When I was a boy Mother insisted I attend Sunday School and Church
each Sunday, though she never once stepped through the door.
I occupied a pew beside my sisters, and thought about baseball, rocks,
golf, fishing, and just about anything else but our Lord and Savior.
One fine morn there was a special feature—a woman came from afar
to play glorious music on her harp for all to hear.
Wait a minute, i thought. Harp is a light Irish beer, and I'd much rather
have a cold glass of it right now than her and that danged harp.
from the Wonderments and Such collection
. . . j