Sunday afternoon I took some African friends to the Overton Park in Memphis. It's our version of Central Park in the Delta. The truth was, I was exhausted. I didn't feel like taking my kids out. They had guilted me into it. I went to see them Saturday afternoon and they looked bored to tears in their little house on Treadwell.

The seven year old grinned up at me mischievously, "Tomorrow we go to the park?" That gaping smile and those laughing eyes get me every time. I thought through my schedule. I had two hours free in all of my Sabbath. I didn't want to go.

But those eyes.

"Ok. Tomorrow. Two o'clock. Be ready to go."

I raced home from church and the week-in-advance planned lunch date with a friend, threw on a pair of capri's, and met up with my roommate that I'd coerced to caravan my family of Burundians.

In the end, it was eight of us: Joyce, the mother; Jean Claude and Frenk, two wild at heart teenage boys; Cozetha, sweet and shy pre-teen daughter; David, our little imp; Nuru, the baby; and Brittany, my adorably green hippie roommate. Then there was me, tired but willing.

The weather was perfect. Me and Cozetha swung. Jean Claude and Frenk kicked their soccer ball over hill and dale in the park. David couldn't decide what he wanted to do. Joyce and Nuru and Brittany walked by the pond. Then they heard the drums...and followed the sound.

A drum circle had formed near one of the confederate general statues in the park. At least twenty percussionists had gathered under the shade of the trees. Djembes, bongos, tambourines, marimbas sang out with the trees above them.

My little family sat in the shade at the picnic table nearby. Black women danced while their men sat and smoked cigarettes. A boisterous man with a little Yorkie on a leash drank a tall can of Bud Light. Two Gothic dressed girls with green hair swayed in the sunlight. A skinny Latino man was obviously the ring leader. He set the pace and the rhythm. He directed who would take a solo. He would count and everyone would follow. And when the sweat poured from face, he took off his floral Hawaiian button-up. Everyone let out a cat calls.

Joyce whispered to me, "Why nobody singing? When will they sing?" "I don't know," I replied, "But you can dance." She just laughed. "David, why don't you dance?"

He slyly grinned and looked down. "Me - I don't want to."

We continued to watch, entranced by the sounds. Mesmerized by the seasoned percussionists, intrigued by the obvious beginners. Some moved with the music...freely, in sync. Some were tense, concentrating so hard on keeping up.

As we watched, I couldn't help but think that this experience was not too much different than what I had experience earlier in the day. People were making music. They were joyful. They were trying. They were together in this, inviting others to come in. Come they did. Trickling in. Some to watch for a few minutes. Others would unpack a folding chair from their trunk.

David and Cozetha and I walked back to the swings. My little ADD children had done their time with the drums.

"Watch me!" David said. And he set off running and then attempted a cartwheel. His little legs kicking up ever so slightly above the ground. I clapped, "Good job, David!"

I handed my water to Cozetha, "Hold this, please." I reached my hands forward and sprang off my feet. Despite all my doubts, my legs went over my head. When was the last time I had done a cartwheel? It was exhilarating.

Cozetha gave me my bottle back and immediately she was doing her own cartwheels across the field. We took turns laughing and dancing our way back to the playground. David's inhibitions had left him. Our hearts were full and Capri Suns were in hand. It was a good day.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Him all creatures here below. Praise Him above ye heavenly host. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.