Sunday is when paradise is preached and seen.
They come dressed in their Sunday best. Starched collars and scuffed shoes. Wide-brimmed hats blooming like flowers across the sanctuary. An elder humming low, as if tuning her soul like a string before the choir rose.
The beauty of the stained glass fell across the pews like God’s own quilt. When the organ released that first long chord, the kind that makes old bones remember youth, the church swelled with memory…