One sunny summer afternoon I was playing in the front yard when Bob, who was 16 years my senior and no longer living at home, drove up in front of the house and said, "Get in if you want to go with us." I knew instantly he meant "fishing." Long cane poles were lashed to the side the blue 1951 Plymouth making the doors on the curb side inaccessible. Excited by the prospect, I dropped whatever it was I was doing and ran to the backdoor on the driver's side of the car. Just as I reached for the door handle I froze. "Us" turned out to be Bob and Pastor John Grant, a man who I both revered and feared.

Brother Grant, as we all called him, could inspire from the pulpit with his fire-and-brimstone sermons and even impress a 14-year-old. Even though it's been nearly 50 years now, I can still conjure up visions of him pacing back and forth on the platform behind the pulpit and without missing a word, he would stroll over to the piano and break into a hymn as his fingers danced across the keyboard with a long musical roll. He was a darned good preacher in my opinion, but he was an even better piano player. Had he not chosen the life-path he did, I'm convinced he would have been a successful entertainer.

But there was another side to Brother Grant. While he seemed warm and friendly most of the time, he was not above abruptly stopping in middle of his Sunday morning sermon and pointing to a row of rowdy 14-year-old boys in the back of the church and announcing in a loud, stern tone that their behavior was unacceptable in the house of worship. I can tell you from personal experience that you don't need this to happen to you more than once or twice to affect a pretty dramatic life-long repentance from such activities. continued