If we’re being honest here, I almost didn’t go in that place, all broken down and life-worn. It’s the church I’m talking about here not the Reverend. He was a kid. Barely cut his teeth is what I was thinking. But he invited me in and I felt the Lord right away, in the form of the best southern-fried chicken this mouth ever tasted. Done crispy on the outside but moister than the devil’s breath on the inside.
Why they served the lunch before the sermon I’ll never know. Twenty minutes in and my head was bobbing. Nothing wrong with the young man’s preaching, Lordy I wouldn’t say that. Not ever. Let me tell you, I love the Lord for most of my life now, but I like to drink a little. Just to thin the blood mind you. And truth? I couldn’t tell if it was the drink or the food that had me snoring right there in the third row. Woke myself up with it. What could I do but fan my face with the bulletin, hiding my embarrassment as best I could?
After, not one word of my mid-morning nap. Not by Deacon Jones, not by the Reverend. They smiled and welcomed me back anytime. I took a good look at the church when I left. Broken and dirty. Thought it was a little like me. I felt a kinship.
My feet was light when I walked home. And so was my flask.
A note on this Postcard Story: I saw a YouTube video a few years ago from the Ellen DeGeneres Show. Ellen was talking on the phone with a woman named Gladys. She was a delight in every way possible and from her mouth came the best line I’ve ever heard, she said, I love Jesus, but I drink a little.
The second I found this church I knew her line belonged with the image. So, this postcard is dedicated to a woman I’ve never met but made me laugh so hard I cried. Thank you, Gladys. You are memorable in every way. Here is a link if you want to take a gander.