We go to the Baptist church down the street to pick up race packets.
I’ve been trying to talk Mo into going there for years. I was raised a Southern Baptist in a former life, and Mo’s grandparents were elders in the Baptist church. Slam dunk, no?
But Mo has always shied away from it, worried about the ultra-conservative stance of Southern Baptists. I reason that you don’t have to agree with everything in the doctrine. You can refuse to accept the intolerance of gay marriage while at the same time embracing Hot Dog Day on the Fourth of July, no?
Now, here we are. The people couldn’t be nicer. The same white-haired lady at the front desk that I left behind in San Angelo. The same fitness center I was banned from for inadvertently launching the F word during a racquetball game with David Young. The same nice people registering us for the race. (yes, we’re paying 25 bucks each to run a 5k on the same route I run everyday anyhow. don’t judge.)
Mo finds out she can use the treadmills there for a dollar even if we aren’t members. But after 15 minutes in their little activity center, she suddenly seems open to the possibility of joining.
What was it? The people? The church? A Sign From God?
When we’re back at the car, Mo tells me why she’s so excited about the church.
“They have a foosball table,” she exclaims.
The lord works in mysterious ways …