East Baptist

East Baptist - I smile as I type it. The church is clean, even in the sandy, gray bowels of winter. Clean lines - brick and white, iron and granite, polished floors and vacuumed runners. The men still wear ties and sportcoats, the women still dress up... ah. Perhaps my memory romanticizes it but I recall that every single person I met there not only smiled but hugged me. And boy can those Baptists get down. At one point half the congregation ran up to the front of the church, picked up an instrument and went to town. My liason, Cait (who introduced me as her friend! Oh she's so sweet!) played the baby grand. There was a guitarist and an electric bassist, three singers, a drummer and a bongo player from Africa. And just what do you think the others did while the band was rockin out? Do you think they just sat there, idle spectators? Not in a Baptist church. No, no, no. Those folks were on their feet just clapping and dancing and singing along. And, if there is a Mr. Doubtfire, the pastor there would be him. Not to say he looks like Robin Williams in drag - not at all. Quite the opposite. But his Welsh accent and his energy - exactly who I think Mrs. Doubtfire would have chosen.