Months ago, I sat in a pew and tried to not think about the fact that you could count on one hand the number of white congregants in the room. And I was one of them. I did not want to draw attention to myself, but despite the fact that I have been to church most Sundays of my life, I had no idea what to do. When to sit, stand, pray or the lyrics to any of the songs. The rules here seemed so different than my own church, just a few miles away. Filled with people who mostly looked like me. A few elderly African American women were seated next to me and were kind enough to attempt to make me feel welcome and tell me what to do. At some point Eunice, in a bright purple dress, slid her arthritic hand on top of mine, squeezed and tugged me to the front to pray. I let her lead me, because I didn’t how else to respond, and because she seemed so genuinely glad that I was there, singing off key next to her. It was not lost on me, that my slight discomfort was one ...