On an early Sunday morning in 1935, as a five-year old, I stood at the edge of Biscayne Bay in Coconut Grove, Florida, and watched my mother and father wade into the water for baptism.  Ten others and the pastor went with them. The sky was blue, the water clear as glass, birds were singing in the palms, and as they entered the bay, the congregation lined the edge and sang

On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand and cast a wishful eye,

To Canaan’s fair and happy land where m...


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