Just a little something extra to keep your minds off today's, um, festivities.
Tell me about your first love, the first time you got arrested, favorite memory of your dad, something funny that happened to you this week. Something. Anything.
We can even judge the best story (if you are so inclined) with mojo.
I'll give an example in the extended copy.
For a time while I was in seminary, I attended a black church in downtown Atlanta.
Well, not just any church: this was Andy Young's church, and occasionally, he'd stop by to say hello.
In any case, one of the oldest deacons of the congregation was John Raiforth, a pint-sized guy who, as one person put it, "was older than Noah."
Mr. Raiforth was a wonderful, warm man, best known in the community for being a singing car-hop at the Varsity. (For those of you who have not experienced the joy of the Varsity, it's a local Atlanta institution, with its main location across the highway from Georgia Tech. It has quite possibly the greasiest, most delicious hamburgers and onion rings in this galaxy.) Mr. Raiforth would come up with these crazy songs at the drop of a hat, often about the virtues of hamburgers and hot dogs. Upon request, he'd produce a special birthday greeting or whatnot.
Within the congregation, however, he was known for his singular readings of scripture. He had a gravelly, serious voice, and he took his time. It was like hearing Moses reading. I've never met anyone who could make text come alive quite the way he could.
Well, Mr. Raiforth passed away, and his funeral was befitting the community institution he was. It was a wonderful service, and packed. Andy Young participated, but there was hardly any way to get up front to shake his hand; the sanctuary was just too packed.
So I decided I'd head out the back way, and was making my way through the narrow aisles when I heard someone say, "Good to see you, Governor Maddox."
Governor Maddox?
Uh-huh. The one and the same. He of ax-handle fame. Turns out he'd gotten to know Mr. Raiforth back when he was at the statehouse, and they'd kept in touch across the years. And, southern "gentleman" that he was, he'd come to pay his last respects.
The strangest thing about it was that nobody else seemed to think this at all odd. Singing carhop dies, legendary segregationist comes to the funeral. Check.
All right, you do better.