Joyce, Part 4: The wordship service concluded, the people conversed. Some mingled from group to group. Joyce, keeping a low profile -

being yet new, and unfamiliar with church life, was looking over the tract rack.  WOW, now here was one that spoke.  Upon its cover was a sketch of hands in the air: around the hands, flowed small streamers and musical notes coming from a jagged guitar, a set of drums, and a gong.  Near the center, was pictured a shot glass.  In short, the sort of gatherings Joyce had formerly looked forward to, but now ... no thank you kindly!

"Yes, I heard about it." from beside her, a woman spoke, "never saw it, but I heard ... Book had shut it down."

"Oh, they'll cancel a cake recipe for, what they think, calls for too much sugar."  

Joyce's fingers shot to her lips, in time to supress a laugh.  It was more about the comment, and less about the guy who made it.  He owned the bakery, that much she knew - and, evidently, liked his job.

"...I dunno," came another voice, "...yeah... fie wan truf, fow read my Bible."  Oh brother, Joyce mused,  bet that's a dentist bill and a half!  Talk about gratitude, the Lord's preservation of His own - Joyce's recent visit had only set her back some $300.  

"...still up over at..."  Another voice.  "Think it's for real?"  "Don't know..."  "Maybe." "...cousin's neighbor's dad had said..." More voices.  "Sad to say, but Scripture says it." 

The voices paused, giving heed to this latest participant to the group, gathered alongside the rack.  "Think about it, in 1963, that loudmouth OHara broad - or whatever, 1973 it became okay to kill kids, and then, what? 2015? two dudes could get...bluuck!  Could be...Judgment call!"  The voice, Glen's voice then added.  "Ya think??"

Oh brother, that guy's one firecracker.  Joyce slipped the tract in the ratty little purse she had hanging from her shoulder, then made her way to the door.  On the way out, she paused a sec, in mid-step.

Firecracker could be right.  

Her sunday afternoon plans had been focused on getting home and reading ohio-guy's second last-days installment.  Oh, the story had been on her mind from the moment she had finally ordered herself to put the book down, and get ready for church.  

Of course, her daughter didn't want to come along.  And Joyce would NOT push.  Neither was she in any condition to go anywhere.  All's Joyce knew was: her daughter didn't get in until three-thirtyish.

Anyway, one of ohio-guy's central characters is some little old black lady who runs a diner.  While chit-chatting with a customer, and long-time friend, the old woman's comment - about russians having eternal souls too - is overheard, by some psycho, named Sssamanntha, and - of course - becomes so wrested out of proportion, it looks like she's soon to be on-the-train.

Driving home, certain fragments of the post-worship chats played.  Maybe she'd spend the afternoon doing something other than reading.  Maybe, go for a walk along the river.