SANG, BABY. SANG.
HERE she comes!” Bessie Morgan squealed over her shoulder, excitement ringing in her voice. “It’s Little Bertha!”
Bessie held her breath along with the rest of Ebenezer Southern Baptist’s congregation as a white-smocked usher pushed a wheelchair slowly down the center aisle between several uneven rows of rickety folding chairs. It was hot and crowded under the small revival tent, and some of the younger members had been forced to drag their chairs out onto the perimeter grass and expose themselves to the blazing Alabama sun.
Bessie sat with her knees pressed together in a makeshift...