The last time I was in Texas was 1993.

Ruth and I were on a road trip across the Southern US from New Orleans to Las Vegas in a rented cherry red convertible Chrysler LeBaron. We weren’t married yet and this was our first real trip together, our first real test as a couple. (Spoiler alert: We passed!)

I remember we went to a Texas Rangers game in Arlington and while I was negotiating with scalpers for tickets, a sad-looking guy walked up and said “Here, you can have mine.”

I looked at him sceptically because I was born that way. “What, for free?” I squinted at him suspiciously.

“Yeah, take ‘em. My wife made other plans for us and now I can’t go to the game.”  

Astonishing.

More astonishing is that a few years later – despite the obvious subtextual warning in the gentleman’s words – I married Ruth anyway.

The Rangers beat the (still anachronistically named) Cleveland Indians that day 5-4 in extra innings and Ruth and I had these lemon ice treats that were so delicious we still dreamily reminisce about them when we’re really hot or hungry.

***

A few days after that we stopped in a miniscule town called Avinger, Texas because I’d heard that there was a cool little gospel church there. Avinger, Texas (according to Wikipedia) holds all of 352 people. 276 are white, 49 are black, a smattering of Hispanics and two Asians.

We had trouble finding the church and I pulled up beside two extremely white people and asked them to roll down the window on their rusted ’72 Chevy C10 pick-up truck, hoping against hope they weren’t brandishing firearms.

“Ummm, we’re looking for a church…”

“Thars two dang churches, what one y’all lookin’ fer?” The woman in the passenger seat shouted over her Gary Busey doppelganger husband.

I lowered my voice discernably “Umm, it’s got…uh… music…”

“They both got music, son. You lookin’ fer Ole Hickory Hill or First Baptist?”

I went into whisper mode so as to not offend.

“Like ummm… spiritual music?”

Gary Busey spit on the ground a bit too close to my shiny LeBaron.

“Waall, thems churches, Bubba, whaddya ‘speck? Thay’s all got spuratchel music!”

“Like… ahhh… Gospel type music?”

The woman brightened “Ohhhhh, you want the BLACK CHURCH!” She shouted loud enough for the entire parish to hear.

“Yup, the black church”, I sighed with a wince.

Anyway, we went to “the Black Church”, a modest but well-kept clapboard structure, and we sat near the back of the small congregation so as to not stick out like a couple of Jewish thumbs. I distinctly remember the pastor stopped the service to acknowledge “the visitors” and asked what in the name of Rosa Parks we were doing there.

I nervously stood up and took a sec to look around at the sea of black faces staring at us expectantly. As a Jew, I’ve never felt particularly white, but in that moment, I might as well have been a Kennedy.

“We were just driving through town… and we were hoping it would be OK if we joined you all this morning, Sir” I managed.

He was a tall man. Big. Well-dressed. Deep voice. Morgan Freeman meets Shaq. He stared down at Ruth and I expressionless for what was probably ten seconds but seemed an eternity. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of my face. The congregants were nervous too. You could hear a pin drop.

And finally, he chose his words in that velvety rich voice.

“Everyone… is welcome in The House of The Lord, my son. It’s our pleasure to have you join us today.”

The service was joyous. I mean fucking JOYOUS! By the time the entire congregation burst into their rendition of “I Won’t Turn Back” Ruth and I were up on our feet dancing, and spasmodically gyrating, and happily being proselytized. And by the end of the service, we were honorary members of the church, hugging it out with our fellow worshipers.

We’ll never forget that day and we’ll never recreate it. It was a one-off, one-time, experience.

***

I’m headed back to Texas this weekend to the infamous LODGE POKER CLUB in Austin to play in their main event (with a one million dollar guarantee), and a few minor events as well. And I go there on the heels of a couple of pretty decent wins at my local club where I’ve been on a bit of a heater lately.

For even more inspiration… I’ll be listening to this.

That’s The Mississippi Mass Choir’s rendition of “I Won’t Turn Back”.

Cut and paste that into your browser and just try not to get all Pentecostal on me.