Acoustic Sunrise

Fran's thousand shades of green are on brilliant display as sunbeams dart in and out of the branches. A choir of cicada loudly sing. The sky is a brilliant blue with only wisps of white. The ocean throws a hint of breeze. There is a holiness to this outdoor sanctuary and I'm certain that God is pleased. It is good. Goddess is watching me carefully now, I suppose anticipating the community that worship is supposed to bring. Winston, the little gay dog, lay under my feet keeping an eye on Goddess. I sit alone on the beloved back deck in appreciation of these things. I think of all of the ways I've celebrated Sundays. Growing up we'd go to the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, home for pot roast and then for a family drive to go see how other people lived. Ed Sullivan concluded the service in those days. When I could drive, Sundays always concluded at the Drive-Inn where I'd hook up with my friends. Ginny and I would place the speakers in the window before ignoring the movie and making out. College was the annual gathering of believers returning to Statesboro after weekends at home. Meeting at the Western Sizzler for the 99 cent Burger Delux we'd tell stories and step back into a world where are our minds were molded. Our virginity was sacrificed on alters of exploration and education. Seminary meant real church where I'd be up early cooking breakfast for the hundred or so homeless people who would crowd into the basement of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. It would be the only meal most would get that day. Then I'd drive the church van around to pick up anyone who wanted to attend the Sunday service. At eleven I'd preach. Later we'd read the New York Times, watch football, and dread the Sunday evening service that no one wanted to attend. Securing home on Tybee Island, Sundays became a day at the beach, afternoon naps, cookouts on decks, and an appreciation for surf, sand and sea. Worship happened outside of walls. These days, Sunday mornings begin with acoustic sunrises. I have time alone. Sarah sleeps in. The kids are grown or gone. Music from the other side of the world streams on the laptop laid out before me. Sometimes we go to Bar Church and sometimes we don't. It is a time of contentment that I enjoy prayerfully. The choir of cicada grow louder in worship. The Holy Spirit blows and Fran's thousand shades of green dance. The Kingdom comes on earth as it is in heaven as I listen to the still small voice.