Way back in the late 80s and early 90s, I was heavily involved with an older church and for what I knew then, I enjoyed every moment of it. I wasn’t particularly interested in what the Minister had to say, because a lot of stuff was spoken above my small head and I sometimes was hard of hearing, especially when sitting with other young men. I was more enraptured by my puberty and the feelings of intermingling with the opposite sex who were a centre piece or focal point of lubricious analysis. Although this was my main preoccupation, I do clearly remember the processes and procedures that consumed the church life and the Sunday services as well. On Sunday mornings, you had the procession led by the choir and then followed by the Ministers, while a glorious hymn was being sung by all. I usually sat beside the organ so I could feel the low notes blasting through the pipes and resonating within my bowels. I loved that moment; it was like one was caught up into the heavens for a moment. It was however a feeling of musical grandeur that enveloped me as I saw old men with all grayed hairs displaying ancient and modern tunes with pure delight, but all sounding so harmonious that I wished it wouldn’t stop. But I assure you, there was no substance to such reverie.