Light While There Is Light

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Keith Waldrop. Light While There Is Light

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LIGHT WHILE

THERE IS LIGHT

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We visited the local Friends congregation, which I now think must have been rather degenerate—with a hired preacher—but my mother found it cold. From there we went straight to the Salvation Army, more to her taste, and once or twice I even played my violin in their street services. (I hope my father never found out.) But in spite of evangelical fervor, somewhat wasted on Emporia where there was only one bum and nothing stronger than 3.2 beer, except for those who could afford bootleg rates, their sense of doctrine was undeveloped, a bit Buddhist almost in its determination to rescue the perishing before specifying the works of grace. This irked my mother and, besides, though haphazard orchestration was at first a relief from the purely vocal strains we were used to, it hardly took conservatory training to be offended by the sound. Besides, there was hardly a male, over fourteen and under sixty-five, to be seen. We moved on to the Hardshell Baptists.

As I think back over all this it makes, alternately, too little and too much sense.

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