Before a technologically advanced media team,
I hear the clacking of Ms. Cruise’s long, acrylic nails on the piano;
While the stomps of Ms. Tracy’s pumps keep the beat while directing the choir.
Followed by her shouts of praise, “THANK YA!” walking up to the choir stand; head back and arm wailing.
Leon—playing by ear—giving us the greatest organ runs ever heard.
Rev. Baker, Jr.’s country twanged, stilted inflection during scripture.
His robust frame popping out of his suit jacket.
Rev. Thurman (late as usual) walking down the center aisle to the pulpit with a white bag of donuts from Donut Shack.
Rev. Baker., Sr. is sugar sharp fitted down to the socks;
Gator shoes and fresh matching boutonnière,
shouting in praise when the message is good.
Rev. McIntyre jumps from the pulpit to the pews screaming, “HELLO!”
The thuds of his pigeon toed stance ring to the choir stand.
The congregation going wild with a few yelling, “PREACH!”
The deacons exclaiming, “WELL!” after every sermon point.
Ms. Melody singing, Order My Steps, and hitting the high note at the end of every selection including the doxology.
Then comes the benediction: “Now may the grace…the amazing grace of Jesus Christ…Majesty, dominion, and power…Rest, rule, and abide in each of you, now henceforth and forever more…And all of God’s children said, AAAAAAMENNNN!”
The foundation of my faith. 
Rooted without reels and frills.
The sounds and sights of First African in the ‘90s and early ’00s.