tune, if not the words, so I'd be ready come 10:45. All civilized people have church at 10:45. That's the way it happens. Sunday School at 9:30, Church at 10:45, Bonanza by 12:15 or 12:30 (so the Baptists and Catholics had time to get through the line before we showed up). If you don't know from Bonanza, think Western Sizzler or any of those buffet-type, middlin' steak places.

Today, after the eye-licking, I had a hymn stuck in my head and it struck me just how much it applied to my aspirations on so many levels. It was written by C. Austin Miles, who I'm sure hasn't won a Grammy in eons, being dead since 1946. He quit his training as a Pharmacist to write music. And boy, did he write:

"And he walks with me,
And he talks with me,
And he tells me I am his own;
And the joy we share
As we tarry there,
None other has ever known."

I love that song. I'll sit at the piano now for several long moments and make the dog listen to me sing. I'll think half the time of the God I'm not sure I've met and the man I know I haven't. But I'll close my eyes and sway as much as the hobbled piano bench will allow. And somewhere my grandma will raise her hands to the rafters and close her eyes and one small tear will fall down her face as she lends sincerity to the lyric:

"I go to the garden alone,
While the dew is still on the roses,
And the voice i hear,
Falling on my ear,
The Son of God discloses."

Some day I'll use some portion of this song at my wedding. I intend to have one. The second verse of Charles Austin Miles' hymn seems tailor-made for such an occasion:

"He speaks and the sound of his voice
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that he gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.."

And he walks with me. And he talks with me. And he tells me I am his own.

Wouldn't that be nice? That's the part of church I miss. I miss the part that acknowledges who I am and inspires me to be more. If only they could clear out the riff-raff who just don't get the rest of it. That's why I'll save my 20 steps this morning. And if I raise my hands to the rafters and bellow out a hymn, no one but the dog will be the wiser.