Before my uncle went to bed he told me, “coffee at 8:00,
breakfast at 9:00.” So I waited until the second hand on my watch let me know
it was five seconds to 8:00 and I walked into their kitchen. “Dean has a big
breakfast all prepared for you,” said my aunt and she pulled out plates from
every direction. He had made crepes, waffles, scrambled eggs and some sort of
topping to put on the crepes. There was also fresh fruit and salmon.
“On your way back from Florida, be sure to bring your wife,”
he told me. I told him I was not sure, as Roxanne was flying down to meet me in
Florida with her mother and it would be the three of us driving back.
It was Sunday morning and I dressed with the hope of pulling
off the interstate to catch a church service. Just past the gas stations and
the fast food restaurants on Exit 87 was a Baptist Church.
“Welcome, friend,” said the usher. The worship team had already started clapping.
“Celebrate, Jesus is alive,” they sang. The lead singer played the keyboard
which included drums, horns and a full orchestra. She had a voice rivaling any
I had heard in any Southern gospel band. The other singers had a perfect muted
harmony. “You are worth of my praise,” they sang. It was an emotional song that
clearly touched all of us in the congregation with an age span of 3 to 93.
After a few more songs, the preacher got up and walked down the aisle. “Did
your son get that job we’ve been praying for? How’s Maribel? Is she feeling a
little better after her surgery? Any news on Patrick over in Afghanistan?” He
prayed for everyone by name and then gave a sermon that was well prepared and
well delivered. He spoke on courage and standing up for God’s Word in a world
that no longer has much tolerance for Christians. After the service, several
came over to me. They were interested in where I was from and wanted to share
with me some of their good Southern cooking, for this was potluck Sunday. I was
glad to have been there. Wherever there are Believers, one feels at home.
I counted 27 people
in the church. From several allusions made in the sermon, I understood the
church had just gone through a split. They were a very warm, seemingly spiritual
group. Their program was excellent. So what happened? I’m afraid I could guess:
one or two strong egos, hurt feelings, words said in private that become
public; probably a divorce with different families taking different sides—blood
runs thick you know.
Eight hours later I missed the turn-off to Satellite Beach.
I got off at the next exit and my GPS directed me into the parking lot of a
Catholic Church. I called Henry Sardina and after a few more wrong turns, I
pulled into their driveway. Henry had one of his classic Cuban meals prepared. “We’re
going fishing tomorrow, you ready for that?” he asked.
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