The Father of Waters is Gone

HERE AT THE CHURCH O’ THE PINES, the Father of Waters is gone. It is hidden by a morning fog of Sherlockian dimensions. The river, gone. The far shore, gone. The silhouetted pines stand and lean against a soft, gray wall, as pictures in an art gallery. From far away, the highway sounds moan and grumble, but softly, most of the noise swallowed up.  

Here in the Church, the sounds of the choir are seemingly amplified, as every chickadee, bluejay, woodpecker, nuthatch, chipmunk, and every other critter is hollering for Kathy to come out and spread the goodies in Fellowship Hall. I have sometimes thought that for some, going to Church is just an excuse to belly up to the coffee, doughnuts, longjohns, bear claws, peanuts, and sunflower seeds to be consumed while gossiping about the affairs of the day. It is a fine day—soft and gentle and warm and humid. A fitting day to gather together for hymns. And goodies.

Wherever your church, we wish you Good Sabbath.

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