On the front pew sat Louella’s children—two sons, one living in Memphis and the other in Louisville; a daughter who had married a soldier and eventually settled in Cincinnati; and Terrence’s mother, who had been found by her siblings and brought back home to see her mother buried. We sang hymn after hymn, from “Blessed and Highly Favored” to “Take Me to the King,” broken up by a long of line of speakers who gave remembrances of Louella. Each of her children came to the pulpit and spoke a few words. Terrence’s mother made a few halting remarks before becoming too overwhelmed to continue.

Terrence walked past her as she descended the stairs, as if she were invisible. Instead of speaking from the pulpit, he took the microphone from its stand and walked down to the floor in front of the congregation.

“I want to say a few things about Grand-Lou,” he said.

Terrence paced the floor, his body humming with energy, the congregation urging him on in the pauses, his voice rising and falling. It occurred to me that this was something he’d done before, something they’d all seen.

When he was finished, Terrence called Sunny forward and handed her a microphone. She got up from beside us and strode to the front of the congregation as if she’d sung there a thousand times. She nodded at the drummer and the organist, and they began. It was a song called “Wayfaring Stranger.” I’d heard the bluegrass-country version when I was a kid, but I’d never heard it done in a gospel style. Sunny’s voice sounded different than I remembered it—deeper, more soulful, maybe wiser.

I am a poor, wayfaring stranger

Traveling through this world alone

And there’s no sickness, toil, or danger

In that bright land to which I go.

And I’m going there to see my mother

And I’m going there no more to roam

And I’m only going over Jordan

And I’m only going over home.

When she was finished, she put the microphone back in the stand. The congregation rose to its feet in rapturous applause as Sunny returned to her seat.

We sang a final hymn, and the preacher gave his benediction, and we spilled out of the stifling heat of the sanctuary onto the sidewalk and stood in silence as the pallbearers—mostly football and basketball teammates of Terrence’s—carried the coffin out to the hearse. The family followed, stepping into a white limousine.

“Who’s paying for all of this?” my mother whispered.

“Lou had insurance,” Sunny said. “I think those folks Lou worked for helped. Plus Rev Joseph gave them a special.”

“A special?” my mother asked.

“He’s also the undertaker, honey.”

“Oh.”