The choir in the rear of the church, beneath a gigantic stained-glass window, swayed in rhythm with the music, singing with gusto, clad in their red gowns. Carefully he walked a few steps into the church, but none noticed him or the ragtag crew of assorted ghouls that rushed in after him. He looked for his grandfather and saw him in his navy suit and tie, sitting there in his place among the other deacons in the Amen Corner, singing.

He was overcome by the memory of his grandfather. His hands were large and dark, callused from long days in the field and at the barn. He remembered the smell of his Old English aftershave and the faint hint of the strong black coffee he drank each morning. His moans and grunts, which had seemed almost aloof, royal acknowledgments. He was a righteous man, Horace had been told from an early age, a man who walked and talked and slept with God on his lips, at his side, in his breast. His grandfather, in his childhood, was the grave man talking to people in the living room, people who had come to discuss their problems, their burdens, their cares. Horace would watch them as they came in, heavy laden with their grief. Perhaps they would glance down at him, pat him on his head, give him candy—which his grandfather would take from him later—and return to their gloom and enter his room of confession, repentance, and rebirth. But most people left as somber as they had entered, which led Horace to wonder about his grandfather, though in his mind there was no other way.

As he grew older he came to understand who his grandfather was and what it meant to be chairman of the deacon board. Because of him people in the community were slightly more congenial toward Horace, slightly more respectful, slightly more deferential than they were to every other little snot-nosed boy running around with his shirt tail hanging out. As it was explained to him, his grandfather was the center, the source of the church’s memory, the link to the terrible past they all had to remember. His father and his father’s father before him were church leaders, and it had fallen upon him to lead, to guide, to counsel his people, their people. A chief, a great elder. His place was higher than the pastor’s, and to Horace this seemed so very close to God that he realized, one day, that his grandfather was something of a David. He was grandson of a shaman.

Lead me, guide me

along the way