Live Like You Were Dying by Michael Morris Page A

her hair tangled and hanging in front of her face. “Can somebody make that bird shut up?” she yelled down the hall.
    From the kitchen, Grand Vestal laughed that deep-gutted laugh she had. “Only the good Lord, Miss Mary Sunshine. He’s just doing his job, that’s all.”
    It was a strange mix of feelings watching my past and my future meld together. Grand Vestal took Malley out to the barn, and Malley came back forty-five minutes later carrying a bucket of fresh milk and a smile warmer than the plate of biscuits that sat on the table along with grits and sausage. When we finished, Grand Vestal stood and started clearing the table.
    â€œAll right, now, I’ve got a Sunday-morning announcement to make. Anybody who stays under my roof is expected to go to church with me.” Heather looked at me wild-eyed, while Malley licked a stream of melting butter from the edge of a biscuit. Church had not exactly been on our weekend schedule back in Atlanta, and the idea of sitting through one of Grand Vestal’s church services put a tinge of panic in me.
    The pastor I remembered at her church had a black patch over his eye and always brought his pet cockatoo to church. He’d close each service by holding the bird up on his arm and reminding us that if God can take care of the birds of the air, how much more will He do for us? Maybe my doctors back in Atlanta needed to come down here and hear his sermons to remind them that they were not the God who fed the birds or the One who numbered our days.
    â€œUh . . . let me think if I have something to wear,” Heather said as she wiped crumbs from her mouth.
    â€œShoot! We . . . uh . . . we forgot to bring anything to wear for church.” I frowned and shook my head.
    â€œOh, toot on that. Don’t you know the good Lord don’t care what you show up in? Just as long as you show up.” Malley looked at my stunned expression and laughed right out loud. She held up her finger and touched the air, making a sizzling sound. “Busted,” she whispered.
    Opening the refrigerator that was covered in a sea of magnets of every size imaginable, Grand Vestal turned slightly, holding a plate of butter. Her braids flipped across her shoulders. “And don’t forget that, after church, your daddy’s coming over for dinner.”
    â€œSo he’s coming to church too?” I asked, knowing good and well he was not. Church suited my father the same way a tuxedo did, confining and restrictive.
    â€œNo, but he’s not sleeping under my roof, now, is he? Now, hurry up and finish so we can get there on time.”
    Before the church service began, the organ swelled with “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” as the Sunday school members filed in through the wooden door next to the altar. Grand Vestal led the way to the same pew she’d occupied since the day the doors opened. She wore a navy dress with a thin belt. The dress had come in and out of fashion through the years, but to my knowledge it had remained the only dress that she owned.
    Along the way she stopped by every pew to introduce us. Most of the members of the small red-brick church were people I’d known since I was a boy.
    â€œI think you were just getting married the last time I saw you,” Mrs. Harris said, looking Heather up and down. “How long has it been now?”
    â€œNineteen years,” I said and pulled Heather closer to me. “And the honeymoon is still going strong.”
    Mrs. Harris squealed, and the jiggle of fat under her chin bounced in delight. Grand Vestal shot me a look before turning to the pew across from the aisle.
    Homecoming was what the trip to Choctaw Community Church became that day. As the congregation that I’d first known in my younger years stood to sing “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder,” I mouthed the words and listened. Hearing the off-tune, aging voices sing the hymn I knew by heart was sweet