I wanted to put on my black velvet shirt, the snuggly one that has the collar that lies just right, which I love, and which looks good on me, and which goes well with anything on any occasion, with the possible exception of Easter Sunday, which it was. I couldn’t wear black, especially not black velvet, on Easter, even if it was 28 degrees outside with some ungodly wind-chill factor.
Out of concern for my reputation as well as my everlasting soul, I began to go to church. I got involved with one of the larger Church of Christ churches, which ran a fleet of buses. They were white, with the church’s name, address, and phone number and the words “Joy Bus” painted in red on the side. The Joy Buses made their rounds every Sunday morning and every Sunday night, collecting pitiable heathens like myself. No dirt road was too long for the Joy Bus to travel, no household too poor for the Joy Bus to visit. Sometimes we were joined by regular churchgoing kids who just thought it was fun to ride in the Joy Bus instead of their parents’ cars, I guess.
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(Yeah!)
And I’m so happy,
So very happy,
(Ouch!)
