As Mama was settling into the car and snapping her seat belt, I said - because I have no more sense than to open up a can of worms - "I changed clothes three times this morning before I settled on wearing this."

She threw a sideward glance toward me and the black dress encrusted with turquoise-colored beads and commented, "And then got one that barely covers your tail." She shook her head.

I bit the inside of my lip. I am trying hard these days not to get in a fight with Mama on the way to church. My goal is to wait until after church. It is, I believe, the Christian thing to do.

We had decided to visit a little country church in the mountains that is tucked between massive rolling hills amidst large oak and maple trees that hover majestically in protection over the sweet white-painted church.

Nearby, clear river water rolls toward small towns and large cities. It is that river where the little church, Union Baptist, baptizes the newly converted.

We arrived for church moments before it started and greeted those we hadn't seen in the previous two years since the last time we attended service at that church.

"Do you play the piano?" asked Tony, one of the deacons.

"I used to," I replied, without thinking how unusual the question was. It had been many years since I touched the keys of a piano.

"Hey!" he called toward the choir loft. "Ronda can play the piano."

My eyes flew wide and my mouth dropped. I spun my head around in shock and, speechless, gawked at him.

"We ain't got a piano player today and we prayed that the Lord would send us one." He smiled broadly. "And he sent us you."

"Well, he didn't send much. I can tell you that," I replied.

And that's how I came to play the piano for the first time in 15 or 20 years for a church service.

They had to sing what I could play, which wasn't much but we did find six songs. To say I was awful would be kind. But we managed.

"When you ain't got nothin'," a little lady said after the service, "anything will do."

Driving home, Mama and I, in a head-shaking, eyebrow-scratching kind of way, talked about the experience.

"Daddy used to say, 'Humble yourself before God.' I don't think I've ever been more humbled," I commented.

"What really amazed me," Mama replied in earnest candor, "was how you weren't a bit embarrassed by it."

Behind my sunglasses, I rolled my eyes. After all, a little encouragement or praise for my brazenness in displaying my serious lack of talent would have been nice. And, I might add, most welcomed. I ignored the comment.

"You know what I kept thinking while I was playing?" I asked with a light chuckle. "How much Daddy must be laughing up in heaven."

"You know what I kept thinking?" she asked.

"What?"

"That I couldn't believe that you were sitting on a piano bench in the middle of church in a dress that barely covered your tail."

Lord, have mercy on me.

I think that through my recent humility, I have, at least, earned that.