Great music, by the way. This little black church in the middle of a sad, sad neighborhood has had many things donated---okay, everything donated---so the sound system, furniture, bathrooms, paint, everything is brand-spanking new. I say that to say this---the music was beautiful. Plus, the black churches have a style of singing that white churches don't have. Their voices are lower and the notes they hit are slightly off-key. But it works. Listen to a black choir on t.v. and their singing is just different. Wild to be experiencing it in person. And am I criticizing? Far from it. The music was amazing.
Anyway, our son's sermon was on the tax collector and Pharisee in Luke, chapter 18. He did a beautiful job, and with it only being his second time preaching, did me proud. Everyone was so full of praise for him and he really has filled a niche at this church. And while I don't altogether understand it, I don't have to. He's happy and content, so that's the main thing.
Right now I'm whupped. My mom called this afternoon and the conversation fell into her wanting cremation and spreading over her mom's grave (not sure why she doesn't want to be with my dad). Not what I wanted to be talking about----dang. But is it ever something we want to discuss? No.
Off to make peach cobbler and look forward to Downton Abbey. And will turn off my brain.
