Now we study money. —Middle Creek Poems, by Shelby Stephenson Next morning, I slept in while Dwight dropped Cal off for Sunday school at the church he and I grew up in. Cal’s not crazy about putting on Sunday clothes, but his Uncle Rob teaches the Junior Class and he’s made friends with some of the boys, so he seems to enjoy it once he’s there. Preaching services begin at eleven, which meant that Dwight and I had a little time alone for this and that. Mostly that. We were a few minutes late getting there, but everyone was standing for the first hymn, so it wasn’t noticeable when we slipped into a back pew. Because the minister is new and we don’t make it to church every week, I haven’t quite taken his measure, but with Rob on the pulpit committee, he can’t be too far right. Not as intellectual as Carlyle Yelvington at First Baptist in Dobbs, but nowhere near as opaque as the preacher at Nadine and Herman’s New Deliverance down in Black Creek. And nothing—thank you, Jesus!—like that demagogue at the Church of Christ Eternal.
