His Eye is on The Sparrow
But no one is minding the store
We arrived at the church in a mid-sized, Central Kentucky town around mid-afternoon. Mom was slated to perform a concert at the Sunday evening service.
She sang Southern gospel music as she had since she was a young child in the small, country church not too far from the town where I grew up.
Sure, she often sang for our home congregation, but she also was asked to sing at churches of like faith around the region.
This particular church was now pastored by a man who’d been the choir director at our church.
The church, an all-brick structure with a white, wooden steeple, sat about two miles outside of the town square.
As we entered the building, the smell of fried chicken and musty paper took hold.
We knew the plan. Mom would practice alone a bit, then my sister would help her, then we’d eat, then there’d be some preaching, and then Mom would sing for about an hour.
Dad and I were left to entertain ourselves for a few hours before we could eat or listen to a message about the fate of our souls.
The singing part would be pretty good, then a love offering that meant some extra cash for the week.
